Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The meeting room smells like burnt coffee and cheap fear.

Katsuki Bakugou slams the door open at exactly 8:00 a.m. — on principle — and immediately regrets not just blowing the whole agency up last night when they emailed the invite. Because who the hell schedules a meeting at 8 a.m.? Someone stupid. Someone begging for a lawsuit. Or an explosion.

He’s going to kill them.

The intern sitting nearest the door flinches like he knows it’s his funeral.

The rest of the room is filled with the walking dead: exhausted PR reps, one terrified-looking agency lawyer curled up in the corner surrounded by crumpled contracts, and a power-point already halfway into its opening slide. Katsuki stares at it like it personally insulted his mother.

“Mr. Bakugou,” starts someone. He doesn’t bother learning names anymore — they never last — “Thank you for coming.”

“I didn’t come, I was summoned,” he growls, tossing himself into a chair so aggressively it screeches across the tile. “And if anyone says the word brand or relatable I will blow this building sky-high.”

The intern makes a high-pitched wheeze.

The PR team flinches as one.

The lawyer in the corner lets out a sound that might be a whimper, or might be the last gasping breath of a man whose soul has left his body. Katsuki hopes it’s the latter. Bastard’s been trying to get him to sign a social media disclosure clause for the past three months.

On the screen, the presentation transitions into a bar graph that might as well be in comic sans.

Katsuki stares. “You’re kidding me.”

“Your popularity ratings are down,” one of the reps says, clicking to another slide. “It’s projected that by the next hero rankings, you’ll drop one position.”

“That’s cute,” he says flatly.

“To Freezeburn.”

Everything goes silent.

Katsuki’s hands twitch.

Someone gasps. Possibly the intern. Possibly the ghost of the man who just dared say that name out loud in front of him.

“To who?” Katsuki growls, heat creeping under his skin.

“To... Freezeburn,” the rep repeats, weaker this time. “You know. Todoroki?”

“Call him that again and I’ll set your eyebrows on fire.”

(He won’t. But the rep doesn’t need to know that.)

Todoroki. Number.One. The words play on loop in his head like a cursed nursery rhyme. Icyhot’s already insufferable with his calm smirks and emotionally intelligent therapy-speak. Letting him win? Never.

“You're telling me I'm dropping because I'm not likable enough?” Katsuki says. “I'm not here to be liked. I'm here to win.”

“And yet—” the rep clicks again “—your engagement has dropped 42% across all major platforms. Which directly impacts funding, support, and mission reach.”

“You're not cute enough for capitalism,” someone mutters. Katsuki doesn’t see who, but the wall behind the projector screen lets out a soft crack from the sheer spike of aggression he projects across the room.

The lawyer in the corner is holding his head in his hands now, surrounded by failed drafts of “acceptable” PR deals that Katsuki’s refused to sign. The poor bastard looks like he’s aged ten years since last week.

Good. That’s what he gets for trying to put a clause in the last one that said “limited access to non-licensed dependents.”

“Look, Dynamight—”

“Ground Zero.” His voice is a snarl.

“Right, sorry,” the rep says, visibly sweating. “Ground Zero, we just need to humanize you a little. Let the public see the man behind the blasts.”

“There is no man behind the blasts,” Katsuki snaps. “There’s just more explosions.”

“Just... consider it,” the rep says quickly. “You wouldn’t even have to show your face at home. Just... Thirty minute videos of you cooking. Existing. Maybe saying something nice about your mate.”

“Absolutely not.”

A pause.

Another intern enters the room, holding a tray of lattes like she’s walking into a war zone. The moment the lawyer sees his coffee cup, he downs it in one shot like it’s whiskey.

The meeting hits the one-hour mark, and Katsuki’s about ready to combust.

They're still talking.

Still showing charts and "projected growth" and "public warmth trajectory curves," whatever the hell that means.

The intern brought a second round of coffee. The lawyer’s on cup number four and looks like he’s starting to disassociate.

Meanwhile, the rep — the one with the nerve to say “Freezeburn” earlier — is now pitching vlog formats.

“You wouldn’t even have to do much! Just thirty minutes every other week. That’s on the Short side of hero vlogs — most run over an hour. Yours would be quick, efficient — like you! We could even show how good you are to your mate. You know, build that strong, reliable alpha narrative...”

Katsuki’s eye twitches. “I’m not filming myself being a fucking alpha.”

“I mean, not like that,” the rep laughs nervously. “Just, like, domestic things. You and your mate cooking. Sparring. Watching TV. Giving each other little looks. Nothing personal.”

“Everything’s personal,” Katsuki growls.

More back-and-forth. More bullshit. More bad ideas disguised as PR gold.

And then — finally — a voice cuts in, soft but steady.

“...Why?”

The whole room quiets.

Katsuki turns toward the speaker. It’s one of the quieter reps, a woman he hadn’t really looked at before. Her tone wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t coaxing. Just... tired. Honest.

Like Mitsuki.

Like Izuku.

He freezes.

It’s the tone that stops him, not the question.

And that’s what makes the silence stretch — because suddenly, he realizes:

None of them know.

None of these pencil pushers. Not the interns. Not the coffee-guzzling lawyer. Not a single one of them — who’ve been demanding a look into his private life for months — know about the three gremlins at home calling him Papa.

His jaw tightens. Eyes narrow. He could lie. He wants to lie. But instead...

He exhales.

“I... have kids.”

The room goes dead.

Katsuki blinks like he’s stating the weather. Like obviously, what else would he be protecting so viciously?

“I’ve got three of ‘em,” he continues, annoyed that he even has to say it out loud. “Teenager, five-year-old, toddler. My mate’s got it covered, yeah, but I still don’t want them anywhere near a fuckin’ camera. It’s dangerous. And they didn’t sign up for this.”

Silence.

Jaws dropped. Eyes wide.

One guy actually drops his pen.

“I— you— wait—” someone sputters.

Another PR rep starts flipping through a folder like there might be a “children?” tab they somehow missed.

The intern looks like he might pass out.

And in the back, the lawyer just closes his eyes and starts shaking his head slowly, like he knew this job was going to kill him, he just didn’t think it would happen this week.

“You have kids?” someone finally chokes out.

Katsuki crosses his arms. “Yeah. Did I stutter?”

“But— there’s no record— no public appearances— no mentions—”

“That’s the point,” he snaps.

Then quieter, almost begrudging:
“I didn’t hide them to be an asshole. I did it to protect them.”

That’s when it clicks for them — truly clicks. This isn’t about being “difficult” or “unwilling to connect with his fanbase.” This is about a man who would raze the entire city before he let anyone put his pups in danger.

Suddenly, thirty-minute vlogs don’t seem so simple anymore.

There’s still silence when someone — probably an intern, Katsuki thinks, judging by how high his voice jumps at the end — suddenly blurts out:

“We could lean into that?”

Everyone turns to him like he just suggested setting himself on fire.

But the kid clears his throat, shrinks a little, then keeps going.

“I-I mean, like, maybe that’s the story. You’re a top hero and an alpha, and a mated father. People love that. And we could still protect your family. We can blur the kids’ faces, distort voices, even cut names or moments out in post. You’d have control. But it’d be… real. Powerful.”

Katsuki doesn’t respond right away.

He just sits there.

Thinking.

No, feeling.

For the first time in this whole meeting, something shifts behind his scowl.

Because yeah — it’s tempting.
He thinks about Haruki, cocky little shit that he is, standing tall after getting his UA acceptance letter and saying, “I want the whole damn world to know I’m Ground Zero’s son.”

He thinks about how proud he was. How proud Haruki was. How they hugged like idiots in the middle of the kitchen with flour still on Katsuki’s apron.

And then—

He thinks of the tabloids.
The headlines.
“OMEGA SCHOOLBOY PREGNANT BY HOT-HEADED ALPHA.”
“QUIRKLESS TEEN RUINS FUTURE PRO HERO’S CAREER.”
“IZUKU MIDORIYA: THE OMEGA WHO TRAPPED DYNAMITE.”

He remembers Izuku crying in the bathroom with the door locked, and Katsuki threatening to burn down the news building because they printed his mate’s school ID photo without permission.

He remembers Izuku finishing school online, barely leaving the apartment, hiding the bump under too-big hoodies and still getting stared at on the street.

He remembers the hate mail. The threats. The way Izuku smiled through it until he didn’t.

He remembers the first time Haruki called him “Papa,” and how he’d never known his hands could shake from something so small.

And now?

Now, the world wants a peek?

Wants to see the happy, domestic life Katsuki has fought to build — without knowing what it cost?

Wants to spin it into a hero arc?

He clenches his jaw.

“...I’m scared,” he mutters.

The words are quiet. Low.

But the room still hears them like a bomb just went off.

