ivyysaurr

[ivyysaurr]

𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕 𝑮𝒊𝒓𝒍𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅

A Nagi Seishiro x F!Reader One-Shot

premise: Nagi's tired of love confessions, so he asks the first girl who doesn't fangirl over him to be his fake girlfriend. What he doesn't expect? She's just as blunt as him—and way better at playing the part than he bargained for.

wc: ~1300

warnings: none, just pure fluff

Nagi Seishiro was having the worst Monday of his life, and it wasn't even noon yet.

The third love letter of the day sat crumpled in his blazer pocket, joining the chorus of pink envelopes that had been shoved through his locker vents since first period. His white hair caught the hallway light as he trudged toward the cafeteria, already dreading the inevitable ambush waiting for him there.

"Nagi-kun!"

There it is.

He didn't even turn around as footsteps approached from behind. "Not interested," he mumbled, hands buried deep in his pockets.

"But I haven't even—"

"Still not interested." He quickened his pace, which for Nagi meant moving from the speed of a sloth to that of a particularly lazy turtle.

"Dude, you're brutal," Reo laughed, catching up with his best friend near the cafeteria entrance. "That's the third rejection before lunch."

"It's a pain," Nagi sighed, slumping against the wall. "Can't they just leave me alone? Dating sounds like such a hassle."

Reo rolled his eyes. "You know what would solve this problem? Actually getting a girlfriend. Then maybe they'd back off."

"Too much work." Nagi's gray eyes were already glazing over with boredom. "Relationships are troublesome. All that texting and remembering anniversaries and—ugh." He shuddered dramatically.

"You're hopeless," Reo muttered, but before he could lecture his friend further, Nagi straightened up slightly.

Walking past them was a girl he'd never seen before—which was weird, because Nagi noticed pretty much everyone at their school, if only to categorize them as "annoying" or "not annoying." She had her hair pulled back casually, earbuds in, completely absorbed in whatever she was listening to. What caught his attention wasn't just that she was really pretty, but that her eyes had swept right over him without so much as a second glance.

No stuttering. No blushing. No whispering to her friends.

Interesting.

"Who's that?" he asked, nodding toward her retreating figure.

Reo followed his gaze. "Transfer student, I think? Started last week. Why?"

But Nagi was already pushing off the wall, much to Reo's surprise. His friend never showed initiative for anything, let alone chasing after a girl.

"Hey," Nagi called out, his long legs easily catching up to her.

The girl paused and pulled out one earbud, turning to face him with raised eyebrows. Up close, she was even prettier—and her expression was refreshingly neutral. No hearts in her eyes, no nervous giggling.

"Yeah?"

Nagi blinked. Most girls at least knew his name. "I'm Nagi Seishiro."

"Okay." She waited, like she expected him to have an actual point.

Definitely interesting.

"Want to be my girlfriend?"

The words came out as blunt and casual as asking about the weather. Behind him, he could hear Reo choking on his drink.

The girl—he really should ask her name—tilted her head slightly, studying him with curious eyes. "Why?"

"Girls keep confessing to me. It's annoying. If I have a girlfriend, they'll stop." He shrugged. "You seem like you wouldn't be annoying about it."

A slow smile spread across her face, and Nagi felt something weird happen in his chest. "That's the most honest confession I've ever heard."

"It's not a confession. It's a business proposition."

"Even better." She stuck out her hand. "I'm [Y/N]. And sure, I'll be your fake girlfriend."

Nagi stared at her outstretched hand. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." She grinned. "I'm new here, could use the social protection from a popular guy. Plus, you're not bad looking. Could be fun."

He shook her hand, surprised by how straightforward she was. Most people took forever to make decisions, weighing pros and cons until he wanted to take a nap. "Cool."

"Cool," she echoed, then leaned closer. "But if we're doing this, we're doing it right. I don't half-ass anything."

Before Nagi could ask what she meant, she was already walking away, leaving him standing in the hallway with what might have been the beginning of a smile on his face.

━━━━━━━━━★

By Thursday, Nagi was starting to understand what [Y/N] meant by "doing it right."

She'd appeared at his locker that morning, sliding her hand into his with zero hesitation. "Morning, boyfriend," she'd said cheerfully, loud enough for the cluster of girls nearby to hear. The way their faces fell had been oddly satisfying.

Now she was sitting with him and his friends at lunch, completely unbothered by Reo's obvious curiosity and Isagi's awkward attempts at small talk.

"So," Isagi said, twirling his chopsticks, "you two are really dating?"

"Yep," [Y/N] answered, popping a piece of tamagoyaki into her mouth. "Sei asked me out on Monday."

