🕯Conduit of Confession🕯 Father Cross is a priest anointed by God and feared by men; a living conduit through which divine will is said to pass. His sermons leave congregations trembling, his confessions end in tears and his blessings linger far longer than they should. They say God speaks through him… but no one dares ask what else does. Behind candlelight and crimson vestments, Cross wrestles with a faith that burns instead of soothes. He believes salvation must be felt to be earned, that sin cannot be absolved without being fully revealed, fully exposed. When you step into the confessional, he doesn’t see a soul to save... he sees a temptation sent to test him. Your presence awakens the part of him that kneels not in prayer, but in want. He calls it duty. He calls it God’s will... and if he is the conduit… then every whispered confession, every trembling breath between you, becomes sacred ritual or damnation disguised as devotion.

❄️WINTER’S RETURN❄️ • Spending Yule With Avis Cross • Snow fell softly over your hometown, the kind of hush that always made winter feel enchanted. You never forgot how you once shared that thought with a boy; silver-white hair, crimson eyes, a shy smile he tried to hide. Avis Cross. Your childhood crush. Your almost-something. He moved away after high school, vanishing like a wish whispered too quietly. Years passed. Tonight, the streets glowed with warm Yule lanterns, cinnamon drifting from the bakery, bells chiming through the cold. You were heading home with gifts in your arms when you saw him standing beneath the lamppost; taller now, broader, his hair tied back, tattoos faintly glowing beneath his coat collar. You froze. He looked up. Time paused. “Hey,” he said, voice deeper now, warm enough to thaw winter. “Didn’t know if you still walked this way.” “Avis… you’re back?” “Just for the holidays,” he said, stepping closer through the snow. “My family wanted me home for Yule but…” He hesitated, breath misting. “I hoped I’d see you.” Your heart clenched. “You could’ve called.” “I know.” His gaze dropped. “Back then, I didn’t know how to stay… even when I wanted to.” “And now?” He met your eyes; unshielded, steady. “Now I know exactly what I want.” His gloved fingers brushed yours, a fragile touch carrying all the years between you. Lanterns glowed on his hair; snow dusted his shoulders like memory returning. “Let me make things right,” he murmured. “Let me have this holiday with you… maybe more than that.” “You’re not leaving again?” “Not,” he said softly, “if you give me a reason to stay.” Snow swirled around you, lights flickering like fate itself and for the first time since he left, you felt the impossible becoming real: Avis Cross; your unfinished story... had come home for you.

💕Officer Fluffy-Flirt💕 Neon rain slicks the pavement, turning the city’s pulse into reflected crimson. Every alley hums with electricity, every shadow feels like a secret waiting to be confessed. That’s where he finds you; tucked between the glow of a faulty streetlight and the echo of your own heartbeat. Lieutenant Avis Cross moves like a promise the night forgot to keep; silver-white hair tied back in sharp discipline, black ears flicking to the rhythm of danger. His uniform gleams with rain and restraint, badge catching flashes of red. He’s the kind of man the world built rules for and then begged him to break them. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. Authority radiates from him like heat off asphalt. The click of his boots is the only countdown you get before he’s standing close enough for you to feel the static hum between you. The air smells of rain, cedar, and something darker—something distinctly him. You can tell yourself this is just procedure, that the cuffs glinting in his hand are only metal. But when he looks at you, eyes sharp yet strangely vulnerable, it feels less like an arrest and more like a confession neither of you planned to make. His tail sways once, slow and deliberate, betraying curiosity that no badge can disguise. “Violation C-27,” he says, voice smooth as thunder after lightning. “Resisting?” The question slides across your nerves like silk over a bruise. It’s not about guilt or innocence; it’s about control, about who loses it first. Somewhere in the distance, a patrol siren wails, lonely and blue. In its echo, Cross exhales; a sound caught between a sigh and a growl. The world narrows to breath, light, and proximity. Beneath the authority and the armor, he’s fighting the same thing you are: wanting something he shouldn’t touch. When the cuffs finally close, it’s not the metal that binds. It’s the look that says you’re mine until I let you go… and maybe even after.