“I’m not scared of villains. I’m not scared of cameras. I’m scared of them getting hurt. Again. Of people talking about my mate like they used to. Of someone finding my pups and thinking they’re leverage. Of one bad second on a vlog ending up in some creep’s hands.”

He looks up, fire behind his eyes but no spark in his palms.

“I don’t give a damn about being number one if it means putting them at risk. You get that?”

The intern nods furiously.

Everyone else is too stunned to speak.

Even the lawyer just sighs and closes his laptop, like he knows this isn’t going to be settled today.

Katsuki leans back in his chair, folding his arms tight across his chest.

“Now. If — if — I even consider this, I set the rules. You bring any of that PR fluff near my kids without my say, I swear to God, I will turn this place to rubble and make you eat it.”

Silence.

Then a small voice, a little older than the intern, almost a whisper:

“...Yes, sir.”

Katsuki grunts.

And for the first time that morning, he doesn’t feel like punching someone.

Katsuki exhales, slow and sharp, dragging a hand down his face.

Then, voice quieter, but still rough at the edges:
“...My eldest, Haruki—he’s Fourteen. Wants to be known. Wants to make a name for himself.”

He pauses, eyes flicking toward the screen like it personally offends him.

“I’ll have to talk to my mate and the brat. But you might not have to blur him.”

Someone perks up, probably thinking oh good, less editing. Katsuki shoots them a glare that makes them shrink back like they’ve just been hit.

“I said might. If he agrees, it’ll be on his terms. And mine.”

Another pause. Then, quieter:

“I want my mate blurred.”

The room goes still again.

“But he might not. So don’t count on that, either. I’ll tell you what we decide after I talk to him. And if either of you try to push it before then, we’re done.”

He doesn’t give them a chance to respond — just keeps going, because once he starts, the floodgates cracked open.

“My two youngest — Yuzuki and Taiga — have to be blurred. Always. No exceptions. I don’t care if it’s the back of their heads or a reflection in a goddamn spoon. Blur it. Distort the voices. If you even think about using their names, I’ll break every phone in this building.”

Someone opens their mouth — probably to ask something stupid — but Katsuki cuts in first.

“And no merch. No mystery baby plushies or ‘Papa Ground Zero’ mugs with gremlin scribbles. No stickers of my toddler’s blanket. No leaks. No speculation threads. If I catch wind of anything turning into content or marketing, it’s over.”

He stands, chair screeching again. But this time, it’s not anger.

It’s finality.

“And whatever other shit comes up? You run it by me. I’ll let you know what’s allowed.”

He walks to the door, pauses, and without turning around:

“Thirty minutes, every two weeks. My footage. My edits. My family, my rules. Got it?”

There’s a chorus of hurried “yes sir”s, “understood”s, and at least one terrified squeak.

Katsuki walks out without another word.

—

The house is quiet — or, as quiet as a house with three kids ever gets.

Taiga’s already down for the night, curled up with his blue blanket in his crib one sock off and a spoon clutched in his hand like a sword. Yuzuki is in the hallway playing some “last one out of bed is a gremlin” game with herself, singing at a volume she thinks is whispering.

Katsuki’s at the dining table, elbows on the wood, nursing a mug of lukewarm tea that Izuku made and forced him to drink. Izuku’s across from him, expression calm but unreadable, and Haruki’s perched backward on a chair, grinning like he’s just been handed a challenge.

Katsuki sighs.

“All right,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I agreed to something. For PR.”

Izuku raises an eyebrow. Haruki leans forward like it’s storytime.

“They want a vlog. Bi-weekly. Thirty minutes or less. Me at home, being… human, or whatever. I told them we set the rules. We blur and distort the kids so no one knows what they look like.”

Haruki’s eyes light up. “Wait — does that mean I get to be in it?”

Katsuki gives him a long look. “Maybe. If you want to be.”

“I do,” Haruki says instantly. “Don’t blur me. I want people to know who I am. I'm not ashamed.”

Katsuki nods once, slowly. “We’ll talk specifics. You say yes and that’s your call, but you back out later, I pull everything with your face in it, no arguments.”

Haruki grins. “Deal.”

Izuku doesn’t say anything right away.

He’s still. Too still.

Katsuki knows that quiet. It’s the kind that comes right before Izuku either unpacks something hard… or spirals quietly until Katsuki pulls him out of it.

“I told them I wanted you blurred,” Katsuki says gently. “But that I’d ask. It’s up to you.”

Izuku shifts his gaze to the table, fingers brushing over a napkin that’s already been folded and unfolded five times.

“You really think it’s worth it?” he asks.

“I don’t care about the rankings,” Katsuki says honestly. “But if Haruki wants to be known, and I can show the world I’m not just some ticking time bomb, maybe that helps him too. Maybe it helps all of us.”

Izuku hums. A quiet, almost hollow sound.

“I remember what happened last time we were in the public eye.”

Katsuki flinches. He doesn’t need the reminder — he hasn’t forgotten.

“They won’t touch you this time,” he says roughly. “They won’t touch any of you. I’m not some seventeen-year-old hothead with a fuckin’ temper and no clue how to fix things. I’ve got lawyers. Power. Control. And I won’t show a single second of anything I don’t sign off on.”

Izuku nods, but the tension in his shoulders stays.

Yuzuki runs in, slaps a sticker on his arm, yells, “TAGGED YOU’RE THE OMEGA BOSS NOW!” and vanishes again before anyone can blink.

Izuku huffs a laugh. Katsuki watches the corners of his mouth tug upward, slow and soft.

“I’ll think about it,” Izuku says. “I’m not saying no. But I need time.”

“Take it,” Katsuki says. “There’s no rush.”

Haruki’s already pulling out a notebook, jotting down what he calls aesthetic shot ideas.

Izuku watches him for a moment, then glances back at Katsuki, eyes just a little too shiny in the low kitchen light.

“You’re really doing this?”

Katsuki shrugs. “PR won. Doesn’t mean they get to run the whole show.”

Izuku smirks faintly. “I’ll believe that when I see the first draft.”

Katsuki snorts. “You’ll see it. But don’t expect sunshine and violins. I’m opening with curry and threats.”

“Very on-brand,” Izuku murmurs, finally letting the tension fade from his shoulders.

The kids don’t know it, but they just witnessed a historic moment.

The day Ground Zero let the world in — on his terms.

Chapter Text

The house is finally quiet.

Not just nap-time quiet. Not Izuku-humming-to-Yuzuki quiet. But real quiet — the kind that only happens when the five and three year old kids are asleep, no one’s fighting over blanket rights, blue zebra plush safely located.

Katsuki sits on the couch with Haruki next to him, long legs kicked up, a snack in his lap that he swears he isn’t sharing but keeps sliding over peaces anyway. The TV plays quietly in the background, mostly for noise.

Haruki’s fingers are scrolling through his phone. But he keeps sneaking glances at his dad.

Katsuki finally speaks.

“You sure about this?” he asks. “Not being blurred?”

Haruki doesn’t answer right away. He locks his screen, lets his phone fall to the side, and shrugs — casual, but not careless.

“Yeah. I want people to know I’m your son.”

Katsuki nods slowly, mouth pressing into a thin line.

“You know that means you’re gonna hear shit, right? Comments. Comparisons. People asking dumb questions, or making up worse ones.”

Haruki snorts. “They do that already. You’re the number one hero. You think no one at school talks about it?”

Katsuki huffs. “They better not be talkin’ shit.”

“They’re not. Most of them think it’s cool.”

Katsuki finally turns to look at him — really look. Haruki’s taller now. Stronger. He walks like he knows his bones are built from something solid. Fire in his hands, steadiness in his eyes.

He’s proud.

And Katsuki is too.

“You don’t have to be known, you know,” Katsuki says, quieter now. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

“I know,” Haruki says. “But I still want to.”

Katsuki reaches over, squeezes the back of his neck — not rough, not teasing. Just solid.

“All right. Then you won't be blurred. But you let me know if you ever change your mind.”

Haruki grins. “You’ll blow up the internet to pull it all down?”

“I’ll blow up the goddamn sun.”

Haruki laughs. The sound is warm.

—

Katsuki finds Izuku in the kitchen, drying a mug he never even drank from.

He doesn’t look up, but Katsuki knows he heard everything.

“You want to be blurred?” Katsuki asks gently.

Izuku leans his hip against the counter, fingers tracing the rim of the mug. He’s quiet for a beat too long.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Part of me… wants people to see us. What we made. What we’re still making.”

Katsuki moves closer. “And the other part?”

Izuku looks up. “The part that remembers the headlines. The threats. The way they looked at me like I didn’t belong with you.”

Katsuki clenches his jaw. “You did. You do.”

“I know,” Izuku whispers. “But the internet doesn’t.”