Sei? Since when did she have a nickname for him?

"It was more like a business arrangement," Nagi corrected, earning a sharp look from Reo that clearly said shut up.

[Y/N] just laughed. "He's so modest. Actually, he cornered me in the hallway and demanded I be his girlfriend. Very romantic."

"I didn't demand—"

"'Want to be my girlfriend?'" she quoted, dropping her voice to mimic his monotone. "'Girls keep confessing to me. It's annoying.'"

Bachira snorted. "That sounds exactly like Nagi."

"Right? I was charmed." [Y/N]'s eyes sparkled with mischief as she looked at him. "Who could resist such sweet words?"

Nagi felt his ears getting warm. "You said yes."

"I did." She leaned closer, close enough that he could smell her shampoo. "Lucky you."

There was something in her voice that made his stomach do a weird flip. This was supposed to be fake, wasn't it? So why did she keep looking at him like that?

"Anyway," [Y/N] continued, straightening up, "I should get going. Have to grab something from my locker before next period." She stood, then paused. "Oh, and Sei?"

"Yeah?"

Instead of answering, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his, quick and soft. Nagi's brain short-circuited as she pulled back with a satisfied smile.

"See you after school," she said casually, like she hadn't just kissed him in front of his entire friend group, then walked away without looking back.

The table was dead silent.

"Dude," Bachira finally whispered, "what just happened?"

Nagi touched his lips, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss she wore. "I have no idea."

Reo was grinning like an idiot. "I think your fake girlfriend might be playing for keeps."

━━━━━━━━━★

After school, Nagi found himself actually looking forward to seeing [Y/N], which was weird because he usually didn't look forward to anything that required effort. But she was waiting by the school gates, scrolling through her phone, and when she spotted him, her face lit up in a way that made his chest feel funny again.

"There's my boyfriend," she said, falling into step beside him. "How were your afternoon classes? Any dramatic love confessions?"

"Three," he said. "But I told them I was dating you."

"Good boy." She patted his arm approvingly. "This arrangement is working out great. I haven't had a single person bother me about being the 'new girl' since Monday."

They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes before [Y/N] spoke again.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why don't you actually date? You're obviously popular, decent looking—"

"Decent?"

She shot him a sideways glance. "Fine, you're stupidly handsome. Happy?"

Nagi felt his cheeks warm. "It's just too much work. Relationships seem complicated."

"They don't have to be." [Y/N] stopped walking and turned to face him. "Take us, for example. We're fake dating, and it's pretty simple, right?"

"I guess." He studied her face, trying to figure out what she was getting at. "Why?"

"Just wondering if you'd ever consider making it real."

The question hit him like a soccer ball to the face. "What?"

[Y/N] shrugged, but there was something almost vulnerable in her expression. "I mean, we've got good chemistry. I make you laugh, you're interesting when you're not being lazy, and the kissing isn't terrible."

"You've only kissed me once."

"True." She stepped closer, and Nagi's breath caught. "Want me to do it again? For research purposes?"

He should say no. This was getting complicated, which was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid. But instead, he found himself nodding.

[Y/N]'s smile was softer this time as she reached up to cup his face. "You know," she murmured, "for someone who thinks relationships are too much work, you're not very good at keeping things simple."

"Your fault," he said, then kissed her before she could respond.

This kiss was different from the quick peck at lunch—slower, deeper, and definitely not for show. When they broke apart, [Y/N] was looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"So," she said, slightly breathless, "still think dating is too much hassle?"

Nagi considered this, his hands still resting on her waist. Dating [Y/N] didn't feel like work. She made decisions quickly, said what she meant, and never made him guess what she was thinking. Plus, she was pretty, funny, and apparently an excellent fake girlfriend.

"Maybe," he said slowly, "it depends on who you're dating."

[Y/N] grinned. "Is that your way of asking me to be your real girlfriend?"

"Do you want me to ask?"

"Nah." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "I like the direct approach, remember? Yes, Nagi Seishiro, I'll be your real girlfriend."

"Cool," he said, then paused. "Does this mean you'll still kiss me in front of people? Because Reo's face was pretty funny."

[Y/N] laughed, bright and genuine. "Oh, I'm just getting started. Hope you can keep up."

━━━━━━━━━★

"And that's how Nagi Seishiro accidentally got the best girlfriend at school by being too lazy to deal with love letters properly."

