Chapter Text
The stained-glass windows of Saint Augustine’s Chapel gleamed like fractured gemstones, casting a kaleidoscope of color over the assembled boys in their pressed navy blazers and crisp white shirts. The air was thick with incense, a heady mixture of frankincense and myrrh, the very scent of holy sacrifice, curling in ghostly tendrils toward the vaulted ceiling where angels and martyrs were painted in somber reverence. The choir’s voices lifted in polyphonic harmony, a solemn hymn to the Almighty, echoing off the stone walls with ethereal beauty.
Katsuki Bakugou stood among the congregation, his posture rigid, hands pressed together in feigned piety. His gaze flickered toward the altar where Father Gabriel, his robes pristine and gold-stitched, lifted the silver chalice high. The blood of Christ, he intoned, voice steady and unshaken, an unwavering rock of faith among the students of Roman Mark School for Boys.
Next to Bakugou, Izuku Midoriya bowed his head, emerald eyes shut as he whispered his own silent prayer. He was always like this—so devout, so good, so fucking pure. The word rattled in Bakugou’s brain, as jagged and uncomfortable as a crown of thorns. His stomach twisted as he traced the curve of Izuku’s profile, the soft line of his jaw, the gentle dip of his lips as they moved in quiet reverence. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard as the boys stepped forward, row by row, to receive the Eucharist. The line moved steadily, polished dress shoes clicking softly against the marble floor. The uniform code was strict—dark red vests snug over pressed white shirts, white ties knotted perfectly at the throat, black slacks creased to sharp perfection. Yet on Izuku, it was different. The vest clung a little too tightly to his torso, stretched across the firm plane of his chest, the slightest pull at the buttons betraying the muscle beneath. His tie, always slightly loose despite his best efforts, hung just imperfect enough to seem intimate, as if someone had tugged on it in a moment of fervent passion.
When it was finally his turn, Bakugou approached the altar, tilting his head back as Father Gabriel placed the thin wafer onto his tongue. The body of Christ. It melted, paper-thin and tasteless, dissolving on his tongue like sin itself should. He made the sign of the cross, forcing the words from his lips, the ones he had said a thousand times before but now felt hollow. Amen.
He stepped aside, watching from the corner of his eye as Izuku followed, bowing his head with quiet grace. His hands—calloused but delicate—folded over his chest in devout supplication as he, too, received the body of their Savior. Izuku’s lips parted to take the wafer, pink and reverent, and something dark and clawed uncurled in Bakugou’s stomach, something sick and ravenous, something he should not want. His tongue darted out instinctively to wet his lips as he imagined how those lips would feel against his own—how they might part, not for the body of Christ, but for him.
God forgive me.
Bakugou dropped to his knees in the pew, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles ached, and squeezed his eyes shut. Deliver me from evil, O Lord, keep me from temptation, let me not walk in the valley of sin. His heart pounded like a hammer against his ribs, an unrelenting drumbeat that no hymn could drown out. He pictured the flames of hell, licking at his heels, imagined the Devil himself whispering in his ear, voice slick as oil. He’s beautiful, isn’t he? The words slithered through his mind like a serpent in Eden, filling him with a terrible, shivering heat.
You want to touch him. You want to know how his lips taste, how his breath feels against your skin. You want to feel his body beneath yours, solid and warm, his breath hitching as you—
Bakugou’s throat tightened as he dug his nails into his palms, a small act of mortification, of penance. No. No, no, no. He had been raised better than this. He had been taught the laws of the Church, the sanctity of the body, the evils of unnatural desire. A man must love a woman as Christ loves His Church. Anything else is filth, is sin, is damnation.
Yet still, as the final prayer was spoken, as the congregation stood and the organ swelled in final benediction, Bakugou dared to glance at Izuku again. And damnation never looked so holy.
The boys filed out of the chapel, their chatter subdued after the weight of morning Mass. Izuku walked beside him, close but not too close, his presence a warm and unbearable thing.
“You okay, Kacchan?” His voice was soft, almost hesitant, as though he had seen something in Bakugou’s expression that unsettled him.
Bakugou scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets, a sneer forming on his lips to disguise the turmoil beneath. “Tch. What, you think I’m gonna burst into flames or somethin’?”
Izuku laughed, shaking his head, curls bouncing slightly. “No, but… you looked really serious back there."
If only he knew.
Bakugou rolled his shoulders, forcing out a chuckle that sounded a little too sharp, a little too forced. “Just prayin’ real hard, nerd. Try it sometime.”
Izuku smiled, an easy, unburdened thing. “I do. Every day.”
And that was the difference between them. Izuku’s prayers were pure, offered with open palms and a hopeful heart. Bakugou’s were desperate, clawing at salvation with bloodied fingers, trying to drown out the infernal whispers that reminded him, over and over again, that the Devil did not appear with horns and a pitchfork.
No.
The Devil had green eyes and a smile like sunlight.
The halls of Roman Mark School for Boys were long and quiet, the only sounds the faint echo of polished shoes tapping against marble and the distant murmur of boys shuffling to class. Morning Mass had ended, but its weight still lingered in the air—the scent of incense clinging to skin, the ghost of hymns resting on tongues that had only moments ago whispered prayers.
