The polished black marble of the main altar leached the warmth from Izuku’s fingertips. He worked the brass candlestick with a soft cloth, his movements quick, nervous. The vast emptiness of the sanctuary pressed in, the only sounds the whisper of cloth and his own unsteady breathing.
"The Lord’s house demands reverence, Izuku."
The voice came from the shadow of the confessional, low and smooth as worn velvet. Izuku jumped, the candlestick clattering against the marble. He fumbled to catch it, his heart a frantic bird in his throat.
Katsuki Bakugo stepped into the thin light filtering through the stained glass. His clerical collar was stark white against his black shirt, his spiky ash-blond hair almost haloed by the crimson glow of a martyred saint. His eyes, however, held no saintly light. They were a flat, predatory red.
"F-Father Bakugo. I didn’t hear you."
"I know." Katsuki moved closer, his steps silent on the stone. He stopped beside the altar, his broad shoulder brushing the linen cloth. "You were lost in your duties. A commendable focus."
Izuku’s hand drifted to his throat, fingers worrying the high neck of his sweater. "I just… the brass tarnishes so quickly with the damp."
"It does." Katsuki’s gaze didn’t leave him. It traveled over the freckles dusting Izuku’s cheeks, down the slope of his neck, to where the oversized sweater hung loose. "You take such care to keep things… presentable. To hide what tarnishes."
A cold knot tightened in Izuku’s stomach. "I don’t know what you mean."
"Don’t you?" Katsuki smiled, a slow, unpleasant curve of his lips. He reached out and, with a reverence that felt like a desecration, picked up the polishing cloth Izuku had dropped. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. "Such diligent hands. Do they tremble during prayer, too?"
"My faith is strong," Izuku whispered, but the words sounded thin, hollow in the vast space.
"Faith." Katsuki breathed the word like a secret. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’ Do you feel pure, Izuku? When you’re alone in the vestry, changing… do you feel God’s approval?"
Izuku’s breath hitched. He took a step back, but the solid weight of the altar blocked him. The scent of old incense and cold stone filled his nose, mixed now with the faint, clean smell of Katsuki’s soap. A priest’s smell. It was wrong.
"I need to finish this before vespers," Izuku said, his voice trembling.
"What you need," Katsuki said, his red eyes flickering with an internal fire, "is guidance. The path is narrow, and full of… temptation." He placed a heavy, warm hand on the altar between them. His fingers spanned the dark marble. "Some temptations are so sweet, they feel like sin even before you taste them."
He pushed off the altar and closed the remaining distance. He didn’t touch Izuku, but his body heat was a palpable force. Izuku could see the powerful line of his shoulders, the trim waist, the absolute stillness of a hunter.
"You’re afraid of me," Katsuki observed, his head tilting. "Good. Fear is the beginning of wisdom." He lifted his hand, and Izuku flinched. But Katsuki only brushed a non-existent speck of dust from Izuku’s sweater sleeve, his knuckles grazing the wool over Izuku’s bicep. The touch burned. "We should talk more. In my study. After dark."
It wasn’t a request. Izuku’s mouth was dry. He nodded, a tiny, frantic jerk of his chin.
Katsuki’s smile widened, showing teeth. His hand slid down from Izuku’s arm, over the ribbed cuff of the sweater, and came to rest on the altar beside Izuku’s hip. He leaned in, his lips a breath away from Izuku’s ear. "Wear something less… burdensome."
He lingered there, his heat, his presence, a suffocating shroud. Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing into the shadows of the nave, leaving Izuku frozen against the cold black marble, the scent of corruption hanging in the holy air.
The brass polish slips on himself, not paying attention. The polish was slick and cold where it had splashed across Izuku's chest, a dark, oily stain spreading through the gray wool of his sweater and down the front of his trousers. He stared at the mess, his hands shaking, the empty bottle rolling across the altar steps. The scent of chemicals and lemon filled his nose, sharp and suffocating.
"Get it together," he whispered to the empty sanctuary, his voice cracking. He fumbled for the cloth, scrubbing futilely at the stain only to smear it wider. "It's nothing. He was just... being a priest. Offering guidance."
His skin crawled where the polish had soaked through to his binder. He needed to change. Now. He kept a spare set of clothes for cleaning days—a simple t-shirt and jeans. He gathered the bundle from a cabinet, clutching it to his stained chest, and all but ran for the small, windowless room off the chancel.
The sacristy door clicked shut behind him, the lock engaging with a sound like a final breath. He leaned against the heavy wood, his heart hammering against his ribs. The only light came from a single bare bulb overhead, casting stark shadows on the vestment cabinets and the plain wooden table.
"Our Father, who art in heaven," he breathed, the words a frantic mantra as he peeled the ruined sweater over his head. The binder beneath was damp, the tight fabric chafing his skin. "Hallowed be thy name."