- Reo, probably

[ivyysaurr]

𝑷𝒆𝒕 𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒅 𝑼𝒔𝒆 𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝑭𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒀𝒐𝒖 - Haikyuu Boys

featuring: kuroo, oikawa, atsumu, bokuto, iwaizumi, suna, kageyama, hinata, tsukishima, akaashi, osamu

kuroo

“Kitten” with that signature smirk when you’re being stubborn about something. He’ll lean against the doorframe watching you struggle with homework and go “Need help there, kitten?” in that smooth voice that makes you want to throw your textbook at his stupid handsome face. You always end up blushing and muttering “shut up, Tetsu” while he just chuckles knowingly.

oikawa

“Princess/Prince” but he says it in the most condescending yet affectionate way possible when you’re being dramatic. You’ll be complaining about your day and he’ll cup your face with a fake-sweet smile like “Aw, poor little princess, life is so hard isn’t it?” You want to be annoyed but the way his eyes go soft betrays how much he actually cares.

atsumu

“Sweetheart” in that Kansai accent when he’s trying to get away with something he definitely shouldn’t have done. He’ll saunter up after breaking something with that guilty grin like “Now sweetheart, before ya get mad…” and you know you’re about to forgive him even though you should absolutely be furious.

bokuto

“Sunshine” because he genuinely thinks you light up every room, but he says it so earnestly that it catches you off guard every time. He’ll bound up to you after practice like “Sunshine! You came to watch!” with that blinding smile and suddenly you forget how to form coherent sentences because how is someone this pure allowed to exist.

iwaizumi

“Troublemaker” with an exasperated but fond sigh when you’re being chaotic. You’ll suggest something slightly unhinged and he’ll pinch the bridge of his nose like “What am I gonna do with you, troublemaker?” But he always goes along with your schemes anyway, and the nickname feels more like an endearment than a complaint.

suna

“Doll” in that slow, lazy drawl when he’s feeling particularly mischievous. He’ll catch you staring at him during lunch and lean back in his chair with that trademark bored expression like “See something you like, doll?” You roll your eyes and tell him he’s insufferable, but the blush creeping up your neck gives you away completely.

kageyama

“Dummy” but said with such genuine affection when you do something endearing that it doesn’t even feel like an insult. You’ll mix up volleyball terms and he’ll shake his head with the tiniest smile like “You’re such a dummy” while internally combusting because he thinks you’re the cutest thing alive.

hinata

“Sunshine” but somehow different from Bokuto - he says it like he’s discovered something precious and wants to protect it. When you laugh at his stories he gets this awed look and whispers “You’re like sunshine, you know that?” and you have to hide your face because the sincerity is overwhelming.

tsukishima

“Shortstack” regardless of your actual height, delivered with maximum smugness when he’s trying to get a rise out of you. He’ll hold things just out of your reach with that infuriating smirk like “What’s wrong, shortstack? Need some help up there?” You want to murder him but also maybe kiss him, which is very confusing.

akaashi

“Love” in the most casual way possible that completely blindsides you every time. He’ll hand you coffee like “Here you go, love” as if he didn’t just make your entire brain short-circuit with how naturally it rolls off his tongue. Meanwhile you’re malfunctioning and he’s already moved on like nothing happened.

osamu

“Honey” when he’s cooking and wants you to taste something, said with flour in his hair and that concentrated expression he gets when he’s perfecting a recipe. “Try this, honey” while holding out a spoon, and suddenly you’re more focused on the domestic intimacy of the moment than whatever delicious thing he’s made.

[ivyysaurr]

𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒂𝒌𝒖𝒈𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒗𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒚

Bakugou who finds out about your villain identity during a raid and just stands there in complete shock, his explosions fizzling out mid-attack as his brain tries to process that the person he’s been falling for is standing on the opposite side of everything he believes in.

Devastated!Bakugou who goes back to your last conversation in his head over and over, analyzing every word and wondering what was real and what was an act. That soft smile you gave him when he walked you home last week - was that fake too? Was any of it real?

Bakugou who becomes obsessed with finding you after you disappear, not to arrest you but to demand answers. He needs to know if what you had together meant anything to you or if he was just another mark in whatever game you were playing.

Angry!Bakugou who starts picking fights with everyone because he doesn’t know how to process the betrayal. Kirishima tries to talk to him and gets yelled at, his parents ask what’s wrong and he explodes at them, he can’t even look at couples without seeing red.

Bakugou who finds evidence of your crimes and has to sit down because his hands are shaking too hard to hold the files. Each report feels like a knife to the chest - how many people got hurt while he was holding your hand and thinking about forever?

Self-destructive!Bakugou who starts taking unnecessary risks during hero work, throwing himself into dangerous situations with reckless abandon because physical pain is easier to deal with than the emotional devastation of losing you.

