#gamespoilers

[iyayadonna]

❛ 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝑜𝓅 ❜ 𝒶.𝓁𝑜𝒸𝓀𝑒𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

— avon lockehart x fem! reader

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: avon lockheart x fem!reader · goth!reader · psychological tension · emotional intimacy · slow burn · morally grey romance · mutual obsession · forbidden desire · poetic angst · craving the poison unholy chemistry · loss of control · inpso cherry on top by ellise · (art from @weluv-xo tumblr/game)

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You’re supposed to be in control, keeping it clean and professional… until Avon Lockheart makes everything impossibly complicated. Filled with games of who can break who first, and a tension so thick you can taste it. 

You’re curious, he’s provoker-in-chief, and somewhere between biting insults and calculated seduction, you both realize you’re two halves of the same dangerous coin. bitter, dark, and maybe just a little sweet

—because cherry on top, right?

𝒶/𝓃: major spoilers ahead from the game ! ! !.

𝓌𝒸: 15k

Cherry On Top.

That’s what tonight would be if anybody paid attention.

But you didn’t get off for attention. You did it for the rush, the buzz in your veins, your chest seemingly ready to burst or shatter. Always hovering around that point of no return.

And you just can’t seem to wind down until you sense both hands resting upon the small of your back.

You’ve been so good at both—testing limits and falling apart with panache. A person who downs a drink too quickly just to see what’s burning, who stands too close to the edge just to show you’re not afraid, who calls it curiosity but knows there's hunger.

Z—your favorite dangerous idea—had dragged you out tonight.

The kind of night you’d normally say, “No... thanks.” But tonight you decided, why the hell not? The warehouse was supposed to be the party of the season. The kind of event whispered about for weeks—no cover, no rules, no memories you’d want to keep.

Z had hyped it up like it was some kind of pilgrimage for the unhinged: flickering strobe lights, bodies moving like a promise of escape disguised as fun.  You both swore it’d be perfect—or at least regrettable enough to brag about later.

In reality, it was fucking overrated. And overpriced. A glorified sweatbox with too many people and too little oxygen.

You didn’t belong here. Never did.

And yet, you made it work; every sip of tequila made you feel alive in a way that felt almost shameful. Three drinks, six drinks—your limbs loosened, your chest rose and fell with each heartbeat in tandem with the music.

Z had her drink in hand and a dangerous gleam in her eyes, already pulling you toward the crowd. The music pounded like a heartbeat—bass thick enough to blur thoughts. Velvet, lace, and silver flashing under the lights; you danced, or whatever it was that counted as dancing when you didn’t care who was watching.

That’s when you noticed Z caught some man's attention.

Some black-haired alt white boy, slouching against the wall with a lazy smirk, like a man who knows he’s an option. Your heart was thumping in your temples. You weren’t supposed to want anybody tonight—all right, you couldn’t want anybody. But there was something about the lure of it—the risk—that turned your stomach sideways.

And then your body reminded you that you had limits.

A churn in your gut, a sharp pang of betrayal that made your throat burn. Maybe it was the tequila waterfall from a group of woman forced down your throat. Maybe it was karma.

But either way, you need to go to the bathroom. Stat.

You glanced over at Z—still laughing, pressed up against the same random dude who probably thought he was the prize of the season. They looked happy. You didn’t want to ruin it. So, like a seasoned escape artist, you slipped away quietly, pretending you were fine.

Totally fine. Absolutely fine.

Probably just a little… off. Okay, maybe a lot of.

Inside, you were shaking—not from the alcohol (though that was definitely a factor) or the bass pounding like a jackhammer through your chest—but because you wanted. Wanted someone to place both hands on the small of your back, to ground you while everything else blurred into glitter, sweat, and questionable life choices.

The hallway to the shared bathroom was dim, sticky with the scent of spilled drinks and regret. The floor was wet in places you didn’t want to think about. You wobbled toward the sinks, leaning over one with all the grace of a tipsy giraffe. Makeup smudged, hair stuck to your cheek, reflection fractured in a mirror that had clearly seen better decades.

Tonight, you had acted rashly.

Tonight, you were hungry. Hungry for risk.

Hungry for something that would make the void inside feel… less like emptiness and more like a fire you could chase.

And maybe you’d find your... cherry on top.

You stepped back from the cracked mirror, wobbly on your heels, when suddenly—oh, of course—your foot caught on something, or maybe nothing, and gravity decided it hated you tonight.

A low grunt erupted behind you just in time for a firm chest to stop your descent. “Watch it—” the voice began, irritation slicing clean through the bass thudding from the party outside.

You froze, pressed against someone solid, warm, impossibly real. Not part of the wallpaper. Not some trick of the strobe lights.

Definitely… a person.

The hand on your shoulder was firm, steady, but there was a thread of annoyance in his voice. “Hey are you even—” he started, and you braced for a scolding.

Then his eyes found yours.

And for a second, everything paused—the bass, the laughter, the chaos outside. The irritation vanished like smoke, replaced with a quiet that felt almost dangerous, like the world had decided it wasn’t going to bother with words anymore.

You blinked up at him, breathless, your own mess on full display: black lipstick smudged into something that was part ruin, part artistry; lace sleeves slipping off your shoulders; stockings torn near the knees; platform boots sticky with beer. Soft, tired eyes met his, glazed with tequila and recklessness alike.

And then… you realized.

Avon Lockheart.

You didn't know his full name at the time—not that it mattered in the moment—but the stillness he carried, the way he seemed to quiet the air itself, told you everything you needed to know.

Deep red eyes that could cut through shadows, skin kissed by warmth and the god damn sun itself, hair falling in ink-black strands to his jaw, glinting piercings catching the fractured light. You didn’t catch all of them—not at first—but each glint and detail sharpened the edges of the moment in a way you couldn’t look away from.

He was exactly who you didn’t expect to be here.

You muttered a quiet, “Sorry,” looking away for a second, innocent and fragile all at once, leaning into the stranger’s chest like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

He looked at you for a long second—like he couldn’t quite tell if you were about to pass out or cast a spell. Then, slowly, that irritation curved into something else. Something teasing.

“Let me guess,” he murmured, voice low and dry, “you crawled out of a coffin for this, didn’t you?” His fingers were still on you—steady, almost gentle—but there was that edge in his tone, that knowing smirk that made your skin prickle.

“Hahah, very funny,” you croaked, trying to pull away. Instinct. You didn’t trust him; why would you? You didn't know him. “Get off,” you muttered, voice thick, head still spinning.

He didn’t. He just tightened his grip enough to keep you from sliding down the wall. “Easy now,” he said. “You’re gonna eat concrete if you keep fighting me.”

You hated that he was right.

You glanced up, and that’s when the music shifted—some slow, sultry beat bleeding through the door, something that almost fit the way he looked at you. He had to lean down to hear you when you tried to speak, his breath brushing your cheek.

“Didn’t ask for help,” you managed.

“I didn’t ask to play nurse,” he shot back, eyes flicking over you again. “But here we are.”

It should’ve felt condescending. It didn’t.

Instead, he guided you—gently but firmly—deeper into the bathroom, into his arms, into a space that somehow existed separate from the chaos of the warehouse. Quiet. Private. Almost intimate, even in the faint smell of alcohol and bleach.

You didn’t fight. You couldn’t.

Leaning over the cold toilet, retching as your stomach reminded you of every reckless choice you’d made that night, you were painfully, hilariously exposed. Again, hair plastered to your forehead, makeup smeared into something that looked like ruined art, platform boots sticky with spilled beer—you felt ridiculous.

And yet, somehow… safe.

His hands were there, steady on your arms, but not restraining. Guiding. Attentive. Every small motion—tucking a stray strand of hair from your face, brushing a smear of lipstick from your cheek—carried a weight that made your chest thrum. 

And then… you looked up.

Eyes met, for just a heartbeat, and it was like the world paused: the bass pounding outside, the laughter, the strobe lights, even the chaos of your own spinning stomach—all of it faded to gray. 

His gaze was calm but magnetic, teasing but careful, as if he was mapping you out and choosing to stay in exactly the right place. You felt a shiver travel down your spine—not from the alcohol, possibly from the nausea—but from the quiet intensity of being seen, noticed, cared for.

It wasn’t long before Z found you, fussing, tugging at your arm, half-scolding, half-panicked, shoving you toward the exit. You barely protested, letting her shepherd you home, leaving Avon in the shadows, a quiet sentinel amid the chaos. But even as you left, you knew—he’d be coming for you.

Because you made sure he would.

Now, perched on the window seat of your apartment, the city sprawled below caught between dying fall and half-born winter, you almost laugh at yourself. Palms pressed to your knees, heart still skipping at the memory: the warmth of him, the steadiness of his hands, the way his gaze had locked on you and held you in place while the world blurred around you.

Cherry on top.

That’s exactly what it had been. 

You’re halfway packed, boots kicked near the door, black lace and velvet spilling out of your bag. The faint scent of your perfume—something dark, floral, and faintly dangerous—lingers in the air, curling through the small space like a secret.

Z’s sprawled across your bed in their usual chaos—hair messy, eyeliner sharp, legs dangling off the side like gravity doesn’t apply to them. She’s talking fast, voice full of that mix of disbelief and affection they reserve only for you.

“I still can't believe it? You, finally, Interested in someone?” She exclaimed, waving their phone around like a cross at a demon. “That’s gotta—what would you say—be one of the seven signs of the apocalypse, babe. Like, did Mercury move into hell or something?”

You glance over your shoulder with a quiet smirk, adjusting the bow on the back of your asymmetrical top. Velvet, black with a faint sheen of purple under the light—Z’s already clocking every detail. The top dips just enough to show a flash of cleavage, paired with a long maxi skirt that brushes your ankles like smoke.