Bakugou walked beside Izuku.
Just the two of them.
No one else.
And it was hell.
Izuku, of course, didn’t notice. Didn’t feel the tension, didn’t see the way Bakugou’s hands curled into fists in his pockets. He just walked—head slightly bowed, his tie still a little loose, his vest fitted snugly against his torso, his mouth still pink from where it had parted to take the Body of Christ.
Bakugou swallowed hard.
Fuck.
It was always like this. Izuku looked so damn innocent—the kind of untouched purity that made priests weep and made devils ache.
His white shirt stretched perfectly over his back, crisp but not stiff, moving fluidly with him. His sleeves were buttoned neatly at the wrists, framing hands that had only ever been used for good.
Hands that had never strayed.
Hands that had only ever clutched at rosaries, clasped in prayer, so unaware of the filth Bakugou was thinking.
His throat—pale, smooth, untouched. Just above the first button of his shirt, a sliver of bare skin peeked through, warm and soft-looking, so fucking unguarded. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have driven him insane.
Bakugou exhaled sharply through his nose. He kept walking. Kept his eyes forward.
But his mind stayed on him.
On every detail.
On the way Izuku’s curls caught the morning light, giving him that damn saintly glow. On the way his uniform hugged him—not tight, not intentional, but just enough that Bakugou could see the shape of him, the strength beneath the fabric, the way his body had grown into something firm, something solid, something that could be pushed down—
No. Stop.
Izuku shifted beside him, adjusting his tie, rolling his shoulders slightly like he was trying to shake off the stiffness of morning prayer. Completely unaware.
So fucking good. So fucking oblivious.
Bakugou’s jaw clenched. His fingers twitched in his pockets.
He wanted—
God, he wanted.
Not gently. Not sweetly. Not like how good boys were supposed to.
He wanted to undo that tie, to unbutton that perfectly proper shirt, to feel the heat of his skin and hear the way his breath would stutter—not in prayer, not in innocence, but because of him.
Because Bakugou would make him.
Because he’d be the one to take that untouched purity and tear it apart.
The thought sent a shudder rolling down his spine, hot and sick.
Izuku exhaled softly beside him. His voice was quiet, thoughtful.
“…It was a beautiful service today.”
Holy. Pure. Too fucking good.
Bakugou didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
They just kept walking.
Step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat, one of them completely unaware.
And the other on the verge of collapse.
The air in theology, religion class, was heavy, thick with the scent of old parchment and candle wax, a lingering remnant of morning Mass. Sunlight streamed in through the high arched windows, casting long golden beams across the wooden desks, illuminating dust motes that floated like restless spirits. The crucifix above the blackboard loomed over them all, Christ’s carved face contorted in quiet agony, his suffering eternal.
Bakugou sat stiffly, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He should’ve been used to this by now—daily scripture readings, lectures on morality, lessons drilled into them like gospel. But today, everything felt sharper, more suffocating.
Because Izuku sat just a few seats ahead of him.
And because Father Thomas had chosen today, of all days, to lecture on purity.
“Purity is not just of the body,” Father Thomas intoned, his voice low and measured, the kind that made every student sit up straighter. He stood before them in his black cassock, hands folded over the worn Bible resting on his podium. “It is of the soul, of the mind. It is a choice, a discipline. A pure man is one who does not stray, does not indulge in thoughts that corrupt him.”
Bakugou barely breathed.
Indulge. The word slithered down his spine, coiling in his gut like something venomous.
He swallowed hard, staring at the back of Izuku’s head. His curls caught the light, a soft halo of gold and green, angelic in a way that made Bakugou feel sick. His white tie lay neatly against his pressed shirt, his dark red vest fitted perfectly, framing his shoulders, his back, his waist—
Stop.
He forced his gaze to the front of the class, staring at the Bible verse scrawled on the blackboard in neat, practiced script.
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." —Matthew 5:8.
His fingers twitched.
Father Thomas continued, his voice unwavering. “To be pure in heart is to resist temptation. To guard oneself against corruption, against thoughts that stain the soul. To entertain such thoughts—” he paused, his eyes sweeping over the room, heavy with meaning “—is to invite darkness into oneself.”
The classroom was silent.
Bakugou could hear his own heartbeat, could feel the pulse hammering in his throat.
He knew this speech. He’d heard it a thousand times. But today, the words pierced him like a blade, cutting deep into the parts of himself he tried to ignore.
Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw Izuku.
Because every time he swallowed, his mouth felt dry, like he’d already burned.
Because he wasn’t pure.
Not when his mind wandered, when it lingered on the slope of Izuku’s neck, the way his uniform fit just a little too well. Not when he imagined things he shouldn’t—things that turned his stomach with guilt, with heat, with shame.
Not when he wanted so badly to reach forward, to ruin something so painfully innocent.
Father Thomas' voice rang out, sharp as a warning bell. “Even thoughts can be sinful.”
Bakugou flinched.