Bakugou who keeps your favorite snacks in his kitchen cabinet for weeks after finding out, staring at them every morning and unable to throw them away because it would make your absence too real. He finally breaks down crying in his kitchen at 2 AM clutching a bag of the chips you used to steal from him.

Conflicted!Bakugou who still instinctively reaches for his phone to text you when something funny happens, then remembers and feels like he’s been punched in the gut all over again. He has a dozen unsent messages in his drafts that just say “why?”

Bakugou who becomes convinced that he’s a failure as a hero for not seeing the signs, that he’s weak for letting his feelings cloud his judgment. He pushes himself even harder in training, trying to punish himself for being so blind.

Heartbroken!Bakugou who finally encounters you again during a villain attack and can’t bring himself to fight you seriously. His explosions are weak, his movements hesitant, because even knowing what you are, he still can’t bear the thought of hurting you.

Bakugou who screams at you during that confrontation - asking if he ever meant anything to you, if you ever felt even a moment of genuine affection, if it was all just part of your cover. His voice cracks on the questions he’s most afraid to hear answered.

Desperate!Bakugou who tries to convince you to turn yourself in, promising he’ll help you, that he’ll find a way to make this right somehow. He’s bargaining with a future that doesn’t exist because he can’t accept that the person he loved never really existed either.

Bakugou who starts having nightmares about all the times you were alone together, wondering if you were planning to hurt him, if he was ever in real danger. He wakes up in cold sweats, paranoid and unable to trust his own judgment anymore.

Broken!Bakugou who finally accepts that what you had is over but can’t stop loving the version of you he thought he knew. He keeps that love like a wound that won’t heal, unable to let go of something that was never real to begin with.

Bakugou who sees you choose villainy over him again and again, and each time feels like watching you die. He starts to understand that the person he fell in love with was just a mask, but knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

[ivyysaurr]

Confession

Father! Nanami Kento x Parishioner! F!Reader

Words Count: ~900

Warnings: dirty talk, light explicit content, religious themes, abuse of power dynamics

Premise: You come to confess your sinful thoughts about him, but Nanami is not the holy man you think.

━━━━━━━━━★

The cathedral was silent, save for the distant echo of your footsteps as you approached the confessional. The flicker of candlelight danced along the aged wood, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to pulse in time with your racing heart. You hesitated for a moment, fingers brushing against the cool latch of the booth door. This was madness. Confessing this—here—to him. But you couldn’t carry it any longer. The weight of your thoughts, your desires, had become unbearable.

You slipped inside, kneeling on the polished bench. The partition slid open with a soft creak, and there he was. Father Nanami Kento—his pale face half-shrouded in shadow, his glasses catching the dim light. He looked at you, calm as ever, but something in his gaze felt… different. It wasn’t the detached piety you were used to. It was sharper, hungrier.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, your voice trembling. “It has been… weeks since my last confession.”

“Go on,” he said, his tone low, steady. Almost too steady. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

You swallowed hard, your hands gripping the edge of the bench. “I… I’ve been having impure thoughts. Thoughts I shouldn’t have. About…” You faltered, heat flooding your cheeks. “About someone I shouldn’t think of in that way.”

There was a pause. Then, softly, he said, “Tell me more.”

The words spilled out before you could stop them. “I can’t stop imagining him. His hands, his voice, the way he looks at me… like he knows something I don’t. It’s like he’s always there, in my head, even when I try to pray. I feel… ashamed. But I can’t stop.”

Nanami leaned closer, his breath audible through the partition. “And who is this man who haunts your thoughts?”

Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it. “You,” you whispered. “It’s you.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, slowly, he removed his glasses, setting them aside. His eyes—narrowed, calculating—bore into you with an intensity that made your stomach twist. “Do you understand,” he murmured, “what it means to confess such things to a man of God?”

You nodded shakily. “I do.”

His voice dropped even lower, like velvet wrapping around you. “Good. Then tell me everything.”

You hesitated, but the way he looked at you—like he was waiting, craving your words—pulled the confession from your lips like a thread unraveling. “I think about your hands on me,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “About your mouth… how it would feel if you kissed me. If you touched me where no one else has.”

A slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Go on.”

“I dream about it,” you continued, your voice growing bolder, fueled by the way his gaze darkened with each word. “About what it would be like to have you… to have you undress me. To feel your skin against mine.”

Nanami leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. “And do you believe these thoughts are sinful?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “But I can’t stop them.”

He tilted his head, studying you with a look that made your pulse quicken. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “your guilt is misplaced.”