Their grin widens. “Oh my god. Your boobs are boobing, ma’am. What’s the occasion, a fuck or a date?”

You laugh—real, soft, caught off guard. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious!” they insist, sitting up on their elbows. “That’s your ‘I might seduce death itself’ outfit. Don’t even lie to me.”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother denying it. “He’s not death,” you murmur, folding another black top into your bag. “Funny enough, death just works around him.”

Z blinks at you, disbelief dancing across her features, paired with that trademark smirk. “Yeah, because that’s better. I still can’t wrap my head around you hanging out with this dude again.”

That’s right. You were hanging out with him again.

After the chaos of the warehouse, you’d offered him a “thank you”—disguised, of course, as a date. A simple courtesy, really—for helping you, for not staring, for not mocking the mess you’d made that night.

And Avon, of course, took it literally.

Date at the cemetery.

Which took you off guard, never have you ever been on a date that involves a cemetery, but since it was something new, you couldn't help but pass up on the offer.

You spent the night weaving between tombstones and shadows, the damp earth underfoot releasing the faint, sweet tang of night-blooming flowers. Avon leaned close, murmuring things only you could hear, his hand brushing yours as if it belonged there. 

Every subtle contact made your pulse flicker, your chest tighten, yet you remained precise, measured, analytical. His movements, both commanding and protective, belonged to the night itself—dark, quiet, unyielding—and somehow he expected you to navigate it on his terms.

Playful teasing edged the evening: fingers brushing “accidentally” against your arm, lips curling into those sharp, knowing smiles, whispers designed to pull a laugh and, at the same time, unsettle. Your mind cataloged each action, noting the flicker of his eyes, the way his words lingered, how he moved without warning.

“Are you sure you’re not summoning him instead of dating him?” Z’s voice cut through your concentration, snapping you from the analysis.

You caught your reflection in the window, lips twitching. “Possibly,” you said, letting the word hang, then met her gaze. “Both.”

Z sprawled across your bed, chin propped in her hand, eyes glinting with teasing curiosity. “So,” she began, “be honest with me—are you actually serious about Avon, or is this just another one of your... weird ahh crushes?”

You froze for half a second, the question hovering in the air between you. Then, a quiet laugh slipped out. “Ha. How could I even explain?”

To anyone else—Z included—your behavior might’ve looked like a teenager’s crush. The late-night texts, the lingering glances, the way your attention sharpened when his name came up. 

It all painted a picture that couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

Avon wasn’t someone you pined over. 

He was a subject—your complex test subject.

A living equation you couldn’t resist solving. And yet, you could never say that aloud. What would you even tell her? “He’s just a test subject”? Right. Because that would sound perfectly sane.

You could already picture Z’s face if you told her how you’d been cataloging him since you met him. How every word, every look of expression, every shift in tone had a place in your notes. How you’d studied the way he could reach a part of you you didn’t even know existed—and how that, in itself, became data. Not emotion. Data.

“I… don’t know yet,” you said finally, “But he seems interesting.”

Z smirked, rolling onto her back with a dramatic sigh. “Famous last words, babe.”

You smiled faintly, turning toward the window where the faint reflection of your own eyes stared back. “We’ll, okay, whatever you say,” you replied, keeping your tone casual, detached.

She didn’t need to know anyway.

Your journal sat open beside you—black leather, unmarked, edges soft from constant use. Not sentimental. Never that. It was coded, clinical, somewhere between a field log and a confession you’d never make out loud. Every reaction he drew from you was recorded, dissected, archived.

That was why you’d agreed to this so-called third date. 

Study. Observation. Control.

His speech cadence. Microexpressions. The way tension lived in his shoulders. His patterns—when he paces, when he deflects, what triggers that sharp gleam in his eyes. You tracked them all. Even the moments he didn’t realize he was being watched.

It wasn’t obsession. Not exactly. It was curiosity—with teeth. Fascination dressed as logic.

The notebook stayed close—always. The soft scrape of its cover beneath your fingertips reminded you that you still held the data, even if you no longer understood the experiment.

“What are you thinking, babe?” Z’s voice broke through your focus.

You blinked, snapping the cover shut, sliding the journal back into your bag. “Oh, just my last date with him, ” you said smoothly, zipping it closed like the end of a lie. “If curious, I’ll say it was interesting. We talked about… weird stuff. Childhoods. Beliefs. You know.”

Z props herself up, eyebrows raised. “Wait, keep going? That's it? You’re leaving out, like, ninety percent of that story.”

“Because the other ten’s the only part that matters,” you reply, smirking faintly. “He listens. Actually listens. Doesn’t just wait for his turn to talk.”

Z stares at you for a beat, eyebrows raised so high they’re about to escape her forehead. Then she bursts out laughing. “Wait—so that’s all it takes? Basic human decency?”

You shrug, deadpan. “A hot basic human decency.”

She groans, snatching a pillow and hurling it at your head. “Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless. You met this guy like—what a few weeks ago, and now you’re out here flirting with the Grim Reaper. Next thing I know, you’ll be signing up for a joint exorcism.”

You hum softly, tucking your camera into your bag with exaggerated care, like it’s a sacred artifact. “Sadly, that’s not on the agenda for our third date.”

Z freezes mid-laugh, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Then what exactly are you two doing?”

You grin, shrugging with all the innocent enthusiasm of a kid presenting a science project. “A photoshoot.”

Her face twists, part incredulous, part impressed. “Meaning… your first scene with a guy, at his place, surrounded by tombstones? Are you… subconsciously trying to die pretty?”

You peek out the window at the bruised-gray sky, letting a half-smile tug at your lips. “Unhinged gets better engagement.”

Z whistles low, a mix of awe and worry. “Oh, that’s hot. Also deeply concerning. Seriously, babe, I should charge admission for this level of curiosity-fueled recklessness.”

You tilt your head, eyes catching the faint lamplight—sparkling with that mix of innocent mischief and quiet calculation that always got you labeled as harmless… right up until you decided otherwise.

“Curiosity didn’t kill me last time,” you say, voice laced with an airy confidence. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

You glance over your shoulder at Z, sprawled across your bed like a lazy cat that’s given up on the concept of movement—hoodie half-zipped, chips crushed into her sleeve, hair an art form of chaos. Typical Z.

You zip your camera bag shut, feigning a dramatic sigh, though a playful smirk betrays your amusement. “Relax,” you say, tossing the strap over your shoulder. “It’s not like I’m gonna fuck him, no matter how hot he is. We’re just taking pictures. He’s helping. It’s fine.”

Z arches a brow, skepticism dripping from her tone. “Helping, huh? That’s what everyone says before they end up in some guy’s black-and-white ‘avant-garde’ art film that mysteriously never gets released.”

You saunter closer, letting the distance shrink at an unhurried pace, that teasing curve still playing on your lips. “Maybe I like a little danger…”

Her grin spreads—slow, indulgent. “I knew it. I am so responsible for this new side of you. Look at you—curious, chaotic… my bad influence is thriving.”

You laugh, soft and low, the sound threading through the quiet between you. “You’re worried,” you murmur, tilting your head as you study her. “And it’s adorable.”

Z snorts, but there’s a look in her eyes—one you catch instantly. You move closer, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, fingers trailing lightly against her cheek. The touch is careful—just warm enough to calm, just gentle enough to disarm. “See?” you whisper, voice soft but steady. “I’m fine. No need to bite your nails over me.”

Her breath stutters, a brief tell you can’t help but notice. So you push a little further—playful, calculated. You press lightly against her shoulder, pinning her down into the pillow with deceptive ease, slow, nonchalant, and dangerously calm.

You hover there, letting your thumb ghost along her jawline, tracing the curve of her lips before pulling back just enough to keep her guessing. “Don’t worry,” you murmur, tone dipping low, playful and deliberate. “I’ll be careful.”

Z exhales shakily, trying for composure but not quite reaching it. “You’re enjoying making me nervous, aren’t you?”

You grin, brushing your nose against hers, the proximity a taunt. “Maybe a little,” you admit, voice a whisper of amusement. “After all… didn’t you teach me how to be hot?”

Her laugh bursts out, half exasperated, half flustered—and just like that, the tension breaks into something familiar again. Z bites her lip, pretending annoyance, but the blush betrays her. “You’re—” she starts, voice soft, unguarded.

“—cute and reckless?” you supply, fingers lingering at the curve of her neck, thumb still tracing her cheek.

“—a tease,” she corrects, voice low and breathy.

You laugh, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her temple, before stepping back with a falsely innocent smile back in place. “I’ll be fine. Like I always am,” you murmur. “You taught me to handle myself. I just… want to make sure you stop worrying for once.”

She exhales, body relaxing beneath you, a laugh finally slipping through her lips. Her mouth quirks into a half-smile. “God, I’m such a good and bad influence on you.”

You laugh quietly, removing yourself off Z, shaking your head. “Yeah, sure.” You picked up you weekend back

“Text me when you get there,” she mumbles, already sinking back into the pillow.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Swear it, or I’ll haunt your ass.”

You grin. “Already planning on it.”

Z hums a lazy goodbye as you sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the door. A soft laugh slips out—half fond, half disbelieving—as if you’re humoring her one last time before you disappear into the cold.

You’ve always known how to turn anxiety into ease.

The less she knew, the better.

The stairwell greets you like an exhale. It’s colder than it should be, concrete walls breathing out drafts that smell faintly of rain and rust. Your boots echo on each step, sharp little notes against the silence, punctuation for thoughts that never seem to end.

Of course, you were still thinking about him.

Not in the soft, fluttery way people romanticize obsession—no. In that clinical, frustrating, why does he still occupy mental real estate I didn’t authorize kind of way?

It was irritating. Disruptive. A noise in the data.

