Chapter Text
Katsuki Bakugo was going to lose his scholarship.
He stood on the practice field, the November wind biting through his thin jersey, and watched his hands shake. Not from cold– from rage. From fear. From the sickening realization that had been building for three months and had finally erupted into undeniable truth during today's scrimmage.
He was too stiff.
"Again!" Coach Aizawa barked, his voice carrying across the field. "Bakugo, you're moving like you've got a steel rod up your ass! Loosen up! Let your hips move!"
Katsuki ground his teeth, tasting copper. He'd been the star running back since freshman year. Fast, powerful, explosive. He could bench twice his body weight, outrun anyone on the team, and hit hard enough to send opponents flying. But this year, something had changed. The scouts were watching. The pressure was on. And Katsuki had responded by tightening up, by trying to control every movement, by becoming rigid and mechanical.
And it was killing his game.
"Coach," Katsuki said, trying to keep his voice level, "I'm fine. I just need to– "
"You're not fine," Aizawa interrupted, walking over with that dead-eyed stare that made even the seniors nervous. "Your 40-yard dash is down by two tenths. Your cuts are predictable. You're thinking too much, Bakugo. You're up here–" he tapped his temple "When you need to be down here." He gestured to Katsuki's hips.
"I can fix it," Katsuki insisted.
"Not on my time, you can't." Aizawa pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket. "I've talked to the athletic director. You have two options. One: Get your ass benched for the rest of the season, lose your starting position, and kiss that Division I scholarship goodbye. Two: Find a way to loosen up. Get flexible. Learn to move with your whole body, not just your legs."
"How the hell am I supposed to do that?"
Aizawa handed him the paper. It was a flyer for the school's performing arts department. Specifically, the ballet program.
"Ballet," Katsuki said flatly.
"Ballet," Aizawa confirmed. "Fluid movement. Core strength. Hip flexibility. Everything you're missing. You find a ballet coach– someone who can teach you what you need– and you work with them until I see improvement. Or you're done."
"This is bullshit," Katsuki snarled.
"Life's bullshit," Aizawa replied. "Get used to it. You have until Monday to find someone. I suggest you start with Midoriya."
Katsuki froze. "What?"
"Midoriya Izuku. He's the only male on the ballet team. He understands male anatomy, male musculature. The female dancers are great, but they can't teach you what you need to know about how a male body moves. Midoriya's your best shot." Aizawa paused, his expression unreadable. "If he'll help you."
Katsuki's hands clenched with suppressed anger– a habit he'd had since elementary school that manifested when he was emotional. Midoriya. Of course it had to be Midoriya.
He hadn't thought about Izuku Midoriya in years. Not since middle school. Not since–
Hey, Deku. Look at this.
No, Kacchan, please–
What are you gonna do, cry? Go ahead, cry, you useless–
The memories flooded back, ugly and sharp. Katsuki had been a different person then. Angry, insecure, terrified of weakness. And Izuku– sweet, soft Izuku– had been his favorite target. The crying, the mocking, the relentless bullying that had only stopped when Izuku transferred schools in eighth grade.
They'd gone to different high schools after that, until Izuku had transferred to UA for the dance program. Katsuki had heard rumors– that Izuku had changed after becoming a dancer. But Katsuki had been too busy with football, with his own transformation from bully to leader, to pay much attention.
And now he needed Izuku's help.
"Fuck," Katsuki muttered.
"Monday," Aizawa repeated. "Find him, or find a new sport."
Izuku Midoriya was having the worst week of his life.
He sat in the dance studio, his forehead pressed against the barre, his body aching from three hours of practice. The mirrors reflected his image back at him– small, muscular in a lean way, his green hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He was seventeen, a senior, and supposedly at the peak of his dance career. The showcase was in three weeks. Juilliard scouts were coming. Everything was riding on his performance.
And three days ago, his boyfriend had dumped him.
"You're just... not what I need, Izuku," Yo Shindo had said, his handsome face twisted in that expression Izuku had come to hate– pity mixed with frustration. "You're great. Really. But physically... you're not experienced enough. I need someone who knows what they're doing. Someone passionate. You're just... you're too timid. Too nervous. It makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong."
Izuku had wanted to die. He'd wanted to sink through the floor and never be seen again.
Because Shindo wasn't wrong. Izuku was timid. He was nervous. He'd only had one sexual partner before Shindo– a brief, fumbling encounter at summer camp that had ended in embarrassment and apologies. And his anatomy... his rare anatomy... made everything more complicated. He was male, genetically, with a vagina instead of typical male genitalia. He'd spent his whole life feeling like a freak, like something broken, and Shindo's rejection had confirmed every fear he'd ever had.
You're not what I need.
He'd heard Shindo was already dating someone new. One of the cheerleaders, apparently. Someone "experienced." Someone who wouldn't freeze up when touched.
"Izuku?" The studio door opened. His best friend, Ochako, poked her head in. "Hey, there's someone here to see you. Says it's important."
"I'm not taking visitors," Izuku mumbled into the barre.
"He's... insistent. And kind of scary. Spiky blond hair, red eyes, looks like he wants to punch something?"
Izuku's head snapped up. He knew exactly who that was. "Tell him I'm not here."
"Izuku–"
"Tell him I'm not here!"
But it was too late. The door was already opening, and Katsuki Bakugo was walking into the studio like he owned it, his football jacket creaking with every movement, his crimson eyes scanning the room and landing on Izuku with the intensity of a laser.