Silence stretches between them.

Katsuki reaches out and gently covers Izuku’s hand with his own.

“You don’t owe them your face. Or your name. Or anything at all,” he says. “But if you want to be seen… I’ll protect you every second of it. You know that, right?”

Izuku smiles. A little tired.

“I do,” he says.

Then softer:

“Let’s try it. You can blur me if it feels wrong.”

Katsuki nods. “Deal.”

He doesn’t kiss him right away. Just holds his hand until the mug is forgotten, until Izuku leans in, forehead to chest, and breathes.

—

Uploaded: sunday, June 29th 4:00pm
Title: “Privet Feed episode 1: ground zero cooking curry”
Runtime: 29:13
minor’s faces blurred per NDA. Viewer discretion is advised for language….

The video fades in from black.

Katsuki’s already behind the kitchen counter, apron tied tight, face set in that familiar scowl. The camera’s clearly propped up, slightly crooked, like he didn’t bother fixing the angle after setting it himself.

The apron reads:
DON’T TALK TO ME, I’M COOKING.

He exhales through his nose and starts lining ingredients on the counter without looking at the camera.

“I'm making curry. It Simple, fast, and good enough for leftovers.”

He sets down a cutting board and grabs two carrots, peeling them quickly before slicing.

“the bigger you cut them the less likely they'll be mushy but make sure there soft”

He moves on to potatoes. Waxy-skinned, peeled in fast strokes.

“Three of these. I normally leave the skin on if it’s just me and the nerd. But **** complains, so they’re peeled today.”

He says it like it’s an inconvenience, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward when he mentions his youngest.

Next come onions. He slices off the tops and splits them in half.

“Keep the root end on. It cuts down the crying. Make sure you dice it right, so you don’t waste the whole thing.”

He makes fast, practiced slices, then slides the onions into a bowl. Garlic and ginger follow — both minced finely.

“Ginger’s optional but I like it. Garlic’s not optional. If you don’t use garlic, don’t make this.”

From somewhere down the hall, a faint voice yells, “Do I have to set the table?”

Katsuki snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

He moves to the stove, heating oil in a heavy pan. Chicken thighs, already trimmed, hit the heat with a sizzle.

“I'm using Boneless, skinless. Thighs. They're better than breasts — they don’t dry out. I’m making two pots: one mild, one spicy.”

He lifts the chicken with tongs, letting the sear finish.

“Kids can’t handle the heat yet, especially my youngest. He says he likes spice, but the second he sweats he’s drinkin’ half the fridge.”

He dumps in the chopped vegetables, letting them soften before adding water.

“The roux comes last. Mild block for the kid pot, spicy for the rest. You drop it in once it simmers — not before, or it splits and you ruin dinner.”

As the steam rises, the noise in the house grows — footsteps pounding upstairs, the sound of someone yelling “GREMLIN ATTACK” followed by a thump and laughter.

Katsuki shakes his head with a soft laugh as he stirs the curry slowly.

He finishes stirring the curry, lowers the heat, and reaches for the rice bowls just as soft footsteps approach from the hall.

Izuku appears, quiet and calm, cradling Taiga against his shoulder. Taiga's face blurred.

The toddler’s half-asleep already, thumb tucked near his mouth, his worn-out blue blanket clutched tight in one small fist. His other hand fists gently in Izuku’s hoodie, face pressed into his papa’s chest.

Izuku murmurs something Katsuki doesn’t quite catch, then shifts Taiga carefully into Katsuki’s arms.

“Out like a light,” Izuku says, brushing a hand over the boy’s hair. “He wanted to stay up for curry, but…”

Katsuki adjusts his hold automatically, tucking the blanket around his son, one hand bracing Taiga’s head, the other steady around his back. The toddler breathes slow and even, completely at ease.

Katsuki glances at the camera, then back down.

“It's ok I can wake you up later to eat” he mutters, voice low, barely above a breath.

He stands there a moment longer, swaying slightly without realizing it, eyes softer than anything the public’s ever seen.

Then he turns, passing Taiga off to Izuku again without a word. Izuku smiles faintly, and slips out of frame, quiet as ever.

Katsuki plates the last bowl, stacks them all on a tray.

He looks back at the camera one final time.

“This is dinner. That’s it. Night.

The screen fades to black.

—

TOP COMMENTS:

@kitchenquirkking
not the camera being crooked like he didn’t even try 😭😭 peak “I’m only doing this because I have to” energy and I love him for it
↳ @capsaicinkiss: “if you don’t use garlic don’t make this” is such a dad mood
↳ @heropostingzero: he really said "shut up and learn how to cook"

@gremlinjustice
whoever screamed “GREMLIN ATTACK” and then THUMPED OFFSCREEN is my favorite cast member. give that menace a show
↳ @blurrychaos: the blur makes it even better. like a cryptid with a screech
↳ @sweeterburn: I’m calling her Gremlin until I die

@tinyflamebackup
I’m not okay. He was just… holding the baby. That little blue blanket. That sleepy little head. I’m going to scream and cry and bite something
↳ @omegaonmain: I was FINE until he whispered “I can wake you up later to eat” are you KIDDING ME
↳ @spiceandtender: Blue. That baby is Blue now. I’ve decided. This is law.

@nosweatnoglory
hold up. TWO pots of curry? Different spice levels? PEELING the potatoes just because one of the kids doesn’t like the skins?? He acts all gruff but he’s so soft 😭
↳ @carrotsideways: also—“cut them bigger so they don’t get mushy”? he’s teaching us. with anger.
↳ @curry4lifepls: papa ground zero cooks like a menace and parents like a marshmallow

@herohausarchive
love how he cooked for a family of five, managed bedtime handoffs, and somehow still made time to threaten the public about garlic
↳ @sideeyeandsizzle: domestic rage king

Likes: 489K  Comments: 37.8K  Shares: 93K
Top Tags: #PrivateFeed #GroundZeroDadEra #GremlinAndBlue #CookingWithBoom #SoftExplosionMan

Chapter Text

Katsuki’s in a PR conference room, legs spread wide, arms crossed, expression somewhere between “barely tolerant” and “one bad word away from walking out.”

Across the table, three PR reps are practically vibrating.

“Oh my god,” one of them says, tapping furiously on a tablet. “You don’t understand — the response is phenomenal.”

“Your engagement jumped 42% overnight,” another adds. “Comments are calling it ‘gruff dad cooking therapy.’ Someone made a fan edit of the baby with a blue blanket moment set to a lullaby remix of your theme music.”

Katsuki blinks. “What the fuck is a lullaby remix of my— I have a theme song?”

“You were projected to gain about a thousand new followers per week pre-campaign,” the third interrupts, eyes wide. “You’ve already gained eight thousand. Overnight.”

“We had five offers from cookware brands this morning,” Tablet Guy says. “Someone wants to sponsor a spice blend called Ground Zest.”

Katsuki just stares. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“And your Q rating with parents jumped twelve points! Parents! People think you’re relatable.”

Katsuki groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I swore. On camera. Like six times.”

“Exactly!” the woman at the end of the table beams. “It made you authentic. Likeable. The curry the way you held your son—”

“I made curry,” Katsuki grumbles. “How the hell is that national news?”

Someone slides a folder toward him labeled EPISODE TWO PLANNING. He doesn’t even look at it.

“We’re cleared for weekly content if you want it. Bi-weekly is fine. But whatever you do… keep doing it.”

Katsuki leans back in the chair, arms still crossed, muttering under his breath.

“Can’t believe the fucking blanket’s more popular than my win record.”

The reps don’t hear him — they’re too busy squealing over fan art someone sent in fifteen minutes ago.

—

Uploaded: sunday, July 6th – 10:00 AM
Title: Private Feed Episode 2: Ground Zero’s Training Day (featuring his son)
Runtime: 28:44
Minor’s faces blurred per NDA. Viewer discretion advised for language and mild sparring contact.

The video fades in from black.

The camera shakes slightly — adjusted by a calloused hand before Katsuki steps back, arms crossed, already wearing a fitted black compression shirt and training sweats. He jerks his chin toward the camera like it interrupted something.

“This is my maintenance day,” he says. “Agency makes me take one every two weeks. Supposed to ‘preserve longevity’ or fucken’ whatever. I use it to train.”

He reaches off-screen, picks up a towel, slings it around his neck.

“Bringing the brat today, because he asked” he adds.

Cut to the gym.

It’s wide and clean, padded floors and heavy weights stacked in rows. Nothing flashy. Just steel, rubber, and reinforced walls. Haruki stands near a rack, already warming up. Katsuki’s in the background, loading plates like it’s nothing.

There’s no narration for the first few minutes — just workout sounds: breath, the thunk of weights, the hiss of breath through teeth. The occasional mutter from Katsuki:

“Back straight.”