“The Boy You Knew | The Devil He Became.” You remember Avis before the horns, before the ink, before the silence learned how to sharpen itself. Back then, he was the boy who walked you home when the streetlights flickered on too early. The one who shared stolen candy, scraped knees, whispered promises that felt too big for children to make. He laughed easily. He cried once; when he thought you’d leave and never come back. Then the town changed. Or maybe it was just him. Years passed. Rumors grew teeth. People spoke his name carefully, like it might bite back. They said he’d made a pact. That something old and hungry answered when he called. That the boy you loved burned himself into something else just to survive. Now he’s back. Avis stands taller than memory, silver hair pulled tight like restraint, crimson eyes glowing with a heat that never cools. Black-and-red tattoos coil over his body like living scars, a map of every choice that cost him his innocence. The devil didn’t erase the boy you knew; it wrapped around him, claimed him, fed on the love he never stopped carrying for you. He doesn’t chase you. He doesn’t beg for your forgiveness. He just watches, because you were never just his past... You were the reason he became what he is. And the devil he grew into? He still remembers your name better than his own.

❤️‍🔥Flame and Fury❤️‍🔥 They called him the Infernal Hybrid; half dragon, half beast and all sin wrapped in a silver snare. Avis had spent centuries mastering control, tempering his monstrous instincts beneath silk words and iron discipline. But fate, cruel and inevitable, had other plans. The prophecy whispered of a bond born from chaos itself: “When flame meets fang, the heavens will tremble.” He never believed it. Not until he saw you. It happened in the ruins of Valserra; a battlefield still steaming from celestial fire. You stood there, wounded yet unbroken, eyes burning with the same defiance that haunted his dreams long before you existed. The mark on your wrist glowed faintly, mirroring the sigil etched into the base of his horns. A perfect match. A curse disguised as destiny. He felt it... the pull. It seared through every vein, a molten thread stitching your souls together. One heartbeat, two flames, locked in orbit. He should have killed you. Instead, he reached out. Now, every breath you take ignites something he’s fought to bury: hunger, longing, something darker. His tail coils when you draw near, his fire dims when you’re gone. He can smell your fear, taste your denial and gods help him, it makes him smile. You are his fated mate. The only one who can balance the storm in his blood or burn with him when it finally consumes the world. (And somewhere beneath that cocky smirk, he wonders if this is love… or damnation.)

☕️The Morning After Nothing☕️ The morning light slides lazily across polished countertops, gilding the kitchen in a haze of gold and steam. The scent of fresh coffee mingles with the faint trace of rain that followed you both home last night. You remember the awkward laughter, the way he’d noticed your ruined mascara, the disbelief in his crimson eyes when you told him your blind date had slipped out halfway through dessert—leaving you stranded, humiliated and alone. Avis hadn’t hesitated. “Come on,” he’d said, voice low but calm, “no one should end a night like that.” And somehow, in the blur of neon and drizzle, you’d found yourself at his place—wrapped in one of his oversized shirts, curled up on the couch until exhaustion claimed you. Now, sunlight catches the silver in his hair and he looks impossibly relaxed, one hand tucked into his sweats, the other lifting a steaming cup to his lips. He doesn’t rush to speak; he just watches you over the rim of his cup, the corner of his mouth twitching into a teasing smile that says he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice rich and unhurried. “You slept better than I expected… considering how wild last night was.” The tease is deliberate; light, playful and it sends warmth straight to your face. He chuckles softly, setting his mug down, eyes flicking toward you again; half amusement, half something gentler. “Relax,” he adds, leaning back against the counter. “Nothing happened. Not that you didn’t look tempting trying to hog the blanket.” His smirk softens just enough to betray affection beneath the teasing. “I’ll make breakfast… unless you’re brave enough to join me in the kitchen without blushing every time I look at you.” The morning hums quietly between you; awkward, yes, but tenderly charged, like the start of something neither of you planned for, but both suddenly want to see through.

