Katsuki Bakugo didn’t do things halfway. If he was going to court someone—really court them—he was going to do it right, even if it made him want to punch a wall just thinking about how soft he’d have to act.
Not just someone, though. Him. The Omega who’d somehow wormed his way past Katsuki’s sharp temper, his walls, his pride. The first person Katsuki had ever actually liked. That part scared him more than any villain ever had.
The moment he’d realized it, he’d nearly blown up his damn room. But once the smoke cleared, the truth stayed. He wanted to be with you. Not just in a rut-driven, heat-hazed kind of way—though he was definitely aware of how good you smelled. No, this was deeper. He wanted you to look at him and choose him. He wanted to earn it.
So that meant… he had to court you. Traditionally.
Shit.
He stood stiff in the kitchen of his childhood home, arms crossed, brows furrowed deep enough to cast shadows. His mom was cooking something aggressively spicy.
“You sure you’re not dying?” Mitsuki asked, not even looking up from her frying pan. “You got that constipated face. Or is it girl trouble?”
Katsuki scowled. “It’s not a girl.”
Mitsuki turned then, raising a brow. “Boy, huh?”
“It’s not— I mean, yeah,” he snapped, ears turning red. “He’s an Omega.”
Her eyes narrowed, sharp with amusement. “Ohhh. You like him.”
Katsuki turned away, muttering, “Tch. Yeah.”
Mitsuki leaned on the counter. “You wanna do it proper, don’t you?”
He hated how fast she picked up on it. “...Yeah.”
“You’re an Alpha, Bakugo. You do this wrong, he’ll think you’re just another scent-drunk asshole who wants to claim and leave. You want him to feel safe with you, then you treat his time and trust like it's worth more than yours. Got it?”
He grit his teeth, but nodded. “Got it.”
And then she smiled. Not smug, not teasing. Just… proud.
“Then let’s get started.”
The next few weeks were hell.
Katsuki read more articles than he’d ever admit to. How to approach an Omega with sincerity. What traditional courting gifts meant. What customs varied by region, by dynamic. Which scents to avoid. Which flowers were safe. How too much eye contact could overwhelm. How silence could speak louder than words.
He took notes.
He practiced the words he’d say. Scratched them out. Tried again. His notebook got singed at least three times from frustrated explosions.
He’d walk past you in the halls, and every part of him screamed to just say something, to tell you how stupid pretty you looked today or how the way you crinkled your nose when you laughed made him feel like a dumbass—but he waited. Bit his tongue. Let himself prepare.
He’d do this right.
So when he finally asked to talk to you—privately, away from the others, heart threatening to punch its way out of his ribs—he was ready. Kinda.
His hands were sweaty. He hated it.
But he held out a small wrapped box—your favorite treat inside, handmade—and looked you in the eye.
“I know I’m not… good at this,” he muttered. “But I want to court you. The right way. I’ve never done this before. Never wanted to. You’re the first.”
He swallowed hard.
“I’m gonna fuck it up sometimes, but I swear, I’ll try. Every day. You’re worth that.”
And damn it, even if his voice was rough and awkward and a little too loud, he meant every word.