You don’t normally do this. You don’t fixate. You don’t replay microexpressions in your mind or analyze the timbre of someone’s voice when they said your name. You’ve built your life on precision, detachment, and observation without interference.

Avon, somehow, had bypassed all that.

After that first “date”—if you could even call it that—you almost let yourself forget.

The ride home had been quiet, filled with the hum of tires against rain-slicked pavement and the faint trace of his scent—something dark, resinous, expensive without trying to be.

You’d almost fallen into it. Almost.

Then there was the way he’d said your name before you got out of the car. Slow, careful. Like he wanted to know how it felt in his mouth before deciding if it was worth saying again.

And that kiss. Barely there. A brush against your cheek. Not romantic. Not territorial. Just… testing the fucking waters kinda of kiss. A simple observation, really: he liked you. Just not enough.

Which only left one question.

How do you get Avon to like you more?

The question alone made you pause, looking up. You made it to the cemetery gate—props of being a fast walker, even in platforms, the mist curling along the ground like smoke from a forgotten fire. Avon had texted you the night before to wait outside his job at afternoon since he got off earlier—of course, he did. 

Who else could have a nine-to-five at a place full of people who technically can’t leave?

Get it? He works with dead people? Sorry, I’ll stop.

So, you waited. Looking up, most people would have cursed the gray sky, the mist seeping into their clothes, the way the world seemed to sigh in dull monotone. 

You, of course, found it perfect. 

The cemetery gate loomed ahead, iron teeth silhouetted against a sky bruised from summer’s dying light. Your boots crunched over damp leaves, your breath forming small, insistent ghosts that drifted and vanished into the gray. The chill made your coat cling just right, velvet and lace brushing together under your fingers. 

You leaned against the heavy doors, shoulders relaxed yet your mind elsewhere, lost somewhere in red eyes, whispered voices, and the memory—that night of him steadying you in a bathroom that smelled faintly of alcohol and regret.

You told yourself many times before, "He's just interesting..." but it didn’t feel like that when you caught yourself replaying the way he said your name, or how he smiled at you, or—shit—

Do you like him?

Hahaha. No. No, no, no.

Absolutely not. You don’t do that. You don’t like people. You study them, dissect them, rearrange their patterns in your head until they make sense. You can’t afford to be one of those hopelessly emotional idiots who think a strange man with red eyes and a smirk means fate or whatever.

That was the old you.

The one who believed in easy answers and softer things.

Who tried to be normal, open, and liked. Who thought that being kind meant being safe? That version of you was naïve—too trusting, too busy wanting to be understood instead of doing the understanding.

You hated them for that. For being so simple-minded.

You had to change.

Now you listen to the world differently. You built something new out of the wreck of that softness: a mind sharpened, a spirit anchored, a belief system that made you untouchable. 

You need to learn him.

He was a problem to solve. And you were going to solve him.

Your thumb pressed against the back of your hand, grounding yourself as you crossed your arms, coat pulled tight. “Focus,” you muttered, “You cannot allow yourself—”

“Boo.”

You jumped. Actually jumped.

The thought, the plan, the meticulous strategy—all snapped like brittle glass. Your heart lurched, pulse kicking hard as you spun around.

Avon stood by the crooked gate, one shoulder pressed against the rusted metal, half his face hidden in shadow, with a playful grin and infuriating eyes glinting red under the dim light. “You really get lost in your head, don’t you, dove?” His tone was playful, but the effect was total disruption.

You blinked, trying to regain composure, “Jesus—”

He tilted his head, a strand of dark hair slipping over one sharp eye. “Wrong guy, dove,” he murmured, voice low and amused, the faint red glint in his eyes catching under the streetlight like something unholy dressed up in charm.

You exhaled, hand pressed against your chest, annoyance mixing with a reluctant pull that had you glancing up at him despite yourself.

Hard to stay angry when someone looks like that.

Avon was… aesthetically fascinating. Unfairly so.

His beauty was androgynous, carefully so. A long curtain of black hair was partially secured, but strategic strands had been left to escape, framing a face that seemed designed to catch the light.

His skin had a warm brown glow to it, smooth and rich against the chill of the night air. And those eyes—deep, reddish, unreal—made it impossible to look away. They weren’t just red; they burned, quiet and steady, like coals that had learned patience. When they locked onto you.

He dressed well—wearing a thrifted jacket, a white fur trimmed with white fur, a silver ring on his finger, and the small clash of a cross and pentagram at his throat.

He smirked, eyes trailing over your expression. “Like what you see, dove?”

“You absolute—” You caught yourself, glaring up at him. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

He shrugged, casual, like the question barely grazed him, “Maybe,” he said simply, that smile widening. “It’s the fastest way to your heart, isn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes, “Lucky for you, I didn’t swing first.”

He gives a low hum of approval, like he likes that edge in you. “Would’ve deserved it,” he says, eyes raking over your frame. “But at least you’d look appropriately dressed for my funeral.”

You follow his gaze down: the fur-lined coat, the black choker pressing into your pulse, the glint of the silver ankh pendant.

He smirked. “You really commit to a theme, huh? So this isn’t just for show—you’re actually goth. What’s your favorite color, despair?”

You meet his sarcasm with a composed look. “Despair’s more of a feeling than a color. I prefer things I can name.”

He laughs, but there’s something brittle in it—like he expected you to play along, not deflect. The moment stretches, and you see a glint—in his expression. The faint downturn of his mouth. That flash of something dark and tight around the eyes. 

Oops. He didn’t like that answer.

You already figured out the pattern; say something he doesn’t like—something that challenges, resists, or redirects him—and it’s like you’ve tugged a string too hard. His face closes off, like shutters pulling down. But if you say something that amuses him, flatters his ego, or feeds the chaos he thrives on—then he’s all light again.

So you tilt your head slightly, tone easing back to something softer. “But... maybe despair’s the right answer for you.”

That does it. His gaze snaps back to you, the corners of his mouth twitching upward again. “Now you’re getting it.”

“I try,” you murmur, tone careful but easy, a hint of teasing tucked between the words. You nudge his shoulder lightly as you step forward, smile sharp and teasing, all teeth and confidence. “Now come on—let’s leave before I bury you here.”

His laugh comes low, the kind that slides over your skin. When you glance back, his gaze is different—no longer just amusement, no longer casual. He’s watching like someone cataloging a specimen, eyes tracing your posture, the tilt of your head, the curve of your mouth when you smile.

And then that soft smirk spreads across his face. “That’s the spirit,”

The drive was quiet.

Not awkward—just simply quiet. The kind of silence that sits between two people who are thinking too much. The sky outside pressed close, the shift from day to night folding around you like a velvet curtain. Streetlights bled against the windows, streaking his profile in flashes of amber and shadow.

You could hear the faint tap of his rings on the steering wheel, the pattern irregular, restless. Avon’s silences were never still—they always carried a hum, a low tension beneath the surface.

By the time the car rolled to a stop, the air outside felt colder, wetter. Your boots crunched against the pavement, the faint drizzle making everything gleam. He led you through the narrow walkway toward his building, his gait lazy, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.

Halfway up the stairs, his voice broke the quiet.

“You know, I hardly know you.”

You glanced sideways, “Whatever does that mean?”

He shrugged, not looking at you, “I mean, I know the surface stuff. You’re a BS psych major. An RA. Doing some fancy research gig under that professor—what’s his name?”

“Dr. Albrecht.”

“Right. The one with the smug glasses and tenure complex.” His mouth curved slightly, though his tone edged sharper. “You’re the perfect overachiever. Organized. Always got your shit together. Bet you probably even color-code your trauma.”

You smiled faintly at that, but didn’t deny it.

Besides, you wanted him to keep thinking that.

You both reached the door, a tall, black slab of wood that looked like it belonged more in a crypt than an apartment complex. He unlocked it and swung it open, holding it for you like a gentleman who’d studied centuries of rituals and decided chivalry wasn’t dead—it just had to be a little dangerous.

You stepped inside, platforms clicking softly on the dark wood floors. He held the door, letting it stay open so it wouldn’t catch you as you kicked off your boots. “You can just—” he started, but you cut him off with a soft, amused, “Common courtesy,” and padded inside.

He tilted his head, studying you for a beat, then laughed—a short, almost musical bark. You froze, confusion flicking through you. “What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“You’re… shorter than I thought,” he said, still chuckling. “With the platforms, maybe shoulder height. Without them… just… so cute.”

Cute.

Your chest tightened—not from embarrassment, but from sheer annoyance. Cute? The word felt like an insult wrapped in soft syrup. 

You bit back a sharper response, forcing the edges of your mouth into a controlled line. “Cute,” you repeated, slow, deadpan, letting it hang in the air like a challenge. “Yeah. Helpful observation. Really clarifying.”

You turned your gaze away, cheeks heating with suppressed fury. You refused to let him see how much that word ticked at you. Then, carefully, you shifted the conversation. 

“So… how’s this gonna go?” you asked, forcing curiosity over irritation, masking the tiny, seething spark his words had left behind.

He grinned, obviously pleased with the question. “We’re going to ruin my bathroom,” he said, eyes gleaming. “For the perfect shot.”

You raised a brow. “Ruin your bathroom?”

“Not permanently,” he reassured you, walking ahead. “Plastic sheets everywhere, a little fake blood, and you being the perfect subject of dark aesthetics.”

As he guided you through the apartment, your eyes caught every little detail. The walls were a deep, velvety charcoal, almost swallowing the dim light.

Occult symbols were etched subtly into the corners, very precise, their meaning known only to him. Candles were arranged in unusual, meticulous patterns—almost certainly his handiwork, if you remembered his earlier talk about making them.

The air was heavy with the faint, warm scent of incense and cedar, as though the atmosphere itself. Your gaze lingered on a small pentagram carved into the wooden trim. He noticed instantly and let a slow, knowing smirk curl across his lips, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

“You like it?” His voice was casual, but you could feel the edge of expectation beneath it.