Before you could respond, the door to his side of the confessional opened, and suddenly he was there—standing in front of you, close enough for you to smell faint hint of cologne beneath his cassock. Your breath caught as he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek with a tenderness that contradicted the fire in his eyes.

“Father—” you started, but he cut you off.

“No,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Say my name.”

“Nanami,” you whispered.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your lips were almost touching. “You came here seeking absolution,” he said, his breath warm against your skin. “But what if I told you your sins… are exactly what I want?”

Your body responded before your mind could catch up, leaning into him, drawn by an invisible force. His other hand settled on your waist, his grip firm but not unkind. “Tell me,” he urged. “What else do you imagine?”

“I—” Your voice broke as his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. “I think about your mouth… on my neck. On my breast. Everywhere.”

A low hum vibrated in his throat as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear. “That can be arranged.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine as he kissed a trail along your jawline, each press of his lips more insistent than the last. When he finally captured your mouth, it was with a hunger that took your breath away. His tongue swept over your bottom lip, demanding entry, and you opened for him without hesitation. The taste of him—mint and something darker, richer—was intoxicating.

His hands roamed over your body as he kissed you, one sliding beneath your shirt to skim the bare skin of your waist while the other cupped the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard line of his cock pressing against your hip, and the realization made you moan into his mouth.

“So eager,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with desire. “Tell me, do you still think these thoughts are sinful?”

You shook your head, unable to form words as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your pants, teasing the sensitive flesh just above your cunt.

“Good,” he said, his lips brushing yours as he spoke. “Because I intend to make every one of them a reality.”

[ivyysaurr]

Absolution

━━━━━━━━━★

Sinner! Levi Ackerman x Nun! F!Reader

Words Count: ~2000

Warning: dirty talk, dark romance

━━━━━━━━━★

You had always found solace in these late hours, when the world outside seemed to pause and you could commune with the divine in perfect stillness. Tonight felt different, though—charged with an energy you couldn’t name, as if the very air held its breath.

The heavy oak doors groaned open behind you.

You didn’t turn. Late-night visitors weren’t uncommon; troubled souls often sought sanctuary when darkness fell heaviest on their hearts. But something about the footsteps—measured, deliberate, carrying an edge of defiance—made your spine straighten.

“We’re closed,” you said softly, not breaking from your prayer position. “But if you need sanctuary—”

“I don’t need sanctuary.” The voice was low, rough around the edges like gravel underfoot. “I need confession.”

Now you turned. In the doorway stood a man unlike any who had ever crossed this threshold. Dark hair fell across his face in disheveled strands, and his clothes—black shirt, dark jeans, leather jacket—seemed to absorb the moonlight rather than reflect it. But it was his eyes that made you catch your breath. Steel-gray and sharp as winter, they held depths you couldn’t fathom, shadows that spoke of things you’d only heard whispered in the darkest confessions.

“I’m Sister [Name],” you said, rising gracefully despite the tremor in your voice. “Father Benedict handles confessions, but he’s—”

“I don’t want the priest.” He stepped closer, and you caught the scent of cigarettes and something else—danger, perhaps. Sin made manifest. “I want you.”

Your training kicked in, the calm professionalism you’d cultivated through years of service. “I’m not ordained to hear confession, but I can offer counsel if you’re troubled.”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “Troubled. That’s one word for it.” He moved into the nave, his presence seeming to fill the vast space. “Do you know who I am, Sister?”

You studied his face in the candlelight. Something familiar tugged at your memory—whispers among the other sisters, newspaper headlines quickly hidden away. “You’re Levi Ackerman.”

“So you do know.” His lips curved in what might have been a smile if it held any warmth. “Then you know why I shouldn’t be here.”

Everyone in the city knew the name. Levi Ackerman—enforcer, they called him. The right hand of sin itself, they said. A man who moved through the underworld like shadow given form, leaving whispers of violence and retribution in his wake. The police couldn’t touch him. The law bent around him like light around a black hole.

And now he stood in your sanctuary, looking at you with those penetrating eyes as if he could see straight through to your soul.

“Everyone deserves redemption,” you said, surprised by the steadiness of your own voice. “If you truly seek it.”

“Redemption.” He tasted the word like wine gone sour. “Tell me, Sister, what do you know about sin?”

Heat crept up your neck at the way he said your title—not with respect, but with something that felt almost like mockery. “I know it separates us from grace. I know it can be forgiven.”

“Can it?” He was closer now, close enough that you could see the scar that bisected his left eyebrow, the way shadows pooled in the hollow of his throat. “What about the kind of sin that stains your hands so deep no amount of prayer can wash it clean?”