“Control the movement.”

“Don’t drop the bar like a dumbass.”

But they’re both working together. Katsuki finishes a set of incline presses while Haruki powers through deadlifts. They move in rhythm, never too far apart.

Katsuki sets down a barbell and throws Haruki a bottle of water.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Haruki breathes. “Better than last time.”

Katsuki nods once and moves toward the bench press.

Cut.

Now Katsuki is loading one plate after another. Haruki leans nearby, towel slung over his shoulder.

“I was gonna offer to spot you,” Haruki says, eyeing the weight stack. “But I forgot how much you lift. Nevermind.”

Katsuki smirks. “You can just cheer from the sidelines brat.”

He lies back, hands set wide. The camera catches the slow, even rise of the bar — no shaking, no noise except the breath in his chest and the low creak of metal. Haruki counts the reps out loud — not because Katsuki needs it, but because he wants to.

“Eight. Nine. Ten—damn.”

Katsuki racks the weight with a grunt, sits up, sweat slick at his neck. Haruki tosses him the towel.

“Showoff.”

“Get your reps up.”

Cut.

They’re both back on the mats now. Agility drills, quick footwork, push-pull resistance. Katsuki moves like it’s nothing, barely winded. Haruki struggles to keep pace — not because he’s weak, but because Katsuki doesn’t slow down for anyone.

“You’re favoring your right side again,” Katsuki says as Haruki lands slightly off-center.

From offscreen:

“There was a time in high school where you did the same.”

Izuku steps into frame, quiet as always, Taiga in his arms. The toddler’s face is blurred, but the soft blue blanket is unmistakable, clutched tight in one little fist.

Katsuki turns slightly at the voice, already reaching to wipe sweat from his brow.

“I remember,” Izuku adds, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You always opened with a right hook. That’s how I kept winning our sparring matches.”

Katsuki huffs, wiping sweat from his jaw. “Tch—yeah, yeah. Save the analysis for work, ya nerd.”

Izuku just hums, rocking Taiga gently in his arms. “Didn’t need a desk job to notice that one.”

Katsuki snorts, but there’s no real bite in it.

Izuku leans up and presses a kiss to his cheek, soft and quick.

“Lunch is ready,” he says.

Then he disappears again, as quiet as he came. Taiga’s soft mumble echoes faintly down the hall.

Katsuki watches the door for a second longer than he needs to, then turns back to Haruki.

“Two more rounds. Then we eat.”

Cut again.

They’re sparring now. Light contact, fast reactions. Haruki’s faster than before — sharper, more confident. Katsuki still lands more hits, but the gap is narrowing.

“You’re thinking too much,” Katsuki says mid-step. “You wanna move faster, stop over-planning.”

Haruki feints left and actually lands a palm to Katsuki’s ribs. Katsuki grunts.

“Better.”

Final cut.

They’re cooling down, water bottles in hand. Haruki’s hair sticks to his forehead. Katsuki leans against a wall, one foot propped up.

“you’re stronger than I was at fourteen,” Katsuki says, watching Haruki stretch his shoulders. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” Haruki says, grinning.

Katsuki rolls his eyes, but there’s no hiding the pride on his face.

Yuzuki appears for a blink — peeking in from behind the door frame. Blurred. Wild hair. Wearing someone else’s socks.

“GREMLIN ATTACK,” she screeches then jumps on her father.

Katsuki catches her and sets her down. Haruki just laughs.

“This was training day,” Katsuki says to the camera. “We're going to go eat lunch”

The screen fades to black.

—

TOP COMMITS:

@gremlinjustice:
not me feeling personally blessed every time Gremlin shows up to cause chaos
↳ @sockbandit9: the socks weren’t hers. again. peak gremlin behavior
↳ @emergencyfamilyfeed: I’d die for her and I don't even know what she looks like

@tinyflamebackup:
Baby blue is BACK!! blue blanket? check. sleepy? check. emotional damage? absolutely
↳ @spiceandtender: it’s official. we don’t know his name but he OWNS MY HEART
↳ @cryinginthecurryaisle: I have more pictures of this blurred baby than my own nieces

@visualbento
so let me get this straight…
we get Haruki’s face AND his name
but the other two?
Gremlin and Blue?? 🥲 he needs a fan nickname 😭
↳ @anonnerdfan: wait doesn’t Haruki mean sunlight?? that’s kinda cute actually ☀️
↳ @backupnerdcore: Gremlin, Blue, and... Sunlight?? sounds like a band
↳ @caffeineandquirks: not Blue getting a whole fanbase off a blanket and being sleepy while Haruki’s out here bench pressing half a car 🤣

@herohausarchive
shoutout to Haruki just casually being the face of reason while chaos and nap schedules unfold around him
↳ @peppersoftheart: he’s eldest sibling energy personified
↳ @bottledrage: also he looks so much like
Ground zero it’s terrifying and sweet

Likes: 512K  Comments: 42.3K  Shares: 105K
Top Tags:
#PrivateFeed #GroundZeroDadEra #TrainingDay#HarukiRights #GremlinAndBlue #SunlightSon #GymBroDad

Chapter Text

Title: Private Feed Episode 3: "late night snack and Q&A"
Uploaded: Sunday, July 13th – 4:00 PM
Runtime:26:18
Viewer discretion advised for language. This episode contains eating sounds, sleepy teenagers, and unauthorized fan Q\&A.**

The kitchen is dark except for the warm glow from the overhead stove light. Katsuki’s already there shirtless, hair a little messy, quietly chopping green onions. There’s a pan heating on the stove, and the fridge door is still half open behind him.

He doesn’t say anything at first — just cooks. The soft sizzle of oil fills the quiet.

After a few moments, a voice murmurs offscreen, quiet and a little raspy with sleep:

“You’re cooking?”

Katsuki glances over his shoulder.

“I thought you were asleep.”

The camera turns — Haruki is the one filming. Hoodie on, socks mismatched, face still a little pillow-creased.

“I was,” Haruki says. “Then I smelled onions.”

Katsuki snorts and grabs an egg. “You hungry?”

Haruki hesitates. Then: “...Yeah.”

Katsuki gestures with a tilt of his head. “Get a bowl.”

The video cuts to closer angle on the stove.

He’s tossing leftover rice with the chopped onions, a splash of soy sauce, sesame oil, and then cracks in an egg. It all moves fast — practiced, precise. He barely looks down.

“did you eat?” Katsuki asks without turning around.

Haruki’s behind the camera again, watching from the table now.

“Dinner, yeah. But I didn’t eat much. Wasn’t hungry earlier.”

“ok, well I'm glad you are now.”

Katsuki plates the food, adds a few pickles from the fridge, and hands the bowl over. Haruki sets the camera down to grab chopsticks.

They sit across from each other at the kitchen island. Haruki takes a bite, lets out a small hum.

“Thanks.”

“Eat slower.”

There’s a few seconds of silence. Just the occasional clink of chopsticks.

Then Haruki clears his throat and says:

“So… people had questions.”

Katsuki narrows his eyes. “What kind of questions.”

“Like Q&A questions. For you.”

“Why.”

“Because you’re a public menace turned dad icon. Obviously.”

Katsuki groans and drops his forehead to the table. “I knew letting you talk to the PR team was a mistake.”

“Too late,” Haruki grins. “People love it. I speak for the people. You’re trending again. One girl made a fan-cam of you stirring curry.”

Katsuki mumbles something about moving to the woods and never returning.

The camera is steady now, set up on the counter.

Katsuki’s eating calmly while Haruki (offscreen) scrolls his phone.

“Okay. Question one: what’s your comfort meal?”
“Anything spicy and I can eat on the go.”

“What was the worst date you ever went on with mom?”
“We went to this weird outdoor movie thing once. It rained. He made me stay the whole time anyway because he ‘wanted to see how it ended.’ It was like Mamma Mia, Haruki.”

Haruki wheezes with laughter.

“What’s something all your kids do that drives you nuts?”
“They disappear. You blink, and they’re gone. All of ‘em. I swear I’m raising three goddamn ninjas.”

“You’ve been mated how long?”
Katsuki hums. “Too long, we had you at 17 so… 17 years we've been mated.”

Haruki gets quiet for a second.

the rice is half-eaten now. Katsuki’s leaning back slightly, relaxed but alert. Haruki scrolls.

“Okay, last question” Haruki says, “This one’s good What are three unpopular parenting opinions you have?”

Katsuki raises an eyebrow. “Shit. You’re not pulling punches tonight.”

He sits up a little straighter, thinking.

“hmm…One,”he holds up a finger, “You can love your kids and still regret having them. Both things can be true. Doesn’t make you a bad parent. Just makes you human.”