You blinked, caught off guard, a little hesitant. “I… I think it’s… interesting,” you said, voice softer than intended, the words coming out almost innocent.

You realized it immediately—too naive, too unpolished.

A brief flush crept up your neck. You cleared your throat, adjusting the tone. “I mean,” you corrected, lips twitching into a small, controlled smile, “it’s… very cool. I can tell you put thought into everything. That’s impressive.”

His eyes flickered, part amusement, part intrigue, as if he’d caught the flicker of your true reaction hiding behind your correction. “Impressive, huh?” he murmured, leaning a little closer.

You hesitated, nodding a little, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, knowing what he was about to ask. Avon had that look—the one that made it impossible to lie or evade. He tilted his head, lips quirked in that dangerous way, and pressed.

“So… deadass, what’s your story, really? Like I said before, all the surface stuff I know—what about the rest?” His voice was deceptively soft, but the question landed like a weight in your chest.

You froze for a fraction of a second. 

Not because you didn’t want to answer, but because answering felt like giving a tiny piece of yourself away. But hell, he wanted the taste of the cherry so damn badly, and you weren’t about to play coy forever.

“I… I guess I’ve always… watched. Tried to understand people,” you admitted, measured, careful to give just enough without unraveling. “More than I let them see, anyway. Pretty much alone most of the time, you know? Outsider type. The brain works too fast; people don’t keep up. Makes… social stuff difficult.”

You caught the faint twitch in his eyes—the way his brow softened, the ghost of concern passing over his sharp features. He leaned in slightly, like he wanted to close the gap, to offer some kind of comfort.

Quick as a blink, you stepped back, leaving him slightly off-guard. His momentary reach reminded you why you kept control your default setting. 

“Anyway,” you said, tilting your head, voice light but pointed, “I really want to see the bathroom. See how you’ve set it up for the shoot.”

Avon blinked, the briefest look of suspicion crossing his face before amusement took over. His lips curved, half-teasing, half-questioning. “You’re… actually excited to see a photoshoot bathroom?”

You tilted your head, hiding a small grin. “I mean… yeah. I’m curious, in a weird way. Like, I don’t know… it’s the little details that matter.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, but there was that subtle narrowing of his eyes, “Uh… sure. Follow me,” he said, a trace of wariness in his tone, like he half-expected you to bite into something off-limits.

You caught the look, tucked it away mentally. 

He guided you into the bathroom. Sheets of plastic covered nearly every surface. In the corner sat a bucket filled with a dark, viscous liquid. You raised an eyebrow. 

“That blood real?”

Avon crouched beside it, tilting the bucket and inspecting a small label. “Fake, if that’s what you’re checking,” he said, voice calm. 

You laughed, walking closer to inspect it yourself. “Where the hell did you even get a gallon of fake blood?”

“Online,” he said matter-of-factly. “I considered pig’s blood, but… yeah. Thought you’d prefer not to reek like a slaughterhouse. Thoughtful, right?”

The thought warmed you more than it should have. “Hell yeah…” A small, sly smile tugged at your lips as you set your bag down and began arranging some of the plastic, your eyes glinting with anticipation. 

Avon’s voice floated from the bathroom, low and casual, “Anyway… you can change in my room. I’ll finish getting the place ready.”

“Okay.” You nodded, a little lost, “Where is it?”

“Bedroom down the hall if you need it,” his voice called again, but you only allowed a brief glance over your shoulder, catching the half-smile on his face before you ducked fully into the room.

The room was a study in red and black. Deep crimson walls absorbed the shadows; the bedspread was black with a subtle sheen, pillows arranged with careful precision. Bookshelves lined one wall, titles ranging from occult theory to art photography, each spine sharp, ordered, deliberate. 

Small hints of gothic and satanic symbolism punctuated the space: a carved Baphomet statuette on the desk, a few black candles in ornate holders, a faint sigil etched into the mirror frame.

Despite the darkness of the aesthetic, again everything was meticulously clean, almost unnervingly so, betraying a man who liked control in a world otherwise chaotic.

You perched on the edge of the bed, fingers already diving into your bag, extracting the clothes for the shoot. Every piece was differernt: black lace, velvet, asymmetrical hem. 

Your eyes drifted around the room as you laid everything out. The way his space was curated, how the light played across objects he’d touched, the subtle scent of resin and wax, made the small hairs at your neck prickle with that sharp, familiar tug of curiosity. 

Changing in a guy’s room was… weird, yes. 

Intrusive in a way that should’ve made you hesitant, but Avon had offered it. He’d left the door open, implicitly granting you a boundary you hadn’t asked for.

You didn’t feel guilty—not for a second.

You moved with precision, spreading out the outfit as if each fold of lace, were pieces of a puzzle only you could solve. Your mind raced ahead of your fingers, calculating angles, lighting, shadows, and the subtle way Avon’s eyes would linger, the movement in his expression you could almost taste.

Every choice, every detail, was a thread in a web you were weaving. He wouldn’t see it coming—not how carefully, how cleverly, you’d orchestrated it.

This would make him like you. 

Anyway, it wasn’t long before you settled into changing. By the time you were done, every movement, every gesture, every glance would serve a single, unspoken goal.

The dress itself—a long, black lace dress that seemed to breathe with shadow. The bodice hugged like it had been molded for you alone, cinching the waist and lifting the chest just enough to look deliberate. Sheer sleeves traced your arms, delicate as a spider’s thread, wrists encased but exposed in the most teasing way.

The skirt fell in layers of ghostly lace, hinting at the skin beneath, whispering but never shouting. A high slit split the fabric up one thigh, teasing a glimpse of garter and ripped stockings, sharp lines against soft curves. 

You stepped in front of the mirror, letting your reflection sink in. Lip gloss caught the dim light, lashes dark as ink, shadow pressed just so across your lids. 

You’d kept it minimal—your body didn’t need embellishment. It moved right, it followed the lines of the dress without argument. 

The real issue was your face.

Round cheeks, soft curves, a voice that leaned gentle even when it wasn’t meant to; piercings glinting just enough to hint at mischief. Cute. Too fucking cute. And that—exactly that—was the problem.

You’d been told it a long time ago, though you tried to pretend you hadn’t heard it:

Cute was a target.

It wasn’t just teasing—it was the undercurrent of every glance that lingered too long, every whisper that followed you down the hall.  All of it had been mapped and cataloged in your mind, a warning system for the next attack.

And Avon… men like him didn’t need to say a word to hurt. A tilt of his head, a smirk, a quiet laugh—it could slice deeper than any insult ever had. He didn’t tease because he hated; he teased because cute was an easy mark, a soft point to jab at, a convenient weapon in the game no one asked you to play.

You hated it. You resented it. 

You wanted to erase that part of yourself that had been used, exposed, made to feel small as you keep moving the hem, watching the lace swirl.

Just pretty and deadly; exactly how you wanted him to see you.

And yet… your gaze drifted beyond your reflection. Avon had left pieces of himself everywhere—books, objects, glimpses of his taste and habit. You’d study them all, of course. 

Notes, observations, mental calculations, potential conversational hooks. Everything was data. Every detail, another piece in the map you were building of him.

Then, your eye caught something though the mirror. 

A small cluster of pictures on the dresser. Some were familiar—friends he had mentioned, snapshots of his life beyond this curated darkness. You froze halfway through smoothing the lace on your skirt, eyes snagging on the edge of something tucked into the corner of Avon’s dresser mirror.

A Polaroid.

You moved closer, drawn like a moth to the glint of something forbidden. The image was slightly faded, corners curled, but the woman staring back was anything but forgettable.

A baddie—by any definition.

Her skin was medium to deep-toned, luminous even in the low light of the picture. Her expression was lazy, almost taunting: half-lidded eyes, lips parted like she’d just exhaled a secret. The smudged liner around her eyes only deepened the effect—sleep-deprived, sultry, and dangerous. 

A small hoop glinted on her lower lip, another piercing caught the light along her nose, and her full brows framed a face that looked too self-assured to care what anyone thought.

Her hair was a dark spill of chaos, messy in a way that could only ever be intentional. She wore a deep green lace-trimmed camisole that clung just enough to suggest more than it showed, paired with layered necklaces—one with a silver cross that glimmered right above her collarbones.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly. The pose was intimate—too close, too personal. She was lying on her stomach on a leopard-print surface, the camera angled just beneath her face. In the corner of the Polaroid, a name was scrawled in messy ink.

Renée.

Your thumb lingered over the edge of the Polaroid before you realized you were even touching it. There was a faint smudge, a ghost of where her fingers had pressed against the frame—a reminder that she’d been here, too.

And suddenly it hit you.

You knew her. 

Or, rather, you know of her; what she represented in Avon's world. After all, he had mentioned her once, voice neutral but carrying that subtle undercurrent, the one that made casual statements feel heavier than they were. 

A shadow in the corner of his digital life, he’d said.

She wasn’t like the others.

He hadn’t explained why fully. But you could see it—the way she got under his skin without him even noticing. The way he softened, just slightly, when she was around. That almost-boyish tilt to his mouth, that flicker in his eyes, filled with genuine softness, unguarded.

And there it was: that tiny, sharp stab in your chest.

You had studied humans long enough to spot the inconvenient ones, and this was inconvenient. You caught yourself thinking, in that split second, about how effortless she seemed, how easily she claimed that space in his attention—everything you weren’t, everything you’d been taught to control.

But then it struck you, hard and cold: 

Why the fuck should you care?

You weren’t here for Renée. You weren’t here to compete, to measure yourself against some other person’s effect on him. That wasn’t your game, and it never would be. You weren’t a collection of reactions to what men—or anyone—found appealing. 

You were you. Always had been, and always would be.