His hands curled into fists beneath his desk. Damn it. It was like the priest was staring straight through him, peeling back his skin, exposing every dirty thought, every forbidden temptation that made his chest feel too tight, too full, too wrong.
And Izuku, so painfully unaware, sat there in perfect stillness, hanging onto every word, his expression serene.
Because Izuku was pure.
Because Izuku had never strayed.
Because Izuku didn’t know what it felt like to want something so badly it felt like drowning in sin.
The lesson dragged on, each word settling on Bakugou like a weight he couldn’t shake. He couldn’t hear anything anymore—not over the rush of blood in his ears, not over the voice in his head telling him to confess, repent, destroy.
But even if he burned for this, even if he stained his own soul beyond redemption—
He wasn’t sure he wanted to be saved.
The cafeteria at Roman Mark School for Boys had an almost sacred air, like everything else in this place. The tall stained-glass windows let golden afternoon light spill in, casting soft hues of blue and red across the long, polished oak tables where students sat in neat rows. The sound of silverware clinking against plates mingled with bursts of laughter and hushed conversations, but it was never too loud—the looming presence of priests and instructors ensured that even the most unruly boys kept their voices in check.
Bakugou sat in his usual spot, where the popular boys always gathered—a table right in the center of the cafeteria, a throne of sorts, where everyone who sat there was someone. The sons of politicians, future CEOs, legacy students whose fathers and grandfathers had walked these same halls.
Izuku sat across from him.
He always did.
And Bakugou hated how much he liked that.
The difference between them was glaring.
Bakugou’s uniform was imperfect, deliberately so. His dark red vest unbuttoned at the bottom, his white tie slightly loose, his sleeves just barely pushed up—subtle acts of defiance that no teacher ever called him out on. His presence was effortless, commanding.
But Izuku?
His uniform was pristine. Vest perfectly buttoned, tie snug at his throat, sleeves at regulation length. He sat with a straight back, his shoulders set, the very picture of obedience. He ate neatly, almost carefully, like even this was something to be reverent about.
It was infuriating.
It was fascinating.
And it tormented Bakugou more than it should.
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud laugh from Kirishima, who leaned forward, grinning wide. His rolled-up sleeves showed off his forearms—not as subtle of a dress code violation as Bakugou’s, but Kirishima got away with it too.
"Alright, listen up," Kirishima said, practically vibrating with excitement. "Party tomorrow. Kaminari’s place. You know the drill."
Bakugou knew exactly what that meant.
Kaminari’s parties were a different kind of holy.
The kind that would make the priests faint if they knew—liquor smuggled in through duffel bags, cigarette smoke curling in the air, bodies pressed together in dimly lit rooms, hymns replaced by pounding basslines that made it feel like Satan himself had taken over their sacred halls.
And Bakugou thrived in it.
A ripple of excitement went through the table.
Sero whistled, Kaminari wiggled his eyebrows, even Todoroki gave a rare approving nod.
Then Kirishima grinned wider, leaning in like he was about to reveal something big. "Oh, and get this—the girls from Roman Mark School for Girls are coming."
That sent another wave of excitement through the table.
Kaminari fist-pumped the air. “Hell yeah! About time.”
Sero snickered, shaking his head. “Dude, they’re so damn sheltered over there. You get a couple drinks in them, and they go crazy.”
Todoroki, calm as always, simply nodded. “Interesting.”
Bakugou barely reacted.
Because he didn’t care.
The thought of girls, skirts neatly pressed, white ties at their throats, giggling and whispering should have meant something to him. It meant something to every other guy at this table.
But not him.
Instead, he was watching Izuku.
And Izuku—saintly, golden-hearted, perfectly pure Izuku—was frowning.
It was subtle, but Bakugou caught it.
The slight furrow in his brow, the way his fork hovered over his plate, the flicker of unease in his green eyes.
He’s worried.
Of course he is.
Because Izuku is good.
And good boys don’t go to parties like this.
Izuku cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak. "Uh… will there be…" He hesitated, glancing around the table, then finally locking eyes with Bakugou. Like he trusted him the most. "Drinking?"
Bakugou heard the real question beneath it.
Will I be safe there?
Will I still be able to be good?
Something dark uncurled in Bakugou’s chest.
And he lied.
Tch. “Nah,” he said easily, smirking, voice smooth, unreadable. “Just a normal party, nerd. Nothin’ wild.”
The relief in Izuku’s face made Bakugou feel…
Something.
It wasn’t guilt.
It wasn’t.
Kirishima raised a brow, shooting Bakugou a look that said, seriously?
They both knew the truth.
But Kirishima didn’t call him out.
No one ever called Bakugou out.
Because Bakugou never gave them a reason to.
Izuku hesitated for another moment, then nodded slowly. “…Alright. I guess I’ll go, then.”
Bakugou barely heard the rest of the conversation.
His ears were ringing, his pulse thrumming in his skin.
He’s going.
And he has no idea what he’s walking into.
The thought made something coil low in Bakugou’s stomach.
He thought to himself.
He’s going to walk into that party in his neat little uniform...with his wide, trusting green eyes, with his unshaken, pure, innocence—
And He's going to watch it break.