"Midoriya," Katsuki said. No greeting. No apology. Just the name, thrown like a challenge.
Izuku straightened up, wiping sweat from his face, trying to look dignified in his tights and tank top. "Bakugo. What are you doing here?"
"I need your help."
The words sounded like they physically pained him. Katsuki's jaw was clenched so tight Izuku could see the muscle jumping. His hands were fisted at his sides. He looked like he was about to explode.
Izuku laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. "You need my help? That's rich. Last time I saw you, you were shoving me into a locker and calling me a worthless freak."
"That was middle school," Katsuki growled.
"That was three years ago," Izuku corrected. "Not exactly ancient history."
"I need ballet lessons," Katsuki forced out. "Coach says I'm too stiff. Says I need to learn to move. Says you're the only one who can teach me."
"And why would I help you?" Izuku asked, crossing his arms. He was pleased to see that he was almost as tall as Katsuki now. That he had muscle definition that hadn't been there in middle school. That he wasn't the same crying child Katsuki had tormented. "After everything you did to me?"
Katsuki's expression flickered– something almost like shame crossing his face before being buried under anger. "I'll pay you. Whatever you want."
"Money won't fix what you broke," Izuku said quietly.
"Then what?" Katsuki snapped, his patience breaking. "What do you want from me? An apology? Fine. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was a shitty kid who took his own insecurities out on you. Is that what you want to hear?"
Izuku stared at him. In all the years he'd known Katsuki, he'd never heard him apologize for anything. The words sounded foreign, awkward, but genuine.
"It doesn't matter," Izuku said, turning away. "I don't want your apology. I don't want your money. Find someone else."
"There is no one else!" Katsuki grabbed Izuku's arm, spinning him around. His grip was strong, calloused from football, warm against Izuku's skin. "You're the only male dancer. The only one who gets it. The only one who can teach me what I need to know about how this–" he gestured at his own body "–is supposed to move."
Izuku looked down at the hand on his arm, then up at Katsuki's face. The blond was desperate, Izuku realized. Truly desperate. This wasn't about pride or ego. This was about Katsuki's future, his scholarship, everything he'd worked for.
"Please," Katsuki said, the word sounding like it was dragged from his throat. "I'll do anything."
Anything.
The word hung in the air between them. Izuku felt something shift in his chest– a plan forming, desperate and reckless and probably a terrible idea. But he was tired of being the victim. Tired of being the one who got dumped for being inexperienced. Tired of being afraid of his own body.
"Anything?" Izuku asked, his voice dropping to something dangerous.
"Anything," Katsuki confirmed.
Izuku stepped closer, invading Katsuki's space, looking up at him with green eyes that had lost their softness and gained something sharp. "I was just dumped. Did you know that? My boyfriend– ex-boyfriend– said I wasn't good enough. Not experienced enough. Not passionate enough." He saw Katsuki's eyes widen slightly. "I've heard the rumors about you, Bakugo. They say you're a god in bed. That you've slept with half the cheerleading squad. That you know exactly how to make someone scream."
"That's... that's an exaggeration," Katsuki said, his voice suddenly uncertain.
"I don't care," Izuku said. "I want you to teach me. You want ballet lessons? Fine. I'll teach you how to move your hips, how to be fluid, how to control your body. But in exchange, you teach me how to be... physical. How to kiss, how to touch, how to not freeze up when someone wants me." He paused, the next part of the plan clicking into place. "And you have to pretend to be my boyfriend. Publicly. We go to prom together. We make Shindo jealous as hell. And when he realizes what he lost, when he comes crawling back, I get to reject him."
Katsuki stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "You want me to... what?"
"Teach me sex," Izuku said bluntly, enjoying the way Katsuki's face flushed red. "All of it. All positions. All styles. I have..." he hesitated, then pushed forward, "I have a vagina. It's complicated. Shindo couldn't figure it out, apparently. But you're the sex god, right? You can figure it out."
"Midoriya–"
"And you have to be my fake boyfriend. Hold my hand in the halls. Kiss me where people can see. Take me to prom. Make everyone believe we're in love." Izuku stepped back, crossing his arms again. "That's my price. Take it or leave it."
Katsuki was silent for a long time. His eyes raked over Izuku's body– not sexually, Izuku realized, but assessing. Taking in the strength in his legs, the flexibility obvious even in stillness, the way he'd changed from the crying child Katsuki remembered.
"You hate me," Katsuki finally said.
"I do," Izuku agreed. "But I hate being inadequate more. And you need this scholarship. So do we have a deal?"
Katsuki's jaw worked. Izuku could see him calculating, weighing his options, fighting his pride.
"Fine," Katsuki spat out. "Fine. We have a deal. But I'm not... I'm not going to be gentle. If you want to learn, you're going to learn for real. No holding back."
"I wouldn't expect you to hold back," Izuku said. "When do we start?"
"Tomorrow. After practice. Your place or mine?"
"Mine," Izuku said immediately. "My mom works nights. We'll have privacy." He paused, something nervous fluttering in his stomach now that the adrenaline was fading. "For the lessons. Both kinds."
Katsuki grunted and readjusted his letterman jacket, stepping back towards the door.
“And Bakugou?”
"Yeah?"
"Wear something you can move in. This isn't going to be easy."
Katsuki nodded, once, sharp– then turned and stalked out of the studio, leaving Izuku alone with his racing heart and the terrifying realization of what he'd just agreed to.