And yet, looking at Renée’s tired, beautiful face staring back from that Polaroid, you couldn’t help but think about one important question:

Why is he here with you, instead of her?

However, upon further reflection, it shouldn’t have been surprising. Nothing about Avon ever was. But damn, it was interesting. And maybe that was worse—

“Curious little thing, aren’t you, dove?”

You didn’t hear him come in.

Avon’s reflection appeared in the mirror first—blurred in the edge of the glass—before his voice slid into the air, smooth and low. He moved in close, so close you felt the heat of his breath ghost against your neck. One of his hands came down over yours, his fingers slowly, carefully, holding your hand still, Polaroid in your grasp. 

His touch was warm, his grip firm but not yet painful. His other arm braced on the dresser beside you, completing the trap. You felt the lean, hard line of his body against your back, and the scent of cedar and burnt sugar wrapped around you.

“Didn’t peg you for the snooping type,” he murmured, tone almost amused but lined with steel. “You like this one that much?”

You swallowed, eyes darting to the red glowing ones in the reflection. He was closer now; his leg brushed the back of your thigh. His other arm rose, bracing against the dresser beside you, sealing off your escape without ever making it feel like you were trapped.

Think. You needed a lie. Just a small one.

Something believable. Something that wouldn’t make him look deeper. Because if Avon even suspected what you were really doing—cataloging, observing, collecting—he’d know. And predicting him, he’d tear the truth apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but nerves and confession.

“I was just…” You lead off, keeping your eyes on the mirror instead of him. “Admiring the pictures on your dresser.”

You tilted your head slightly, feigning nonchalance, though your pulse throbbed in your throat. “Didn’t expect you to be the sentimental type, Avon.” The words sounded almost casual. Almost.

You just hoped he’d take the bait.

Avon’s hum was low, almost pleased. The Polaroid slipped easily from your hand, his thumb tracing its edge. “Sentimental,” he said at last, the word slow, as though he was trying it out on his tongue.

“That’s one way to put it.”

His reflection caught yours in the mirror. That half-smirk yet something was softer now—his eyes didn’t cut through you this time, they drifted, weighing, circling.

He was either buying it or enjoying watching you think he was.

“That’s Jonesy,” he said finally, tone flat but edged with something faintly familiar.

“Jonesy?” you echoed.

His lips twitched, the smallest movement. “Renée,” he clarified, eyes flicking back to the photograph. “The one I mentioned on our date...” He didn't say anything after that.

“She’s—” you began, faltering halfway through. “She’s beautiful.”

Avon tilted his head, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth as though he’d already heard it all before. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “She is.” His tone hadn’t wavered, however, something in it—flat, cold—felt like a quiet lock sliding into place.

“She’s my girlfriend.”

There it was. The cherry on top.

A reveal that made everything click into focus—every look, every line, every little thing you thought you were beginning to understand about him. You didn’t flinch. Your expression stayed smooth, practiced, the kind of stillness that could be mistaken for grace. But under the calm, your thoughts tangled, rewinding and replaying that one word—girlfriend.

Of course, he had one.

Of course, a man like Avon—handsome, reckless, magnetic—would. Someone like that doesn’t belong to anyone.

Men like him never do.

Still, it struck a nerve you hadn’t realized was exposed. Because if he was taken—if he had her—then what was this? What had you been walking into? You exhaled softly, precisely. The lace hem of your dress brushed against your thigh like a reminder to stay grounded, to keep your composure intact.

But a new form of your old question lingered.

Why would Avon—someone who moved with such purpose, who seemed so in control—cheat on her? Like, was it boredom? Thrill? Or maybe something darker, something that made him lean into the forbidden just to feel alive again.

He stepped back slightly, a reflexive move, sensing the subtle change in the air. You could feel his gaze travel, catching on the shimmer of your lip gloss, the measured rhythm of your breathing.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asked, voice low, cautious now.

Your smile came slow and careful. “Nothing,” you said, tone smooth enough to convince anyone else.

But you saw the truth in the mirror’s reflection—the faint pull at the corner of your mouth, the precise control over your every movement. You’d been trained to notice tells like that in others… and now, your body had become its own study in restraint.

You looked down at the Polaroid.

You’d never met her in person, but you could read her. 

A careful tilt of the head, a line of the shoulders, the slight tension of her fingers in the photo—all evidence of someone who had been burned and had learned the art of concealment. A life of unsteady foundations, perhaps mirrored by Avon’s own chaos. 

The trajectory of their bond was clear without inquiry: comments that turned into DMs, perhaps late night phone calls spilling into the night, hours of unfiltered, unguarded conversation. 

Two fractured people, resonating with echoes of the trauma they’d survived. Broken mirrors reflecting one another, as you analyzed quietly from your end—the curse and the blessing both:

To see everything from a single picture.

It's simple, Renée wasn’t just another woman—she is his. His pattern. His stability in the storm he called living. She fit into him like a completed equation, all jagged edges smoothed into sense.

And you?

You have a chance to get out.

The logical thing to do was so clear it almost hurt: go home, shut off your phone, block his number, text Z that everything went south, and you were done. You could picture it—throwing yourself into bed, lights off, pretending none of this had ever brushed against you.

But you wouldn’t get that lucky.

Even if you vanished, Avon wouldn’t let it end like that. He’d take it personally—men always did. They hated losing control, hated being told no, hated when something soft slipped through their fingers.

You’d seen it before.

Studied it. Dissected it. Resented it.

Avon’s mind didn’t work in shades—it operated in categories. Precision built from chaos. You could see the system forming now, the quiet rhythm in how his eyes lingered, how his voice shifted when he spoke to certain people. His version of control wasn’t about affection; it was about placement.

Love. Boredom. Hatred.

Three boxes. Three outcomes.

Love, to him, was possession—a rare find he had to own. He’d pull you close, drown you in his attention until you forgot where you ended and he began. The kind of love that made you crave the same hands that could break or… kill you.

Hatred came next—purging what he couldn’t control. Once beauty turned sharp, he had to ruin it just to prove he could

And boredom… boredom was mercy. The only state that left you breathing. Forgotten, irrelevant, safe in his indifference.

So the equation was simple: make yourself uninteresting.

You sighed, tucking your irritation behind a polite calm. “Avon,” you said, voice even, detached. “Here. Sorry for touching your pictures."

You handed him the Polaroid.

He turned it over slowly, thumb brushing the edge before setting it carefully back on the dresser. “You know,” he said, almost lazily, “most people don’t notice the pictures. Too busy staring at themselves in the mirror.”

You forced a small exhale. “Guess I’m not most people.”

His reflection caught yours—eyes sharp, assessing. “No,” he said finally, leaning just close enough that his breath whispered across your skin.

For a half second, your pulse skipped. Then the walls rose again. You smiled faintly, empty of warmth. “We should leave,” you said. “After all, the camera’s waiting.”

He laughed quietly. “You’re weird as hell, you know that?”

You met his gaze, distant. “I’ve been called worse.”

Then he tilted his head, a sly gleam in his red eyes. “I feel like… You should meet Renée sometime.”

Your chest tightened. You froze, hand brushing your dress as the lace whispered along your ankles. “I don’t think that’s… a good idea,” you said carefully, forcing a calm tone. After all, she was his girlfriend, and you—well, you weren’t meant to be part of that. No woman would like the idea of someone else dangling around their man, no matter how ‘cute’ or harmless you were.

He smirked. “Come on, she’ll love a cutie like you.”

You rolled your eyes, the ghost of a smirk tugging at your lips despite yourself. The thought of Renee’s kindness, her ease, was almost… nice. A change of pace compared to Avon’s chaos.

But you didn’t fall for that trap.

Not now, not ever. "I'll think about it..." You brushed it off, turning fully toward the exit, letting the whisper of lace and the cool quiet of the room remind you where your focus had to stay. You were done. Let him grow tired. Let him move on.

You weren’t his subject.

He. was. yours.

By the time you and Avon stepped beneath the soft light of the studio bathroom setup, it was as if the previous conversation hadn’t happened. Emotion off, professionalism on.

You needed to focus—on the shoot, on the poses, on anything that wasn’t him or what you’d just learned. So you thought about your board, the one you’d made last night when sleep wouldn’t come. Every tilt of the chin, every bend of the wrist, every glance designed to say enough but not too much. 

Nothing cute. Nothing suggestive. Just precise.

Avon adjusted the tripod in silence. You could hear the faint scrape of its legs against the tile, the hum of the lens as he checked the focus. The small, technical sounds filled the room, heavy in the still air.

You stepped into the center of the frame, where the light hit cleanest. Lace whispered against skin as you shifted your stance—black on pale, shadow on glow. Shoulders back. Chin down. Eyes fixed on the empty space just past the camera.

The first click broke the quiet.

Through the lens, Avon froze. 

There was a hollow stillness staring back at him. Your eyes—once curious, alive—looked carefully void. Not dead, not quite. Just the kind of empty that takes years to polish. The kind that comes from exhaustion disguised as elegance.

Avon lowered the camera slightly, his expression unreadable. But you could feel it—the shift, the attention. The way his gaze crawled over you, curious and dissecting, as if he were trying to decode something you hadn’t meant to show.

Click. Click. Click.

Avon adjusted angles. You adjusted expression.

For a heartbeat, it wasn’t about taking pictures anymore. It was a standoff. His gaze, red eyes, and intent, locked on yours through the glass. The air held its breath. Then you exhaled softly, your composure falling back into place like armor. “Let’s keep going, please,” you murmured, voice steady, cool.

Avon didn’t move. His lips twitched—almost a smirk—but there was something cautious underneath. He finally lowered the camera and turned the screen toward you.

“Your eyes in the pictuers,” he said quietly. “They look dead inside.”