Haruki blinks but doesn’t interrupt.

“Two,” Katsuki continues, “Apologizing to your kid when you fuck up doesn’t make you weak — it teaches accountability. You’re not always right just ‘cause you’re an adult.”

He taps his fingers against the counter once.

“Three,” and this time there’s heat behind it — “Mothers are held to goddamn impossible standards, and dads get praise for just showing up. It’s bullshit. Do your job or don’t have one.”

Haruki exhales.

“So… I’m the regret?” he deadpans.

Katsuki side-eyes him.

“Fuck off.”

—

The camera cuts to Haruki’s room. It’s dim, lit mostly by his bedside lamp. Posters on the walls. A hoodie hanging from the back of his chair. He’s lying on his stomach across his bed, chin resting on his crossed arms, the camera angled slightly from his desk.

He looks tired, but not in a bad way — just soft around the edges. His voice is lower now, relaxed.

“Okay, uh... guess I’m doing the outro.”

He pauses, smiling a little like he’s still processing how the night went.

“Thanks for watching. Sorry for the camera work at the start — I didn’t expect to be filming a whole Q\&A at midnight, but here we are.”

He adjusts slightly, burying part of his face in his arm before continuing.

“Dad doesn’t really like talking about himself, but… I think he needed that. Or, I don’t know — maybe *I* needed it. Either way, thanks for sending questions. I didn’t tell him they were from the comments. Don’t snitch.”

He grins, a little more awake now.

“Next episode’s probably in two weeks, but knowing him, it might show up early. No promises. Also, reminder: drink water. Seriously. You can’t survive on spite and instant noodles. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

He holds up a peace sign.

“Night. Or morning. Whenever you’re watching. I’m going to sleep before Gremlin climbs on me again.”

The screen fades to black as he reaches to turn off the lamp.

—

Top comments

@riceaftermidnight:
“Do your job or don’t have one” EXCUSE ME that line just suplexed every deadbeat dad in existence
↳ @dadscankitchen: Katsuki Bakugou said fatherhood isn’t for the weak and then made a perfect rice bowl
↳ @wasabiwithtruth: bro really said ✨therapy✨ with sesame oil

@matchasocks:
Haruki: filming Q\&A like a sleepy menace
Katsuki: dropping generational wisdom between bites
This is peak father/son bonding.
↳ @noodleghost: “I thought you were asleep” > “You hungry?” is the love language I never knew I needed
↳ @hoodiecore: I want this kind of parenting in my next life

@soggyeggroll:
Katsuki out here serving late-night life lessons like it’s just seasoning.
↳ @frecklesandferocity: “You can love your kids and still regret having them.” That line changed my brain chemistry
↳ @tootired2parent: This whole episode was the softest slap in the face I’ve ever received

@sunnyonsundays:
The Q\&A was unhinged in the best way.
Also I need Haruki to do all the outros forever. “I speak for the people” king.
↳ @elderchildtrauma: bro had sleep voice and still carried the whole press tour
↳ @groundzeroandson: this boy is running the PR campaign from his BED

Likes: 561K  Comm
ents: 48.7K  Shares:112K
Top Tags: #PrivateFeed #GroundZeroDadEra #HarukiRights #GremlinAndBlue #ParentingUnfiltered #SoftExplosionMan #RiceBowlRealness #MidnightQandA is there any thing else

Chapter Text

Katsuki regrets everything.

Not his kids — obviously. Even when they’re loud, messy, and crawling all over his back like squirrels on caffeine, he loves them more than anything.

No, what Katsuki regrets is asking for two days off of work.

Because now Izuku — with his smug three-day break and his unfairly pretty Omega eyes — is standing in their living room asking if they can do a day trip to the beach. And maybe stay the night. And maybe pack snacks. And maybe go now.

And how the hell is Katsuki supposed to say no to that?

Especially when Izuku’s already telling the kids like it's a done deal.

Yuzuki screams so loud he’s pretty sure the neighbors duck for cover. She’s bouncing on the couch, grabbing towels, shouting about seashells. Haruki just raises an eyebrow like he’s trying not to smile.

Taiga? Taiga is chewing on a bucket.

They haven’t even left yet.

And Katsuki already knows he’s going to get sunburnt, sand in his shoes, and somehow be roped into building a sandcastle shaped like UA High. Again.

Still…

When Izuku kisses his cheek and says, “Thank you for taking time off,” in that soft, grateful way that always makes Katsuki’s chest ache a little—

Well.

Maybe it’s not that bad.

—

Private Feed Episode 4: “Beach Day”
Uploaded: Sunday, July 27 – 10:00 AM
Runtime: 41:39
Viewer discretion advised for language, caffeine consumption, shirtless husbands, and children yelling at seagull's

Camera opens to Katsuki tossing beach bags into the trunk like he’s fighting them. Izuku is counting towels and mumbling to himself. Taiga is trying to pack an entire box of crackers. Yuzuki is spinning in circles with a sunhat that’s too big.

Haruki (filming): “We haven’t even left yet and it’s already feral.”

Katsuki, from the trunk: “You wanna walk?”

Haruki: “You wanna go to jail for threatening your child on camera?”

Izuku walks into frame holding a Monster and a tote bag full of sunscreen. “Babe, have you seen the—oh, never mind.” He spots his sunglasses on the roof of the car.

Haruki zooms in. “Mom’s drinking Monster before 8 AM. We’re doomed.”

Izuku sips and hums like it’s the nectar of life. “I have three kids and one of them is you. I earned this.”

Yuzuki (offscreen): “I WANNA SIT IN THE BACK-BACK WITH THE SNACKS!”

Katsuki: “You’ll sit wherever the hell I tell you to sit.”

Taiga: “Dad cursed!”

Izuku (without looking): “He’s allowed one a day. Don’t waste it this early.”

The camera cuts to a shot of Izuku in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, sipping from his Monster again. A child’s movie is playing on a tablet in the backseat (quietly). Taiga and Yuzuki’s faces are blurred but visible as little blobs squabbling over pretzels.

Haruki (from the middle row): “Hey Mom, can I have a sip?”

Izuku side-eyes him over his sunglasses. “You wanna try your first heart attack this young?”

Haruki: “So… yes?”

Izuku: “Absolutely not.”

Katsuki snorts from the driver’s seat. “You couldn’t handle it anyway.”

Haruki (mock offended): “I’m so strong.”

Katsuki: “You cried eating a jalapeño once.”

Izuku laughs. “He did. That was the same day he tried to prove he could grill and lit the corner of his hoodie on fire.”

Haruki: “Okay, wow. Why are we airing out my childhood trauma this early in the vlog?”

The camera is shaky as someone (probably Haruki) tries to film while walking backward.

Haruki: “We made it. No one’s dead. No one puked. Honestly? That’s a win.”

Katsuki’s in the background setting up a beach umbrella with violent determination.

Izuku is rubbing sunscreen onto Taiga’s cheeks. “You’re gonna thank me when you’re older.”

Taiga grumbles. “Sunblock tastes bad.”

“You’re not supposed to eat it.”

Haruki points the camera at Izuku. “And how does our beloved Omega feel today?”

Izuku raises an eyebrow.

"Our beloved Omega? Haruki, just because you're an alpha doesn’t mean you get to talk like that.”

The camera cuts to a few different shots.

Taiga and Yuzuki chasing seagulls.

Yuzuki builds a sand tower and shrieks when it falls.

Haruki standing waist-deep in the ocean holding a floaty, hair drenched, yelling, “STOP KICKING ME.”

Izuku lying facedown on a towel, sun-kissed and sleepy.

The camera zooms in. Katsuki, filming “Damn. Look at my Omega. He’s so fucking cute.”

Izuku doesn’t move. “I can hear you.”

Katsuki: “Good.”

The shot lingers, shaky but sweet.

Izuku is eating sliced mango with Taiga curled up next to him, cheeks sticky. There’s sand everywhere. Yuzuki is half-asleep in a towel burrito. Haruki’s talking with his mouth full.

Haruki: “Dad made these sandwiches spicy on purpose.”

Katsuki: “It builds character.”

Izuku smiles and hands Haruki a juice box. “Drink. Don’t complain with a dry mouth.”

Haruki sips, squints. “This tastes like guilt.”

“Yup. And electrolytes.”

Katsuki is trying to film the kids touching seaweed without flinching. Haruki is narrating like it’s a nature documentary.

Haruki: “Observe the small gremlin, drawn to shiny shells and damp moss.”

Yuzuki: “I’M NOT A GREMLIN. I'm a princess.”

Izuku: “You are literally covered in seaweed, honey.”

The camera pans across a cozy hotel room: two queen beds, a view of the ocean, someone’s shoes already kicked off near the door. Katsuki opens a mini-fridge and mutters, “They got those tiny milks. Hell yeah.”