Your breath hitched. There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled at a part of you that had been carefully buried beneath years of devotion and discipline. “God’s mercy is infinite—”

“Is it?” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, and he leaned forward slightly. The movement brought him into your personal space, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “What about the kind of sin that makes you want things you shouldn’t want? Makes you crave what you’ve sworn to deny?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” His gaze traveled over your face with an intensity that made your cheeks burn. “Because the way you’re looking at me right now suggests otherwise.”

“You should leave.” The words came out breathier than you intended.

“Should I?” He didn’t move back. If anything, he seemed to lean closer, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through your bones. “Or should I tell you what I came here to confess?”

Against every instinct screaming at you to step away, to call for help, to run, you found yourself asking, “What?”

“That I’ve been watching you.” The admission hung in the air between you like incense, heavy and intoxicating. “Every Sunday, sitting in the back pew. Watching you move like grace itself, listening to you speak about salvation with such conviction.”

Your eyes widened. You thought of all those Sunday masses, the feeling of being observed, the strange prickle at the back of your neck. “That was—”

“Me.” His hand came up, not quite touching your face but close enough that you could feel the nearness of it like heat from a flame. “Do you want to know what I thought about during your sermons on purity?”

“Stop.” But you didn’t move away.

“I thought about what it would take to make a saint fall.” His thumb traced the air just beside your cheek, not touching but close enough to make you shiver. “I wondered if there was fire beneath all that ice-cold devotion.”

“You’re being inappropriate—”

“I’m being honest.” His eyes never left yours. “Something I haven’t been in years. Do you want to know why I really came here tonight?”

You should say no. Should demand he leave. Should call for help. Instead, you found yourself nodding slightly, drawn into the gravity of whatever dark confession he was building toward.

“Because I can’t get you out of my head.” The words were rough, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. “Because every time I close my eyes, I see you kneeling in prayer, and I wonder what you’d look like kneeling for me instead.”

The shock of his words hit you like cold water, but underneath was something else—a flutter of heat that you immediately tried to suppress. “That’s… that’s blasphemous.”

“Is it?” He finally touched you then, just the barest brush of knuckles against your cheek, but it sent electricity racing through your veins. “Or is it human?”

You jerked back as if burned. “I’ve taken vows—”

“Vows.” He spoke the word like a curse. “Tell me, Sister, when you made those vows, had you ever been kissed?”

The question was so unexpected, so intimate, that you felt your face flame. “That’s not—I can’t—”

“Had you ever felt desire?” He pressed on relentlessly. “Real desire, not the abstract concept you pray about? Had you ever wanted someone so badly it felt like dying?”

“Stop it.” But your voice lacked conviction.

“Because I have.” He stepped closer again, and this time you didn’t back away. “I’ve killed men without feeling a thing. I’ve done things that would make angels weep. But wanting you—that’s the sin that’s going to damn me.”

Your breath was coming in short gasps now, your carefully maintained composure cracking under the intensity of his confession. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Don’t I?” His hand cupped your face now, thumb brushing across your lower lip with reverent gentleness that contrasted sharply with the darkness in his voice. “I know that your pulse is racing. I know that you haven’t stepped away, even though every rule you live by is telling you to run.”

He was right, and the realization terrified you. You were drowning in the depth of his gaze, in the way his touch seemed to set your skin on fire. “This is wrong.”

“Yes,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “It is.”

“I can’t—”

“Can’t what? Can’t want me?” His other hand came up to frame your face completely, tilting it up toward his. “Because the way you’re trembling suggests you already do.”

The truth of it hit you like a physical blow. He was everything you’d been taught to fear, to avoid, to pray for the salvation of. He was darkness made flesh, sin given form. And yet…

And yet you had never wanted anything more in your life than to close the distance between you and taste his blasphemous lips.

“I’ve spent my whole life serving God,” you whispered, the words feeling like a last desperate prayer.

“And I’ve spent mine serving the devil.” His forehead came to rest against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Maybe that’s why we fit.”

“We don’t fit. We can’t fit. This is—”

“Sacred?” His lips curved in that not-quite smile again. “Maybe it is. Maybe some kinds of sin are just prayer in another language.”

Before you could process the poetry of his blasphemy, his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was nothing like you’d imagined your first kiss would be, back when you were young and still thought about such things. It wasn’t soft or gentle or sweet. It was consuming, demanding, like being caught in a wildfire. His lips moved against yours with desperate hunger, and when you gasped in shock, he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that made your knees weak.

You should have pushed him away. Should have screamed. Should have fled.