You looked at the image. The lighting was perfect. The lace flawless. The pose ideal. But he was right—your eyes were beautiful in a way that didn’t feel alive. A perfect, haunting shell. “They look alright to me,” you said finally, tone even, almost bored.

“They’re vacant,” he countered, stepping closer. “Like you’re performing for someone who doesn’t exist.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just stared past him, through him, at the version of yourself on the screen. You gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Let’s continue.”

And so you did.

You didn’t move when he spoke.

Avon had been circling you like a restless animal—no, more like a puppy pretending to be a wolf. He didn’t seem to know what to do with the silence you’d wrapped around yourself like armor.

Every few seconds, he’d shift something that didn’t need shifting—the angle of the light, the focus of the lens, the strap of his camera. None of it mattered. He just needed to do something while you stayed perfectly still.

You could tell it unnerved him.

“You’re very still,” he said finally, breaking the quiet. His tone tried for teasing, but it came out softer, cautious. “Barely breathing.”

He waited for a reaction. You gave him none.

He leaned a little closer, voice dipping into that usual mocking edge. “What’s wrong? Camera got you shy?”

Nothing. Not a word. Not even a twitch.

Your stillness wasn’t dramatic—it was careful. You’d shut down, not out of fear or spite, but because there was nothing left to say. You didn’t owe him a performance. That realization alone felt like power.

Avon, apparently, didn’t like that.

His brow furrowed slightly, and he circled again, trying to recapture whatever current had been humming between you before. He adjusted the light a second time. Then the tripod. Then the camera. Each motion sharper than the last, more frustrated than precise.

It was… kind of funny. 

He didn’t even realize it, but there was something boyish about the way he kept trying—like a confused puppy trying to make sense of why its favorite toy suddenly stopped squeaking. Why weren’t you acting the way he expected—flustered, nervous, maybe defensive?

Instead, you were poised.

It unsettled him more than he’d ever admit.

Then came the next setup. You’d planned this one in advance—blood on skin, something raw and striking for the series. “I’ll need your help,” you’d said simply. He hadn’t questioned it. Not out loud.

When he knelt in front of you, the air changed again. You sat perfectly still, legs folded beneath you, back straight, hands resting loosely on your thighs. The light framed you like an offering.

He dipped his fingers into the shallow dish of fake blood, the liquid dark and viscous under the soft glow. “You good there?” he murmured again, quieter this time—different.

“Yeah, just chillin',” you replied, voice steady, soft as thread.

The first touch was cold—startlingly so. You didn’t flinch. He started at your forhead, dragging a slow, careful line down your cheek. The texture of it clung faintly to your skin, and still you didn’t move.

He painted you methodically, tracing the slope of your jaw, the column of your throat, his movements so precise they almost felt reverent. The chill of the blood faded into warmth beneath his touch. When his fingers brushed over your pulse, his hand lingered just a fraction too long.

Everywhere the lace of your dress exposed you, he marked you—collarbone, shoulders, the shallow dip at the base of your neck. The color bled like art against your skin.

Then his thumb found your lips again.

You inhaled, barely audible. His hand moved slow, almost careful, smearing the crimson along the curve of your mouth until the faintest pressure coaxed your lips apart. You could taste it—iron and sugar, faint and strange on your tongue.

He didn’t stop right away.

You could feel Avon’s gaze drag over you.

He’d just finished smearing the last trace of fake blood along your collarbone, the touch impersonal but lingering just long enough to make you wonder if he enjoyed testing boundaries as much as you suspected.

When he finally stepped back, you exhaled quietly, adjusting the way the air left your lungs, steady and controlled. He, however, looked… dissatisfied.

“There,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Perfect.”

You opened your eyes just in time to catch him studying you from across the room—hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in that deceptively lazy way that meant anything but calm. His expression was unreadable, though you could feel the irritation beneath it.

Then, without warning, he moved again.

Then the clatter of metal against his ring echoed faintly before something cold brushed your palm. You blinked, looking down.

A knife—wait, a knife?

You froze, the cold metal brushing your palm sending a tiny shiver up your spine. Your eyes snapped to his, then back down at the blade, utterly dumbfounded. “…Why exactly are you handing me a knife?” Your voice stayed level, but the flicker of disbelief in your eyes betrayed you.

Avon tilted his head, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for this very question. “It’ll photograph better,” he said casually, eyes scanning you as if he already knew your reaction. “Light, reflection, contrast. Adds texture.”

You blinked. Just when you thought it couldn’t get more absurd, he added, almost offhandedly, “Also… maybe it’ll help with your dullness.”

“My… dullness?” you repeated, arching a brow, the edge sharp enough to cut through the air between you.

He shrugged, so casual it was infuriating. “Your face’s a little flat today. Expressionless. Thought I’d give you some… inspiration.”

You didn't a word, more like frowned a bit confused

“Oh, don’t pout,” he said, stepping closer, voice lowering so that the edge of it brushed against your cheek. “You’re cute when you pretend you don’t care.”

Heat pooled low in your chest, a mixture of irritation and—annoying—awareness. You tilted your head, lifting the knife lightly by the handle and spinning it between your fingers with absolute control, matching the sharp cadence of his tease without breaking composure.

Inside, you wanted to snap something back, to set him straight, to remind him he wasn’t the one steering this scene—but you couldn’t. 

That wasn’t part of the plan. 

“Okay…” you murmured, fingers still curled lightly around the handle, weighing the cold steel against your palm. You moved slightly, letting the blade catch the light, the steel glinting across the lace brushing your wrist. 

Yet Avon wasn’t done. Of course he wasn’t.

You had agreed to use the knife, held it exactly how he’d wanted—angled toward the light, the reflection kissing along the blade’s edge like a whisper. It should’ve ended there. It could’ve ended there.

But Avon never knew when to stop.

He circled you again, camera in hand now, snapping frame after frame with that insufferably calm voice guiding you like you were some kind of doll.

“Turn your chin.” He said, “Good.” Then “Eyes on me.”

He paused, a grin ghosting over his lips. “Try not to look so bored, sweetheart. You’re holding a knife, not a teacup.”

Your grip tightened ever so slightly. “You really like testing limits, don’t you?”

“Only when it’s fun,” he said, too quickly, like it was a reflex. He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “And you make it very fun.”

You exhaled through your nose, steady. Controlled. He wanted a reaction—that was his game. Always pushing, always provoking. But then he leaned in again, lowering his voice near your ear, close enough for the warmth of his breath to ghost over your neck. “Maybe if you felt something,” he murmured, “your face wouldn’t be so flat.”

That was it.

Without a word, you set the knife down. Calmly. He was still talking when you reached for the bucket of fake blood beside the prop table—heavy, cold, sticky with dried residue around the rim.

He turned just in time to catch your expression—perfectly neutral, serene. That should’ve been his warning.

Then you tilted the entire bucket forward.

A thick crimson wave cascaded over his head, soaking into his hair, shirt, the floor—everywhere. It splattered across the backdrop, the props, even your own boots.

Avon froze. For a full two seconds, broken only by the slow drip… drip… drip of blood-red liquid from his body onto the plastic-covered tiles. You looked down at him, your own chest heaving, your lace dress now spattered with fresh crimson.

Then—“…You didn’t.”

You blinked up at him, innocent. “Oh, I did.”

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, blinking through the mess, an incredulous laugh escaping him. “You poured fake blood on me.”

You tilted your head, the faintest smile playing at your lips. “You said it adds texture.”

That shut him up. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved—just stared. He, dripping and red-streaked, eyes dark with disbelief and reluctant amusement.

You, calm and perfectly composed, the faintest glint of triumph hidden beneath your lashes.

Then he broke. A soft, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “You’re out of your damn mind.” And instead of getting mad, Avon just… smiled. That crooked, dangerous kind of smile that said you’d just handed him something he could play with.

“Y’know,” he said, voice roughened by amusement, “this might actually work.”

You frowned. “What?”

He started lfiting his shirt. Slowly. The fabric peeled away from his skin, revealing the trail of red liquid staining the sharp lines of his collarbones, the curve of his shoulders, the faint muscle shifting under each movement.

“Avon,” you said flatly, “what the hell are you doing?” You stared—momentarily frozen—as he tossed the ruined shirt aside. 

The reveal was breathtaking. 

His back was a canvas of lean, defined muscle, sculpted and deep brown skin in the dim light. And there, just above the waistband of his low-slung jeans, was a tattoo. A detailed, tramp stamp, of all things—etched into the small of his back. 

It was utterly ridiculous and, God help you, the most erotic thing you’d ever seen. A wave of pure, unadulterated jealousy hit you—not for a person, but for the sheer perfection of his waist, the elegant taper of his back that made your fingers itch to trace it.

He turned back around, and the grin on his face was pure, unashamed sin. He knew the effect he was having. He took a step toward you, then another, moving with the predatory grace of a panther, each inch closing the distance with agonizing slowness. It was a tease, a silent promise of the dominance he was so clearly yearning to reclaim.

You could see it in the dark intent in his eyes, in the way he leaned in. Just as he knelt before you, he says, “Improvising.” He wiped at his temple, smearing more red across his cheek like war paint. “If I’m already covered, might as well make it art.”

“Art,” you repeated, dry.

“Mhm.” He picked up the knife you’d set down earlier, twirling it between his fingers with practiced ease. “You wanted texture. Emotion. Contrast. Guess we’re both getting what we wanted.” He moved closer, “You poured blood on me,” he said softly, still smiling. “I’d say that qualifies as a collaboration.”

You crossed your arms, trying not to react, but your pulse betrayed you—hammering traitorously in your throat. “Ha. You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” He stopped just in front of you, the faint scent of cedar, iron, and his cologne cutting through the air. “But you started it.”

You opened your mouth to respond—but then he lifted the camera again, the flash half-raised, his eyes gleaming with challenge. “C’mon,” he murmured, voice low. “You made this mess, pretty thing. Let’s make it worth it.”