Haruki sets the camera on the dresser, catching a blurry shot of Taiga jumping on a bed and Izuku trying to wrangle him with zero success.

Yuzuki throws a pillow at Haruki and misses. Izuku deadpans: “If I get hit with one of those, you're making everyone’s lunches for a week.”

Haruki throws his hands up. “I don’t even pack my own lunch!”

Izuku: “Then you’re learning.”

The camera is still. Propped up somewhere.

Izuku is lying in one bed in his pajamas, half-asleep, surrounded by kids — Yuzuki under one arm, Taiga sprawled on his legs. Their blurred faces peek in and out of the covers. Haruki laying next to izuku.

Katsuki walks in and freezes.

“That’s my spot.”

Haruki (scrolling on his phone): “Second bed exists, old man.”

Katsuki glares. “That’s not the point. I sleep with your mother.”

“So, sleep in the other bed.”

Izuku’s eyes flutter open. “You can cuddle me tomorrow. I’m full of children.”

Katsuki sighs and starts peeling back the covers on the second bed. “Unbelievable.”

Izuku: “I’d make room but I can’t feel my leg anymore.”

Katsuki (soft): “Nah, you’re good.”

---

Bonus Clip:

Haruki sneaks the camera out onto the balcony. Izuku’s sitting alone in a hoodie, sipping tea, eyes on the moonlit ocean.

Katsuki quietly opens the door and wraps a blanket over Izuku’s shoulders. No words, just a kiss to the side of his head.

The ocean crashes below. It’s peaceful for the first time all day.

—

Top Comments:

@lazyalpha621:
“I sleep with your mother.”
Haruki: “Second bed exists.”
💀 This kid has zero fear. ZERO.
↳@towelsandtrauma:
I swear Katsuki was this close to flipping that bed over.
↳@seashell-wit:
Izuku just laying there like “I’d help but I’m pinned by children.” 😂

@caffeineomega:
Izuku drinking Monster before 8am with zero shame… that’s not a parent, that’s a survivor 😭
↳@snackzone\\\_33:
You wanna try your first heart attack this young?” SENT ME
↳@emotionalcarseat:
Honestly though he’s right. Parenting three kids?? Monster should sponsor him.

@groundzerosimp32:
Can we take a moment for how Katsuki was literally drooling over Izuku laying on that towel?? Mans was ready to propose again.
↳@halftoneheart:
“Damn. Look at my Omega.” LIKE SIR??? IN FRONT OF MY SALAD

@antiOmegabias:
Not to be mean but the omegas kinda annoying in these vids. Always acting exhausted like he didn’t choose this life. Ground zero deserves better.
↳@cassandraglare:
Did we not watch the same video?? First off his names izuku. And he literally made lunch, wrangled 3 kids, AND kept sunscreen on all of them and stopped them from eating it. TF
↳@yuki\\\_slams:
“Acting exhausted” bro he’s a parent. That IS the vibe.

@driftdad69:
Katsuki opening the mini fridge: “they got those tiny milks. Hell yeah.”
Man’s priorities are in order.
↳ @lostatsea:
Peak husband energy
↳@noodlenotes:
Honestly I’d be more surprised if he didn’t say something like that

@shakycamicon:
Izuku just whispering “I’m full of children” like that’s a normal thing to say 😭😭😭
↳@sockfan00:
Peak omega parenting moment
↳ @whyyouinsand:
My mom used to say that but about cats 💀

@wetseagullwarrior:
Gremlin being a gremlin and screaming at seagulls is my new religion
↳@shellshocktea:
She was ready to square up 💀.
↳ @kidkicksandchaos
It’s not a beach trip unless a child threatens wildlife

Top Tags: #PrivateFeed #GremlinAndBlue #GroundZeroDadEra #SunsoftOmega #FamilySandcastles #SunscreenAndFeelings

Chapter Text

Katsuki hates his PR team.

Actually — scratch that. He hates all PR.

He hates the fake smiles, the forced brand deals, the idea of curating his personal life into something that’s “marketable.” And right now? He’s especially pissed at his PR manager. An alpha woman with the spine of steel, the ego to match his own, and the gall to have been managing his image since high school.

He’d bite her if he could get away with it.

Because apparently after that beach vlog did insane numbers (which of course it did, because look at his fucking Omega sunbathing like a damn beachside fantasy ) — she decided to start riding the wave.

Without asking him.

She took a bunch of pictures Haruki and Izuku had snapped — soft, sunny ones of the kids, some stolen moments of Katsuki being almost affectionate — and posted them.

Apparently, his three gremlins have “a fanbase” now. With nicknames.

“The hell does ‘Blue’ even mean?” he mutters while Izuku tries not to laugh.

All Katsuki wants is to do the grocery run like they planned — no kids, no PR, just him and his mate acting like they’re 20 and free. The kids are at his mom’s house. He’s got a day off. He wants to buy too many snacks, flirt with Izuku in the cereal aisle, maybe pretend they’re newlyweds.

But no. First, he has to have a fucking call with PR.

—

Title: Private Feed Episode 5: “Grocery Run (No Kids, No Chaos… Kinda)”
Uploaded: Sunday, August 3 – 6:45 PM
Runtime: 29:52
Viewer discretion advised for adult language, cart collisions, and shameless flirting next to frozen peas.

The Camera turns on. It’s slightly tilted, like someone set it down on the dashboard.

Katsuki (offscreen): “If you don’t walk into this store with a list, I swear—”

Izuku (poking his head in): “I have a list.”

Katsuki: “Mental doesn’t count.”

Izuku smiles sweetly. “Then you should’ve written one.”

Katsuki’s eye twitches.

the two of them start walking into the store, side by side. Izuku is wearing an oversized hoodie and joggers, hair still slightly damp from a shower. Katsuki’s dressed in a T-shirt and a ball cap to cover his hair.

Katsuki: “No impulse buys.”

Izuku (grading a cart): “No promises.”

Camera in hand, Izuku zooms in on a giant stack of apples.

Izuku: “Tell me these don’t look like the apples from that fairytale.”

Katsuki: “The one where someone dies eating one?”

Izuku: “Yes, exactly.”

Katsuki: “... Put them back.”

Katsuki points at a different bin. “These are prettier. And they don’t scream ‘poisoned by your stepmother’.”

Izuku dramatically places one in the cart.

Katsuki is putting enough chips in the cart to restock their spicy chip stash like a man on a mission. Izuku films his hands methodically placing each bag like it's a military operation.

Izuku: “He treats these like sacred relics.”

Katsuki: “Because you eat the whole bag in one sitting and then pretend it wasn’t you.”

Izuku gasps. “I would never—”

Katsuki side-eyes him. “There’s footage.”

Izuku (laughing): “...I may have eaten one or two.”

Cut to Izuku holding up a very specific off-brand snack.

Izuku: “You remember these? You ate like ten of these when I was pregnant with Taiga.”

Katsuki (grabs the bag, throws it in the cart): “only because you HAD to have them then didn't like them so I had to eat them.”

Camera cuts in as Izuku leans over to grab pasta sauce, hoodie riding up slightly.

Katsuki (from behind the camera, grumbling): “This is not the place to be hot.”

Izuku: “I’m just reaching—”

Katsuki (snatching the jar, still filming): “Yeah, well, stop it. I’m trying to focus on sauce, not your ass.”

Izuku: “Sauce is important.”

Katsuki (deadpan): “So is my sanity.”

They stand in front of the freezer doors, arguing silently with just hand gestures.

Izuku (voiceover): “We’re communicating with the language of married idiots.”

Katsuki points to one frozen dinner. Izuku shakes his head and gestures to another. Katsuki picks up both.

Izuku (offscreen): “That’s not how compromise works!”

Katsuki shrugs and drops both in the cart.

Izuku’s looking at candles. Again.

Katsuki: “We came here for eggs. And soap. Not emotions in glass jars.”

Izuku: “This one smells like our first apartment.”

Katsuki pauses, sniffs, and goes silent.

Katsuki (softly): “Get two.”

The Camera is tucked into the side of the register.

Izuku is organizing things on the belt while Katsuki battles with the card reader like it personally insulted him.

Katsuki: “I pressed credit.”

Reader: Please insert card.

Katsuki: “I DID—”

Izuku: “Baby, breathe.”

Katsuki glares at the machine. It works the second time.

Katsuki (grumbling): “Coward.”

Izuku chuckles, handing over a reusable bag. “He gets like this every time.”

Cashier (awkwardly): “...Cool candle.”

Izuku: “Thank you!!”

The camera is once again on the dash. The two of them are sitting with iced drinks, quiet for a few beats.

Izuku: “This was nice.”

Katsuki (nods): “Yeah.”