Instead, your hands fisted in the leather of his jacket, pulling him closer as you kissed him back with equal desperation. Years of suppressed longing, of desires you’d buried so deep you’d forgotten they existed, came flooding back in a torrent that threatened to sweep away everything you thought you knew about yourself.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, and you could taste sin on your lips.

“Sister,” he murmured, your title sounding like both prayer and curse in his rough voice.

“Don’t.” You pressed your fingers to your lips, still swollen from his kiss. “Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you then?” His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart through the thin material of his shirt.

“Call me just [Name].”

“That’s better.” He nipped at your earlobe, drawing a soft gasp from you. “Now tell me to stop.”

“What?”

“Tell me to stop,” he repeated, his lips trailing down the side of your neck, finding the sensitive spot where your pulse hammered against your skin. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll walk away. You’ll never see me again.”

The offer hung between you, a lifeline back to the safety of your vows, your calling, your carefully ordered existence. All you had to do was say the words.

You opened your mouth to speak them…and found you couldn’t.

“I can’t,” you whispered, the admission torn from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Can’t what?” His mouth was at your collarbone now, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to skin that had never known any touch but your own.

“Can’t tell you to stop.” The words felt like jumping off a cliff. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He pulled back to look at you then, his gray eyes searching your face as if looking for any sign of hesitation or regret. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him, because his hands tightened on your waist and he lifted you easily, setting you on the edge of the altar.

The symbolism wasn’t lost on either of you.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in.

“No.” The honesty felt liberating. “I don’t know anything about this. About wanting someone. About being wanted.”

Something softened in his expression at your confession. “Then let me teach you.”

His mouth found yours again, but this time the kiss was slower, more deliberate. His hands mapped the curves of your body through the heavy fabric of your habit with reverent patience, as if he had all the time in the world to worship at this profane altar.

When his fingers found the ties of your veil, he paused. “May I?”

The question was so gentle, so respectful despite the circumstances, that it nearly broke your heart. You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He untied the veil carefully, letting it flutter to the floor like a surrendered flag. Your hair, which had been pinned severely back for so long, tumbled free around your shoulders, and Levi’s breath caught.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, threading his fingers through the strands. “I knew it would be beautiful.”

No one had called you beautiful in… had anyone ever called you beautiful? The compliment hit you like a physical touch, and you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

“Hey.” His thumbs brushed the moisture away with surprising gentleness. “What is it?”

“I just…” You struggled to find words. “I never thought anyone would look at me that way.”

“Then they’re all blind,” he said fiercely. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Before you could respond, his mouth was on yours again, and this time there was something different in the kiss—not just hunger, but tenderness. Reverence, even. As if he was worshipping something sacred.

Maybe he was.

His hands found the clasps of your habit, and you didn’t stop him as he worked them free with surprising dexterity. The heavy fabric fell away piece by piece, until you sat before him in nothing but your simple white shift, feeling more exposed than you’d ever been in your life.

“Perfect,” he breathed, his eyes drinking in every detail. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” His hands spanned your waist, thumbs tracing patterns on your skin through the thin cotton. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

You could feel exactly what you did to him, the hard length of his arousal pressing against your inner thigh, and the knowledge sent heat spiraling through your veins.

“I’ve never…” you began, then stopped, cheeks burning.

“Never what?” His voice was patient, encouraging.

“Never been with anyone. Never wanted to be with anyone.” You looked down at your hands, suddenly shy. “I don’t know how to… I don’t know what to do.”

His finger hooked under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to do anything. Just feel.”

His mouth found the pulse point at your throat, and you arched into the touch with a soft cry. Every nerve ending seemed to come alive under his ministrations, sensations you’d never experienced flooding through you like electricity.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your skin. “Let go.”

His lips traveled lower, following the neckline of your shift, and when his tongue darted out to taste your collarbone, you thought you might die from the pleasure of it. Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you held him closer.

“Levi,” you breathed his name like a prayer.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice rough with want.

“Levi.” This time it came out on a moan as he found a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear.

“God, the way you say my name.” His hands slid up your sides, thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts through the thin fabric, and you gasped at the sudden spike of pleasure. “I could listen to it forever.”

The admission made your heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with physical desire. This was about more than just attraction, more than just forbidden lust.

And with that you found yourself kissing him with desperate tenderness, pouring all your unnamed feelings into the connection of your lips. He responded in kind, his arms wrapping around you as if he never intended to let you go.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together in the intimate silence of the cathedral.

“What happens now?” you whispered.

“I don’t know.” His thumb traced your swollen lips. “I’ve never planned this far ahead when it comes to salvation.”

“Is that what this is? Salvation?”