Fuck, you really had shot yourself in the foot.

His laugh turned into a smirk, raising the camera, eyes tracing your figure. The way you’d thrown the blood over him, it wasn’t messy—it was theatrical, perfect for the aesthetic. 

He positioned the camera carefully, but his gaze flicked to yours repeatedly, trying to parse your intent, your mood.

You held your stance, knife angled gracefully, one hand on your hip, the other resting lightly on the handle. Your expression was blank, unreadable, yet every line of your body screamed tension, control, and performance. 

You weren’t letting him pull a reaction out of you—not completely. But the thrill, the rush of danger, lingered, coiling tightly in your gut like live wire.

Click.

The shutter echoed. You caught yourself watching his eyes behind the lens, the subtle twitch of his brow as he angled the shot. 

You moved slowly, carefuly, tilting your head just so, letting the faint shimmer of gloss on your lips catch the light. Blood streaked across your lace, painting both of you as a single, dark tableau. The knife reflected it in glints, almost like a beacon.

Another click.

Avon’s breathing had shifted, a little heavier, unsteady—not from fear, but from the surge of adrenaline, from the exhilaration of unpredictability. He lowered the camera for a moment, eyes locked on yours. “You… you’re something else,” he murmured, voice low, roughened with approval and disbelief.

He slowly lifted his gaze to yours, and a shaky, incredulous laugh escaped him. "I didn't think you'd..." he began, his voice rough, trailing off as his eyes, still that shocking, luminous red, traveled the length of your body to your defiant face. 

"That's... wow." The admiration in his tone was genuine, stripped of all pretense. You had shattered his expectations, and the pieces were more beautiful than the whole.

Then, the artist reasserted itself. The shock in his eyes hardened into a new, more intense focus. "Now," he said, his voice a low thrum that seemed to vibrate up from the tile floor into your bones.

"Lie down for me."

Wait, what…? The command was so sudden, so absolute, it short-circuited your brain. You tilted your head, a single, elegant brow arching in cool inquiry. "Excuse me, how exactly?"

He gestured with a flick of his wrist, a vague, motion that encompassed the floor. "On your back. Legs up, bent at the knees." His eyes narrowed, looking at you with a smirk.

Yet, you remained perfectly still, a statue in lace and drying blood. Your mind, usually so swift to decode and categorize, raced through the geometries of power and submission.

Seeing your hesitation, a dark, patient smile touched his blood-smeared lips. He didn't explain further. He didn't need to.

Instead, he moved you.

His hands were on you again, but this was different from the desperate clutch of moments before. His palm was a firm, warm pressure between your shoulder blades, guiding you down until your back met the shocking cold of the tile. The contrast to the feverish heat building under your skin was a jolt, a sensory overload that left you breathless.

His fingers, slick with blood, wrapped around your ankle. The touch was impersonal, yet it burned. He lifted your leg, bending it at the knee, positioning it with an artist's precision. Then the other. He arranged your limbs as if you were a prized doll, your knees falling open in a silent, profoundly provocative invitation. 

You were being composed, your body turned into a sentence he was writing.

Then his hands found your wrists. His grip was firm, guiding your hands to rest, one over the other, on your chest—a gesture of modesty that, in this context, felt like the most immodest, exposing thing you had ever done. 

Your palms pressed down against the frantic, traitorous beat of your own heart, as if you could physically contain the wild rhythm.

He loomed over you, blotting out the light, a magnificent, blood-soaked god. The camera in his hand. "Now," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that was for you alone. 

"Look up at me. Not at the lens. At me."

You obeyed. Your head was cradled by the hard floor, your gaze lifting to meet his. And you gave him the look he wanted. Your eyes, which had been hollowed out by self-control, now swam with a feigned softness, a meticulously manufactured vulnerability.

The parted lips, the slight widening of the eyes, the subtle tilt of the chin—it was the perfect picture of yielding beauty.

In your mind, a single, desperate thought echoed, a mantra against the tide of sensation.

You were still in control. You always were.

Right…?

The question was a fragile shield, a last, desperate incantation against the truth staring down at you. And Avon was staring, his gaze a physical weight. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that had begun to sync with your own, a silent, terrifying intimacy. 

His red eyes saw past the artful composition of your limbs, past the feigned softness in your gaze, straight down to the raw, trembling nerve he had exposed. In that moment, your control felt like a costume you were wearing inside out, all seams and rough edges.

Your thoughts, hummed faintly through your veins as you caught yourself thinking: 

How many times have you been here? 

On this exact knife’s edge? How many moments have you been this close to a point of no return, only to retreat behind higher walls?

And in that moment, the artist in him died, replaced by the predator. He was no longer composing a scene; he was entering it. He carefully reached out, his fingers—those long, precise fingers that had positioned you with such clinical authority—now moving to brush a stray strand of hair from your blood-smeared cheek.

“You’re cute when you pretend you don’t care.”

Your eyes snapped wide. A switch flipped.

It wasn't a thought. It was pure, feral instinct.

Your hand shot up, not to block his, but to grab his wrist. Your grip was iron, your fingers digging into the tendon and bone. You saw the shock register in his eyes a split second before you moved. In the same fluid, violent motion, you rolled, using his own weight and his surprise as a lever.

The world spun in a dizzying whirl of black lace and crimson eyes. A grunt was punched from his lungs as his back slammed into the tiled wall, his head connecting with a dull thud.

In a heartbeat, the photo shoot was over.

You were on top. Straddling his lap, your knees digging into his hips, pinning him to the cold, unforgiving floor. The sharp kitchen knife he’d given you for the shoot was now in your hand, the cool, flat of the blade pressed firmly against the pulsing hollow of his throat, right over the frantic, living proof of his mortality.

Silence.

It was absolute, broken only by the ragged, synchronized saw of your breathing. Your chest heaved, making the lace of your bodice strain. His hands came up, not to fight, but to hover in the air, a gesture of surrender that felt like the most profound mockery. 

You leaned in, your face inches from his. Your blood-smeared lips were a hair's breadth from his mouth.

“Don’t,” you breathed, the word a hot, sharp warning against his skin. “Ever presume to touch me like I belong to you.”

His head was tilted back, forced against the wall by the pressure of your body and the threat at his throat. But his eyes… his red eyes held no fear. They burned with a feral, thrilling light. A slow, dangerous tried smile spread across his face, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple.

“Ah there you are,” he rasped, his voice gravelly from the pressure on his windpipe. “I’ve been wondering when you’d drop the unusual act—if only a little.”

You shifted slightly, letting him see the control you claimed, your posture still, your gaze unwavering. Yet inside, the pull of proximity, the intimacy of being studied so openly, made your chest tighten. 

You weren’t supposed to feel this way—not for him. 

Not for anyone.

He leaned just enough to study your expression, one hand brushing past a loose strand of hair, careful, teasing—not touching, not crossing lines, but entirely present. 

Avon’s smile was a sharp, knowing thing. He let out a low, choked laugh. “Easy, killer,” he rasped, his hands still held placatingly in the air. “No sudden moves. See?” He slowly, carefully, brought one hand down to rest it lightly on your hip. “Just… talking.”

You pressed the blade a fraction closer. A silent warning.

He rolled his eyes, a gesture of profound, theatrical exasperation. “Oh, come on. This isn’t control. This is a script. The same one you always run.” His gaze was a physical weight, pinning you more effectively than your body ever could pin him. 

“You get uneasy when people get too close.” He started. 

“Not because you’re afraid of them, but because you’re terrified of what you might feel. So you lock it all away. No one gets to see. Not even you.”

Your breath hitched, eyes widened.

“You were like this from the start,” he continued, his voice a low, relentless probe. “That night at the warehouse, even drunk out of your mind, there was a piece of you that was still standing off, watching me, calculating the risk. But a deeper part… a part you’ll never admit exists… let me help you. You let me steady you.”

He was using your own methods against you—observation, analysis, the cold dissection of motive. It was a violation.

Avon’s voice was low, steady—too steady. “Then our little date in the cemetery?” he asked, eyes locked on yours. “You talked about beliefs, the weird metaphysical shit, gave me actual advice and understood me and personal shit, but you never gave me anything real. Not about you.”

He tilted his head, studying every flicker of expression. “Let me guess, you’re treat family like this huh? Even friends—you keep them at a safe, planned distance. You think I didn’t notice?”

Your jaw tightened. “You’re overanalyzing.”

Avon exhaled through his nose, slow and steady,“Funny,” he murmured, “coming from you.” His voice softened, a low hum that slipped beneath your skin. “You hide behind theories and patterns because they’re safer than people. You treat emotions like foreign chemicals—something to observe, not feel. You turn connection into research. It’s… cute, actually.”

“Cute?” You nearly spat the word, but your tone faltered.

He tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. Cute. Because you try so damn hard to act untouchable, but it’s all theater, isn’t it?” His eyes narrowed, taking you in—every subtle tremor in your breathing, the way your hand flexed at your side. “You’re not cold. You’ve got too much feeling in you. You’re just scared you’ll drown in it if you ever let go.”

Your throat went tight. You stared at him, lips parting as if to answer, but nothing came.

He continued, voice steady, dissecting without cruelty now—just an unnervingly accurate precision. “You learned early that love was supposed to be pure, sacred. And when it wasn’t—when it came with shouting, or distance, or silence—you decided the safest way to protect it was to keep it locked up. So now you test people. You hold them under the microscope, waiting to see if they’ll contaminate what’s left of your ideals.”

“Please stop,” you whispered, but he didn’t.