Izuku (leans back): “I miss doing this with just you sometimes.”

Katsuki: “Me too.”

Izuku: “We should start doing more errands without the kids. Auntie has been asking to look after the kids more.”

Katsuki (raising a brow): “You saying you want me all to yourself?”

Izuku (teasing): “You saying you don’t want that?”

Katsuki (grinning): “Shut up.”

They clink cups together.

Fade out.

—
TOP COMMENTS:

@candlehoardzone:
Izuku going “this one smells like our first apartment” and Katsuki going soft mode immediately 😭❤️
↳ @twogaysandacart:
He said "Get two" like he's never said anything more romantic in his life
↳ @emotionsinjars:
Normalize love languages being candles and trauma bonding pls

@bakuhoe.mp4:
Can we talk about how Katsuki said “stop being hot” like it was a personal attack 😩🔥
↳ @omegaonline:
He was SO grumpy about it and still grabbed the sauce for him 😭💘
↳ @honeyandgrenades:
Grumpy in love is still in love, your honor

@cartchaoscentral:
They really argued with JUST hand gestures in front of the freezer aisle I’m crying
↳ @mimomomomo:
“That’s not how compromise works” is gonna live rent free in my brain
↳ @silentmarriedlanguage:
Married people telepathy unlocked

@omega_blessed:
Izuku laughing in the cereal aisle is my new antidepressant 🥹💚
↳ @bakulovedotcom:
You can tell Katsuki would fistfight the world just to keep that laugh around
↳ @cozyfandomcorner:
Honestly?? This whole video healed something in me

@gremlinstanaccount:
Haruki’s not even in this episode but I just KNOW he’s gonna roast them for something in the next one
↳ @chaoticeldest:
He’s already seen the chip stash and is planning a war
↳ @yuzukishellfan:
Can’t wait for the kids' reactions to "Mom and Dad went shopping without us and got GOOD snacks”

Top Tags:
#PrivateFeed #MarriedErrands #SpicyChipsAndSoftCandles #JustUsToday #GroceryFlirtation #BakubunsDomesticEra

—

Izuku never meant to look at the comments.

Really — he didn’t. He never wanted to.

But after Hana asked for more photos from the beach trip, after she’d praised the engagement and said, “People love seeing this side of you,” he started checking.

Only when Katsuki was asleep.

Always when Katsuki was asleep.

Because if Katsuki was awake — if he caught Izuku hunched over his phone with that look in his eyes — he’d take it. He’d pull it from Izuku’s hands with a gentle “enough, baby,” and set it aside, and curl Izuku against his chest like a shield.

Just like back then.

The room is still.

Katsuki’s breathing is slow and even beside him, arm draped protectively across Izuku’s waist, their legs tangled beneath the sheets. The soft hum of the air conditioner fills the silence. His phone screen glows dimly beneath the covers.

Izuku scrolls.

It started harmless. Curiosity. Haruki said the vlog was trending again, and Hana sent three screenshots with “🔥🔥🔥 This is gold, I want more.” He’d told himself he was just checking what she meant.

Most of them are sweet.

“Sunsoft Omega supremacy 🙌”
“I love how gentle he is with the little ones 🥺”
“Ground Zero being head over heels for his mate is literally the content I live for.”

He smiles, barely. Breathes out a quiet laugh through his nose.

But then—

> @tooreal456: ngl that Omega always looks miserable
> @saltyplume: feels like Ground Zero’s carrying the whole family tbh
> @quirkedANDquiet: Not trying to be rude but like... he never looks like he wants to be there 💀

His chest tightens.

Izuku scrolls faster.

His thumb slips. Another one.

>@plaintruths: people only care about him cause he’s hot and mated to a pro hero. What does he do, actually?

His heart stutters.

He knows better. He knows better.

But the words are sharp. Familiar. Like whispers from high school hallways, from broken dreams and doctor visits and all those years of being not enough.

His breath catches. The screen blurs.

He blinks fast, throat closing up. His fingers tremble as he swipes again—too fast. His palm is sweating. His stomach turns.

He hates this.

He doesn’t want to wake Katsuki. He doesn’t want Katsuki to know.

But he also doesn’t want to be alone in it.

A soft sound escapes him — half breath, half whimper — and Katsuki shifts behind him, muttering something in his sleep.

Izuku freezes.

Locks his phone.

Turns it over, face down, screen black.

And lets it sit on the nightstand like it’s dange
rous.

Because it is.

He wipes his eyes on the blanket. Swallows hard. Tries to breathe evenly. Tries to be quiet.

But he still curls a little tighter into Katsuki’s chest, eyes open in the dark.

And tries not to think about the ones that said… he doesn’t belong.

Chapter Text

Izuku knows it’s a dream.

He knows it, the way you know you’re falling but can’t stop. The way you feel the edge of waking right beneath your feet, but your body refuses to move.

Still—he can’t help asking himself:

Why would my mind be so cruel?

It begins in the hallway.

The lights are dim. The paint on the walls is pale green, familiar. Too familiar. A house he hasn’t lived in for years. A childhood he left behind, even if the pieces still cling to his skin.

The kettle is whistling.

There’s a clock ticking.

He stands in the center of the hallway, barefoot. Cold. Wrists clenched at his sides. He opens his mouth.

“…Mom, I need to tell you something.”

He doesn’t see her face—just the shape of her, blurred and still at the end of the hall. She turns slowly. Her voice is warm and soft.

“Is it Katsuki again?”

Izuku shakes his head. “No… I—Mom, I’m pregnant.”

A beat.

And then everything tilts.

“You’re seventeen, Izuku,” she says, but her voice sounds off. Too calm. Too level. Like she’s trying to stay quiet so she doesn’t scream.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he whispers.

“You’re seventeen. And an Omega. And still quirkless.”

Each word lands like a slap. Hard. Cold. Final.

"You think that Alpha is going to stay?"

He flinches. “Kacchan would never—”

“You think he won’t leave once you’re too much?”

The hallway warps—stretching, flickering—like an old film glitching mid-reel.

The voices multiply.

“You’ve always been a burden.”
“Another mistake. Another mouth to feed.”
“You’re not a hero. You’re barely a person.”
“He should’ve left you when he had the chance.”
“You threw everything away.”

He can’t breathe.

He spins, trying to find the source—any face—but it’s everywhere. School hallways. Old hospital rooms. That tiny apartment with mold in the windows. The walls change every time he blinks.

He hears them—

The doctor who said, “With no quirk, he won’t get far.”
The teacher who gave up on him at ten.
A voice from a street interview, “Ground Zero’s Omega? He looks dead behind the eyes.”
A commenter, “What does he even do?”

He grips his ears. Closes his eyes.

But the door is in front of him now.

Not a hallway. Just a door.

The one from that night. Inko’s door. The last one.

The one she shut behind him.

He steps forward—reaches for the handle—and as soon as he opens it—

There’s nothing.

Just air.

He falls.

The city stretches below him, warped and blurred like watercolors bleeding together. The wind isn’t loud, but the voices are. They follow him down, clawing at him, wrapping around his throat.

“You were never enough.”
“You’re lucky anyone even stayed.”
“You ruined him.”
“You ruined everything.”

He doesn’t scream.

There’s no air for that.

He just falls.

And falls.

“Izuku.”

The voice is soft, low. Like it’s traveling through fog.

“Izuku.”

His eyes fly open.

The ceiling stares back — shadowed, unmoving. His heart thunders like he never left the fall.

Beside him, a warm hand rests against his side. Sleep-rough fingers flex lightly.

“You okay? You’re shaking,” Katsuki mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

Izuku blinks fast, forcing air into his lungs. “Yeah. I’m okay. I’m just… gonna get up. Bathroom.”

Katsuki hums, soft and slow. “Okay… but if you don’t fall back asleep… wake me up.”

“I will,” Izuku lies.

He shifts carefully out from under the blanket, quiet as he can. His feet touch the floor.

Behind him, the soft inhale-exhale of Katsuki’s breathing evens out again.

Izuku stands still for a moment, letting the quiet settle over him. The kind that only exists in the hours between night and morning — heavy and hollow.

The glow of the phone screen, still face-down on the nightstand, feels like a threat. He doesn’t look at it.

He just walks softly into the dark hallway, socks brushing tile, and closes the bathroom door behind him with a click.

The dream is over.

But his chest still feels like he’s falling.

Izuku knows he’s not going back to sleep.

The adrenaline’s still in his veins. The phantom echo of voices — old and new — still clang in his skull like windchimes in a storm. He knows this feeling. It’ll be hours before the exhaustion crashes into him again.

So he doesn’t try.

He walks down the hallway in silence, arms crossed tight over his chest. The floor is cool beneath his socks. The house is still.