“Maybe.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “Or maybe it’s damnation for both of us.”

“I don’t care anymore,” you realized with startling clarity. “Whatever this is, whatever it means, I don’t want it to end.”

Something fierce and possessive flashed in his eyes at your words. “You don’t know what you’re saying. If you’re seen with me, if anyone finds out—”

“Then we’ll be careful.” The boldness of your own words surprised you. “But I won’t give this up. I won’t give you up.”

“You’re willing to risk everything? Your vows, your calling, your place here?”

You looked around the cathedral that had been your home, your sanctuary, your entire world for so long. The marble saints gazed down with stone eyes, and for the first time, their judgment felt less important than the living, breathing man in your arms.

“I’m willing to risk everything,” you said, and meant it.

His kiss was fierce and grateful, full of promises neither of you dared speak aloud. When he pulled back, his eyes held a heat that made your breath catch.

“Then let me show you what it means to be truly worshipped,” he said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine.

As his mouth began its slow, thorough exploration of your body, you realized that this wasn’t the end of your faith—it was the beginning of a different kind of devotion entirely.

─────

The cathedral bells chimed one in the morning, but you were no longer counting the hours until dawn. You were lost in a new kind of prayer, one that had no words but was full of sighs and whispered names and the soft sounds of two souls finding salvation in each other’s arms.

When you woke, dawn light was streaming through the stained glass windows, painting rainbow patterns across the altar where you lay. Your body ached in unfamiliar ways, and for a moment, you felt a deep contentment you’d never experienced before.

Then you realized you were alone.

You sat up quickly, pulling your discarded shift around yourself, eyes scanning the empty cathedral. “Levi?”

Only silence answered you.

On the altar beside where you’d lain, a single piece of paper rested beneath a black rose—where had he gotten a black rose at this hour? With trembling fingers, you unfolded the note.

You were right about redemption being possible. But not for men like me.

What we had was real, but real doesn’t make it right. I’ve taken enough from this world without taking your soul too.

Go back to your prayers, Sister. Forget the sinner who showed you what it meant to fall.

-L

The paper crumpled in your fist as the truth hit you like a physical blow. He was gone. After everything—after you’d been willing to give up everything for him—he’d simply left.

But it was the postscript that truly broke your heart, written in smaller handwriting, as if he’d added it at the last moment:

PS - Thank you for seeing the man I could have been.

You sank to your knees on the cold marble floor, still clutching the note, and for the first time in years, you wept. Not the gentle tears of spiritual rapture you’d known before, but harsh, body-wracking sobs that echoed through the vast emptiness of the cathedral.

He’d shown you paradise only to cast you back into purgatory. He’d made you feel alive, desired, human—and then reminded you why sinners and saints could never truly be together.

Because sinners, true sinners, always chose their darkness in the end.

The black rose seemed to mock you from the altar, beautiful and wrong, just like the man who’d left it. You understood now why it was black—it was mourning. Mourning for what could never be, for the man he might have been in another life, for the woman you could never be again.

As the morning light grew stronger, you heard the sounds of the convent beginning to stir. Soon, the other sisters would come for morning prayers. You needed to compose yourself, to put your veil back on, to pretend that nothing had changed.

But everything had changed. He’d marked you as surely as if he’d branded you with his touch. You would go through the motions of your old life, but you would never again be the innocent sister who’d knelt in prayer just hours before.

You’d learned what it meant to want, to need, to feel alive in someone else’s arms. And now you’d learned what it meant to have that torn away, to be reminded that some people were born to be destroyers, even when they loved.

Especially when they loved.

Standing on unsteady legs, you began to gather your habit with mechanical precision. You folded the note carefully and tucked it into the hidden pocket of your robe—the only piece of him you’d been allowed to keep.

As you arranged your veil to hide the evidence of his touch on your neck, you caught your reflection in the polished silver of a candlestick. Your eyes looked different—older, sadder, but somehow more alive. The innocence was gone, replaced by something darker and more complex.

You looked, you realized with bitter irony, like someone who finally understood what sin really meant.

The cathedral doors creaked as Sister Margaret entered for morning preparations. You knelt back down at the altar, hands clasped in prayer position, the perfect picture of devotion.

But your prayer had changed. Instead of asking for guidance or giving thanks, you found yourself praying for him—for Levi, the sinner who’d shown you both heaven and hell in a single night. You prayed that somewhere in the darkness he’d chosen, he might find a peace that had nothing to do with redemption.

Because you finally understood: some people weren’t meant to be saved. They were meant to show others what salvation cost.

And the price, you’d learned, was always higher than you thought you could pay.