His fingers, clumsy with panic, found the clasp at the side. He unhooked it, the elastic loosening with a soft sigh of relief he felt in his bones. He pulled the binder off, letting it fall to the stone floor with a wet slap. The cold air hit his bare chest, raising goosebumps across his skin, making his small, puffy nipples tighten. He didn't look down. He never did if he could help it.
"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done," he whispered, working the button of his stained trousers. He shoved them and his briefs down his hips in one desperate motion, kicking them aside. He stood naked in the center of the room, shivering, his arms crossed over his chest. His packer lay abandoned on the table next to his clean clothes. The truth of him was exposed in the cruel light: the soft curve of his hips, the thatch of dark curls between his thighs, the delicate, vulnerable lines of a body that betrayed him.
"On earth as it is in—"
The door opened.
Izuku froze. The prayer died in his throat. Time stretched, thin and silent.
Katsuki Bakugo stood in the doorway, his broad frame filling it. His red eyes took in the scene: the pile of stained clothes, the binder on the floor, the packer on the table. Then they moved, slow and thorough, over Izuku’s naked body.
Izuku made a sound—a choked, wordless gasp. He tried to move, to cover himself, but his limbs were locked, petrified by sheer, blinding terror.
Katsuki stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him.
"Well," Katsuki said, his voice a low, velvet rumble. He didn't smile. His gaze was fixed, burning with a heat that had nothing to do with hellfire and everything to do with hunger. "This is a revelation."
"P-please," Izuku stammered, his hands finally flying to cover his chest, his other arm sliding down over his stomach. "F-Father, I can explain—"
"Explain what?" Katsuki took a step closer. The room shrank. "That you’ve been lying to your congregation? To God?" He tilted his head, his eyes tracing the freckles that dusted Izuku’s shoulders, the gentle swell of his breasts, the dip of his waist. "All this time, preaching to the youth about purity. About truth."
"I am a man," Izuku whispered, the words raw. "This… this is just a body. It doesn’t define my soul."
"Doesn’t it?" Katsuki closed the final distance. He was close enough now that Izuku could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap warring with something darker, smokier underneath. "The flesh is weak, Izuku. It craves. It hungers. It tells its own truths." His eyes dropped lower, lingering between Izuku’s thighs. "And yours is telling me a very interesting story."
He reached out. Izuku flinched, squeezing his eyes shut. But Katsuki’s hand didn't strike. It came to rest, heavy and warm, on Izuku’s bare hip. His thumb stroked the crest of the bone, a possessive, intimate caress.
"Such a beautiful secret," Katsuki murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper. "So carefully kept. What would your flock think? What would the archdiocese say?"
Izuku’s eyes flew open. They were wide, green pools of pure dread. "You wouldn’t."
"Wouldn’t I?" Katsuki’s thumb moved again, a slow, deliberate circle on his skin. "I am a shepherd, Izuku. It’s my duty to protect the flock from… corruption." His red eyes glinted. "But perhaps we can reach an understanding. Your silence… for my discretion."
Izuku’s breath came in short, ragged hitches. He understood. The cold, sick understanding washed over him, colder than the sacristy air. This wasn't guidance. This was a trap. And the door was closed.
Katsuki leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Izuku’s ear. "Starting now," he breathed.
"What about your fiancée?" Katsuki’s voice was a soft, terrible thing in the quiet room. His thumb still stroked Izuku’s hip. "Does she know this beautiful little secret?"
Izuku’s breath hitched. He shook his head, a minute, helpless movement.
"No."
"No," Katsuki echoed, a sigh of mock disappointment. He leaned back just enough to see the full flush of shame on Izuku’s face. "Lying to your flock is one thing. Lying to the woman you’ve promised to marry? To build a life with?" He tutted softly. "That’s a sin of a different color, Izuku."
"I was going to tell her—"
"When?" Katsuki’s hand slid from his hip to the small of his back, pulling him an inch closer. The heat of Katsuki’s clothed body seared Izuku’s naked skin. "After the wedding? On your honeymoon? Or were you going to lie to her in your marital bed, too?"
Izuku squeezed his eyes shut. A tear escaped, tracing a hot path through his freckles. "Please."
"You need correction," Katsuki murmured, his lips brushing Izuku’s temple. "Guidance. Punishment. You’re drowning in deception, and I am the only one who can pull you out." He gripped Izuku’s chin, forcing his head up. "Get dressed. Go to my office. You know where it is."
He released him and took a deliberate step back, giving Izuku space to crumple. Izuku swayed, his arms still locked over his chest.
"And when you get there," Katsuki continued, his red eyes glowing in the dim bulb light, "you will strip bare again. You will kneel in the center of the room. And you will wait for your penance to begin."
He turned, his black cassock swirling around his ankles, and opened the sacristy door. He paused on the threshold, casting a long shadow back over Izuku’s shivering form.
"Don’t keep me waiting," he said, and then the door shut, leaving Izuku alone with the echo of the command and the cold, slick feeling of the polish still drying on his skin.