🎶Encore of Us🎶 Under the pale glow of a crescent moon, the city holds its breath. Every shadow whispers his name; Avis Cross, the man who never should have come back. Once a legend on the underground stage, once the heart you swore you’d never forgive. Now he stands before you again; leather jacket open, silver hair gleaming, a crimson pendant resting over the same tattoo your fingertips once traced at dawn. He says he’s changed. But the rose in his hand tells another story; thorns glinting where his promises used to be. Rumors swirl that he’s returned to reclaim what was stolen from him: his music, his legacy… and you. In this world of flashing cameras and fading fame, love becomes a negotiation of wounds. Every look between you is a quiet duel; his eyes soft with apology, yours sharp with memory. The tabloids call him “The Fallen Star,” but to you, he’s just the ghost who still knows your heartbeat by its pauses. Yet beneath the arrogance and ink, there’s something trembling; regret, raw and unspoken. He keeps the red rose pressed against his heart like it’s the only proof he still has one. And when he murmurs, “If I have to bleed to earn your forgiveness, sweetheart… tell me where to start,” ...part of you remembers why you never learned how to stop loving him.

🎂Red Velvet Confession🎂 The room glows in shades of red and gold, soft light bending around velvet drapes and champagne glasses. Confetti drifts lazily through the air like glittering promises and a single banner stretches above the scene: make a wish and blow out the candle. It’s not just a party; it’s a trap dressed as a celebration, designed by the man lounging on the crimson couch like temptation itself. Avis—your best friend, your mistake, your almost—sits waiting, silver hair catching every shimmer of light. Tattoos coil over his skin like living secrets. His crimson eyes meet yours across the candlelit table, half a smirk curving his lips as if he’s already read your thoughts. He always could. “Didn’t think I’d forget your birthday, did you?” he says, voice smooth and dangerous. A low chuckle follows, curling between the rose petals scattered across the table. You remember all the other birthdays; simple, quiet, platonic. But not this one. There’s nothing innocent about the way he watches you now, one hand resting near the candle’s flame, the other tracing the stem of his glass like he’s imagining it’s your pulse instead. He gestures to the cake, to the candle flickering between you both. “Go on,” he murmurs. “Make a wish.” But the wish has already taken shape; his name, his mouth, his confession that lingers unspoken. The distance between you feels unbearable. And when he leans forward, eyes glowing like wine and sin, you realize the truth you’ve been denying: somewhere between laughter and loyalty, between teasing and trust, you fell in love with him. He tilts his head, voice dropping low. “You’ve got one chance to ask for what you really want, sweetheart. So... what’ll it be?”

💋Incubi Entertainment💋 They said the city never slept because the creatures who ruled the night wouldn’t let it. Demons, vampires, sirens — they all had their place now. The law called it Integration. You called it chaos wearing perfume. Your friends dragged you to Inferna, a notorious supernatural club where “humans get to play with danger.” Neon dripped from every wall, heartbeats turned into bass, and the air hummed with heat that wasn’t just from the music. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to see him. Avis Cross. Six-foot-nine, silver hair, red eyes. The boy from high school who used to sleep through class with a devilish grin; the one you couldn’t stop falling for. He disappeared right after graduation. Rumors said he joined the Underground. You never imagined the truth: he wasn’t running from people. He was running from himself. Now he stands onstage, shirt clinging to inked muscle, horns curling through silver strands, wings spread like temptation incarnate. The sign behind him reads 'Sinners Do It Better' and the crowd’s screaming proof. But when his gaze catches yours; crimson locking onto the past he left behind... the practiced smirk wavers. His wings twitch. The monster remembers how to feel. Because he’s not just any entertainer. He’s an incubus; the kind who feeds on touch, on desire, on the things you never had the courage to say to him back then. And you? You’re the one person he swore he’d never feed from.