Chapter Text
The seasons turned.
Graduation came. So did the headlines. Internships. Professional, nonprovisional, licenses. Media flashes that called them the next great pair of rising heroes.
But those were just things that happened around them.
What mattered lived in the spaces in between.
It lived in the mornings they spent curled around each other in a shared apartment, floor still cluttered with unopened moving boxes and old dorm memorabilia they never quite managed to throw out. It lived in the smell of half-burnt toast and katsudon leftovers reheated with too much soy sauce. In the way Katsuki pressed a kiss to Izuku’s jaw when she thought he was still asleep. In how Izuku always folded her hero gear and left it at the edge of the bed with her socks tucked inside, because he knew she always forgot them.
There was no formal proposal. No ring.
But a paperclip once appeared on her desk after a long patrol—shaped like a heart, bent carefully with green-tipped fingers. She hadn’t stopped wearing it since. She’d looped it onto her utility belt beside her detonator, right where her left ring finger sat when her hands curled into fists.
They’d come so far from where they began. From muddy backyards and Ring Pop weddings. From trauma sealed in silence. From the long nights in dorm beds too small for their futures, whispering promises into collarbones and counting down the days until they could breathe freely without curfews and curfews and shame.
Katsuki had started therapy just after graduation.
It had been hard—harder than anything she'd ever trained for. Talking about the sludge villain. Her body. Her shame. Her fears. The way her voice trembled even when her fists didn’t. The way she caught herself flinching at shadows or backing away from mirrors on bad mornings.
But she kept showing up.
Week after week. Session after session. Tearing the scabs off slowly, until the wounds beneath stopped bleeding just for attention and started healing for real.
Until, one day, she didn’t flinch when someone told her she was strong. Until the weight of survival didn’t feel like it had to be carried alone.
She still went.
Not because she was broken. But because she deserved to heal.
Katsuki smiled more now. Laughed with her whole body. Let herself feel things without always needing to smother them in anger or bravado.
And when little girls lined up in pink Dynamight merch to meet her at events—when queer kids in hand-stitched pride pins shouted her name from behind the barricades—Katsuki crouched down and met their eyes. Signed plushies with her glitter-sparked signature. Took selfies with bunny-ear filters and peace signs. Told them they were brave. That their stories mattered. That being soft was never a weakness. That she used to be terrified, too.
She hadn’t expected to become a role model. But it was the best thing that ever happened to her.
Because when they looked at her like that—like she was theirs —she started to believe she belonged, too.
As for Izuku—
He still patrolled sometimes. Still showed up in the headlines when things got rough. But he’d found a different calling, too. A softer one. A steadier one.
He was now a history teacher at U.A.
No one could match his passion for it. The way he made the past feel alive. The way he turned tragedy into context, mistakes into maps, and heroes into people with jagged edges and real regrets.
He loved it. He loved his students. The quiet ones. The loud ones. The ones who reminded him of himself—awkward and hopeful and too big-hearted for their own good.
And every lesson he taught them—about resilience, about truth, about building better futures—carried a little bit of Katsuki in it.
Because he wouldn’t have made it to the battlefield without her.
Because one night, long after the dorms and trauma and whispered promises in the dark—she’d slipped a box into his hands. A sleek black case, cold to the touch.
Inside was a custom-designed hero suit.
Crafted from metals she’d spent eight years saving for.
She had sketched the design herself. Had hidden the payments between commissions, costume upgrades, side jobs, and ramen nights. She never let him see the receipts. Never breathed a word of it until the moment it sat between them.
It gleamed like a second skin—green and gold and silver, etched with tiny detailing that only someone who knew him by heart would think to include.
On the back of the chestplate, near the collar, she'd welded a tiny symbol. A heart, made of intertwining thread and flame.
He cried the moment he touched it.
Because Katsuki Bakugou didn’t give rings.
She gave armor.
She gave him the ability to stand beside her—not behind her, not in her shadow, but beside her—as equals. As partners. As the stubborn, aching, resilient team they’d always been.
And that was how he knew—truly knew—she’d loved him all along.
He wore the suit on his first patrol as a licensed hero. Only five hours. Just long enough to remind the world that you didn’t need a quirk to be brave. That sometimes, all it took was one girl with dynamite in her heart and too much love in her bones to believe in you before you could believe in yourself.
And now?
They were parents.
Their oldest daughter—affectionately dubbed The Firecracker —was a five-year-old blur of soot-stained t-shirts, tiny combat boots, and enough raw power to level the neighbor’s fence. Twice.
Name:
Toshiharu Bakugou-Midoriya
Quirk Name:
Combustion Core
Type:
Emitter/Mutation Hybrid
Her quirk was an explosive fusion of Katsuki’s sweat glands and Izuku’s latent fire-breathing genes.
She ignited the air around her fists when she punched—superheated vapor that shimmered like sunlight on asphalt. The first time she threw a tantrum, the smoke alarm exploded off the ceiling. She had zero chill , infinite confidence, and a laugh that cracked like flint against steel.
Drawbacks? Oh, plenty.
She overheated easily. Izuku carried around mini ice packs shaped like frogs. Katsuki installed cooling fans in her playroom. Her temper matched her mother’s, and she flared bright when she didn’t get her way. But gods, she was perfect.
Katsuki said she’d be a top hero or destroy the living room—either way, it was fine.
Then there was the younger one.
Name:
Honoka Bakugou-Midoriya
Quirk Name:
Graviton Bloom
Type:
Emitter
Where Toshiharu was heat and volume, Honoka was quiet gravity.
She didn’t scream to get her way. She stared. And then the living room table floated six feet into the air.
Honoka could alter gravity in concentrated bursts—make things weightless or impossibly heavy with the flick of her finger. She didn’t crawl so much as glide , and she was terrifyingly precise with her control… until she fell asleep mid-air from overuse.
Inko cried the first time she saw it. Said it was like watching All Might and herself being reborn in this gentle, strange child.
Katsuki called her “quietly dangerous.” Not because she ever raised her voice—but because she never needed to.
They were chaos. They were wonder.
They were theirs.
Two little girls, born from something broken that refused to stay shattered. Two futures that never would’ve existed if Katsuki hadn’t lived. If she hadn’t fought. If she hadn’t chosen to let herself be loved.
They still had battles to fight. Schedules. PTA meetings. Teething. Emotional flashbacks and unexpected grief. But they faced it together now.
Because healing didn’t mean forgetting.
It meant learning to breathe again. To fall apart and be held. To rebuild—not back into what was—but forward, into what could be.
It meant building something new with the pieces you still had.
It meant waking up, one morning at a time, and choosing love anyway.
And it meant knowing—truly knowing—that no matter what came next, she’d never face it alone.
Not ever again.
Because she was still Katsuki. And Izuku was still Izuku.
And together? They were home.