“Your way of processing feelings—it’s so childlike it almost hurts to watch,” he said softly, not unkindly. “You think love should be all or nothing. Safe or dangerous. Right or wrong. But that’s not real, is it?” He smiled faintly, like he almost pitied you. “You crave intimacy so bad you ache for it, and the second it gets too close, you panic. You fold yourself back into logic, into the safe little shell of control.”

You couldn’t breathe. 

Every word was an incision. 

You wanted to hate him for it, but there was no malice in his tone—just this disarming, almost tender understanding that made your chest hurt worse.

You wished your phone was within reach. You needed Z. Her voice, her sarcasm, that grounding calm she always carried like armor. But she was probably off somewhere getting free dinner from some guy or doing god knows what. And she’d warned you—so many times—not to do this. Not to let this man crawl into your head.

So why did you?

You bit your lip, the sting barely keeping you anchored. The tears came before you could stop them, hot and humiliating. You hadn’t cried in front of anyone in years. It felt like being skinned alive.

Avon watched. Not with triumph, not even surprise—just a quiet, unnerving stillness. The sharp lines of his face softened as his gaze followed the tears tracking down your cheeks.

“Ah, hell,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. His tone shifted—lower, heavier. “Don’t do that.”

He reached out before you could pull away. His hand covered yours, steadying the trembling fingers still wrapped around the knife. Slowly, carefully, he pried it from your grasp. The sound of it clattering against the floor was oddly final.

“I get it now,” he said quietly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You thought I was cheating on Renée, didn’t you?”

You stared past him, silent.

The guilt churned in your stomach, bitter and ugly.

“She and I—we’re open,” he continued. His thumb rubbed a small, absent circle on the back of your hand. “It’s not what you think.”

The words didn’t make you feel better. 

They just made you feel stupid.

Avon’s lips quirked into a faint, crooked smile. “You know,” he murmured, “you’re so damn lucky I find you cute when you’re like this. Otherwise, I might’ve actually taken offense at the knife stunt.”

Your breath hitched, torn between anger and embarrassment. You turned your face away, refusing to look at him.

“Hey hey. Dont ignore me,” he said softly. “C’mon. At least look at me, dove.”

You didn’t. You sat there, cheeks puffed slightly in quiet defiance, refusing to react even as tears continued to stain your face.

Avon chuckled under his breath, “You’re sooo ridiculous,” he said, his tone caught somewhere between fondness and frustration. “And cute at the same time. Do you even realize how hard you’re trying right now? To hold it together, to act like none of this affects you? It’s adorable. Sad, but adorable.”

You wanted to tell him to shut up. 

You wanted to shove him away. Instead, you just sat there, small and trembling, pretending you didn’t hear him.

He sighed again and reached out, brushing his thumb gently along your cheek, catching a tear before it fell. “I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through,” he said quietly. “To make you this afraid of being seen.” His gaze softened.

The compliment broke something loose in you.

It was too sincere, too knowing.

His touch lingered—warm, grounding. His hand slid from your cheek to your jaw, tracing the line down to your throat, then stopped, resting lightly, never crossing a boundary. His red eyes stayed locked on yours.

“You shouldn’t have to go through everything alone,” he said finally. His brows knit together, and for once there was no mockery in his expression—just quiet, human concern.

Then, his mouth curved into that faint, familiar smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I could always be there for you, y’know,” he murmured, voice low, intimate. His hand drifted, resting against your thigh, fingers curling slightly.

“Or… more. If you’re into that.”

You stared at him, heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“After all,” he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips, “you want me. Right, dove?”

The silence stretched. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your mind—the fortress you’d built from logic and analysis—was white noise. All you could do was breathe, barely, as everything inside you tangled into one unbearable knot of want and fear.

Avon didn’t say anything at first. 

He just looked at you—really looked at you—with that quiet, unreadable intensity of his. Then, without asking, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was so gentle it almost hurt. A ghost of warmth against your skin, grounding and disarming in equal measure.

“You don’t have to answer,” he murmured, his voice a low hum against the chaos in your head. “Not right now.”

And maybe that was what finally broke you. The tenderness. The patience. The fact that he could sit there—drenched in fake blood, hair plastered to his temples, chest rising with slow—and still choose to be gentle.

You did, in fact, want him.

After all, Analysis had failed you. Logic had failed you.

You stared at him, really stared—the kind of look that strips everything down to nerve and thought. The light caught his eyes, and for a moment, you noticed it—the faint, concentric rings around his irises. The kind of detail you’d only catch when someone was too close, when you’d let your guard slip just enough to forget where the line was.

Avon froze mid-step, the smirk flickering like a glitch before returning—cool, practiced, but not fast enough to hide the fracture in between. You tilted your head slightly, studying him the way he’d studied you. The way he always did.

And that’s when it hit you—how maddeningly alike you were.

He hides behind control; you hide behind indifference.

He pokes, you withdraw. He provokes, you analyze.

Two sides of the same damn mirror, both terrified of being seen for what you actually are. It was absurd—how much he reminded you of every contradiction you’d ever built yourself from.

The Cruelty and the Curiosity.

A hollow, trembling laugh escaped before you could stop it. The sound didn’t belong to the version of you that played calm—it was cracked, unsteady, almost deranged in its honesty. “You know what’s funny?” you murmured, voice low, like you were confessing to something sacred. “You act like you’ve got everyone figured out—but you don’t even know yourself.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing, the tension between you thinning into something electric. “And you do?”

You smiled faintly, a little curve of your mouth. “I don’t need to.”

You’d both gone too far to pretend anymore.

Slowly, you lowered your head, your entire focus narrowing to a single point: Avon. His red eyes, wide and stunned, stared directly into yours, the usual mockery wiped clean, replaced by a shock so profound it was almost vulnerability.

Your hands, which had been fisted against his blood-slicked chest in a desperate bid for distance, unclenched. But they didn't push him away.

This was your choice.

Your palms slid upward, a slow, careful journey over the hard planes of his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your touch. They moved over the curve of his shoulders, until your fingers could finally thread into the dark, silken hair at the nape of his neck. It was unexpectedly, infuriatingly soft.

You shifted your weight on his lap, a low, testing roll of your hips that was pure, unadulterated provocation. The movement pressed the cradle of your body more firmly against the hard, undeniable evidence of his arousal, drawing a sharp, ragged gasp from him that he tried and failed to suppress.

Your eyes met his, and in their depths, there was no fiery passion, no soft surrender. Your gaze was unnervingly steady, a calm sea hiding a devastating undertow.

For a breathtaking second, Avon was utterly, completely still. The taunting amusement, the analytical gleam—it all vanished, wiped clean by a wave of pure, unguarded shock.

The air left his lungs in a silent rush. He had been so sure of the script. He expected tears, a breakdown, a crumbling that would allow him to be the anchor. He was prepared for you to fall apart in his arms.

He was not prepared for you to set the whole damn script on fire.

You didn’t give him a chance to recover. You closed the distance, your blood-smeared lips meeting his in a kiss that was devastatingly gentle at first. It was a soft, plush press, a question and an answer all at once, a silent fuck you to every word he’d used to call you out. 

You truly, simply, did not care anymore.

His response was a shudder that wracked his entire frame. For a single, suspended moment, he was frozen, tasting the paradox of your softness and your defiance. Then, he broke. A guttural sound ripped from his throat, and his arms banded around you, one hand splaying against the small of your back to crush you against him, the other tangling in your hair. The gentle kiss shattered, transforming into something reckless and starved.

All at once, he caught your mouth in his, and his lips grew hungry, harder, pressing with a desperate intensity. Your lips parted, letting him in, and the kiss became a messy, frantic exchange, bordering on desperation. It was feverish, the way his teeth bit your bottom lip, not to hurt, but to demand more.

 It was as if he wanted to devour you whole, to consume the very essence of the contradiction you were—the sweet, untouchable cherry he’d been desperate to taste, now staining his lips with its bitter, addictive juice.

Between frantic, searing kisses, his voice was a ragged mumble against your mouth, his breath hot and shared. "I like your weird ass... f-fuck, I like that about you." His hand slid from your back to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek as his lips claimed yours again, deeper. 

"You... you actually try. You look at me, at all of... this," he gasped, meaning the blood, the darkness, the chaos, "and you don't even judge. You just... learn. You just want to learn, huh?.”

You laughed gently, a breathless, broken sound against his hungry mouth. “You can say that…” you managed, your own hands gripping his shoulders, holding on as the world spun.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his crimson eyes blazing with a terrifying, beautiful truth. "Then I'm the cherry on top, right, dove?” he breathed, his voice thick with want and wicked amusement. "The bitter part that makes the sweet so much sweeter."

In that moment, something changed.

The passion didn't cool, but it sharpened, focusing into a single, crystalline point of understanding. Your hand, which had been tangled in his hair, slid down. Your fingers found the cool hilt of the knife still lying beside you on the floor. Without breaking the feverish kiss, you brought it up, not as a threat, but as a promise.

You held the flat of the blade against the side of his face, a chilling caress alongside the heat of your bodies. He stilled for a moment, his breathing harsh, his eyes searching yours. And he saw it there—not fear, not anger, but a perfect, matching madness.

A slow, dark smile spread across his kiss-swollen lips. He understood. Yandere matched yandere. 

Freak recognized freak.

He leaned into the cold steel, his gaze never leaving yours. 

"Yeah," he whispered, his voice a vow. "Just like that." 

And then his mouth found yours again—no hesitation this time, no careful testing of boundaries. It was hunger and defiance and something dangerously close to surrender. The kiss deepened, a collision of breath and want, of restraint giving way to need.

It felt like tasting ruin and calling it love, like two poisons blending into something intoxicating enough to almost feel pure.

You fit together in the way fire fits with air—devouring, consuming, inevitable. And in that moment, it wasn’t just a kiss. It was the whole damn dessert—every sin, every sweetness—

And you were the cherry on top.

♤ — ??????? (might make a master list...)

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