In the kitchen, the moonlight cuts through the blinds in soft, silver lines across the table.

And there — sitting on the edge of the dining table, right where Haruki left it last night — is the family’s small video camera, still attached to the mini tripod.

Izuku stares at it for a second. Blank. Then:

“…Fuck it.”

He pulls out a chair, drags the camera forward, presses the button. The red light blinks to life. He doesn’t bother to fix his hair or check the angle. It’s angled slightly too low — a bit off-center. He leaves it that way.

—

Title: Private Feed Episode 6: "Insomnia Lunches (aka Midnight Vents & Tomato Slices)"
Uploaded: Wednesday, August 13 – 3:17 AM Runtime: 21:06
Viewer discretion advised: heavy themes, mentions of mental health, strained parental relationships, and one very tired Omega cutting vegetables at 2am.

“I need to talk to somebody,” he mutters. “And I’m sure as hell not waking up my husband.”

He flips on the kitchen lights, squinting against the glare. Opens the fridge. Starts pulling things out — vegetables, leftovers, juice boxes, a container of steamed rice.

He sets everything on the counter and begins making lunches. Bento boxes for Haruki and Taiga. A thermos for little Yuzuki. Something simple for Katsuki to throw in his bag.

The camera keeps rolling.

“I had a dream,” he says softly, cutting carrots with practiced ease. “Not the good kind.”

He sighs, pausing as he reaches for the rice paddle.

“It was… about when I told my mom. That I was pregnant. I was seventeen. And she just… she didn’t look at me like I was her son anymore. Just like I was some stupid kid who ruined everything.”

His hands still. He swallows hard.

“I don’t know why my brain pulled that out tonight. But it did. And then… I fell. Off the building. The same one I used to walk to after school when I thought… when I thought maybe that would be the way out.”

He doesn’t cry. Not yet.

He just scoops rice into a lunchbox, adds some leftover chicken, then reaches for the s

Izuku keeps his voice low, barely above a whisper.

He sets a few grape tomatoes in the bento box, then pauses, thumb running over one of them slowly.

“What kind of mother…” he starts, then falters. Takes a breath. “What kind of mother abandons her only kid just because he got pregnant?”

He looks down. Eyes tired, but not wet. Just heavy.

“I wasn’t… hurting anyone. I was just scared. I was a kid. I thought she’d help me. That she’d still love me.”

He places the last divider in the box, leans against the counter. His shoulders sag.

“I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

A small humorless huff escapes him.

“I think… three years? No. Four, actually. She hasn’t even met Blue. And when she met Princess — she was only one. So yeah. Four.”

He shifts his weight, folding up one of the sandwich bags as he talks.

“We talked once. After the big fight, after I moved in with Kacchan. We talked about it. How she kicked me out. She said she thought she was protecting me. That she was scared, too. But that doesn’t fix anything.”

His jaw clenches.

“She wasn’t there when I needed her. And I’m not sure if I want her here now.”

The kitchen is quiet again.

He finishes sealing the last lunchbox. Stacks them neatly on the counter.

“You know what’s messed up?” he says, glancing at the camera. “Some part of me still wants her to say sorry. Like, really say it. Not that ‘I was scared’ crap. I want her to admit she gave up on me.”

His throat works around the next words.

“But I don’t think she ever will.”

A pause.

“I have Kacchan. I have the kids. I know I’m lucky. I am. But sometimes… sometimes that part of me — the one who stood on that rooftop when I was seventeen, the one who really thought jumping would be easier — he still whispers.”

He presses his palms into the counter. Steadies his breath.

“I’m okay,” he says again. “Just needed to… let it out.”

He walks toward the camera. Lingers just a moment longer.

The katsuki walks out still in pajama pants and no shirt he's yawning and rubbing his eye
"Why didn't you wake me up?"

“Baby you have work I'm not going to wake you up I have the day off I can sleep in”.

Izuku turns to the camera and says

“Thanks for listening. Or watching. Whatever.”

He reaches out, gently clicks the button.

And the video ends.

—
Top comments:

@princessbean04:
The way you speak so gently even when talking about pain… you make me feel seen in ways I didn’t know I needed. Thank you for this.
↳ @softquirklesshero:
It’s the line “I thought she’d still love me” that broke me.
↳ @heroofhearts:
You ARE enough, Izuku. Always were. Always will be.

@late2everything:
Imagine logging on at 3am and getting punched in the heart by a whisper vlog from your favorite hero’s spouse.
↳ @crybabyclub:
You ain’t even lie. I was ready for grocery hauls and now I’m in my Feelings Era.
↳ @vlogjunkie:
Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear Katsuki’s hoodie and vent to a kitchen camera.

@TinyHeroBigHeart:
Ground zero’s sleep-shuffling into frame and being all grumpy-concerned like “why didn’t you wake me?” That was love. That was HOME.
↳ @sleepymusclehusband:
Bro walked out shirtless, 70% asleep, and still clocked that something was wrong.
↳ @domestichavoc:
The snore-to-husband-check transition was smoother than any rom-com.

@mommyontherise:
From one Omega parent to another: I felt every word in my bones. You’re not broken. You’re a damn warrior.
↳ @threejuiceboxesdeep:
This one’s going in the “things that made me sob at 3am” playlist.
↳ @heroicdomestic:
Not a single tear from him. Just quiet strength. That’s bravery.

@snackboxenthusiast:
Can we talk about the fact that even mid breakdown he still made the cutest bento box I’ve ever seen???
↳ @taigasbiggestfan:
You could FEEL the love in every cut and scoop.
↳ @chefgroundzero:
Bet Katsuki’s gonna see this and make him breakfast like “don’t care it’s my turn now.”

Top tags: #LateNightVlog #MentalHealthAwareness #KitchenTherapy #OmegaLife #VulnerabilityIsStrength
#HealingJourney #GroundZeroSupport #MidnightThoughts #NotJustAMom

—

In the sea of thousands of comments — heartfelt ones, concerned ones, others quoting Izuku’s words like scripture — there was one that stood out.

Not for how many likes it had (just one).
Not for how emotional it was (it wasn’t).
But for who it was from.

@GroundZeroOfficial:
why wasn’t I informed you would post this?

The like?
Came from Izuku.

The PR team?
Went very quiet for the rest of the morning.

Chapter Text

Katsuki needed to get out of the house.

He hadn’t even made it to his sneakers before the pit in his stomach told him something was off. It was four in the morning. He’d barely slept. When he picked up his phone, it nearly slipped from his hand. His screen was lit up with dozens of missed calls, texts, and news alerts.

At the very top of his missed calls list: Mom.

He hadn’t even processed the headline before the fury hit. He didn’t have to scroll to know what had happened.

By sunrise, he stormed out. Didn’t even wake Izuku. He knew if he stayed in the house another minute, he was going to break something—and he’d rather not scare his kids.

He showed up to his agency without warning. No coat. Hair a mess. Expression unreadable. Security didn’t question him. They never did when he looked like this.

Five minutes later, the PR team was gathered in the conference room.

Five smug faces. All seated. All prepared with their little talking points.

Katsuki didn’t sit.

He shut the door behind him.

And for a moment, he said nothing.

He just stood there. Stared. Let the silence press down like a hydraulic press.

Then:

“You thought you could post it and I wouldn’t find out?”

The lead PR rep—a man in his mid-thirties with perfect hair and a fake tan—had the audacity to smile.

“It was powerful,” he said, like he was reviewing a movie trailer. “Raw. Honest. We thought it would resonate—”

“You thought?”

Katsuki’s voice was quiet.

That was the first sign they’d fucked up. Katsuki Bakugou was never quiet unless he was about to explode.

“I thought,” he repeated, “we had a contract. A very clear, written-out contract. One that states that no video, image, or clip involving me or my family goes public unless I approve it. No exceptions.”

There was a shuffle of papers. A cough. A nervous glance.

“It was an emotional piece—”

“Don’t call it a piece. That wasn’t a fucking highlight reel. That was my husband having a breakdown, and you decided to post it.”

No one spoke.

Katsuki stepped forward. One step.

Still, none of them moved.

“But let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about the comments,” he said, voice sharpening. “Over 3,000 hate comments. Misogynistic. Homophobic. Some calling my family things I won’t repeat. You left them up. For days. You haven’t deleted a single fucking comment.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up.

“I logged into the ‘Private Feed’ account. Out of the six vlogs we’ve posted, you haven’t cleared a single thread. Not one.”

He let the silence sit.

“8,523 hate comments.”

He let the number hang in the air like a bomb.

“You wanna know how I got that number? I fucking counted. I was that mad. Got up at 4AM, ready to do my run, saw my phone blowing up, thought, huh, weird. Checked the feed. Saw a video I didn’t approve. Saw the comments. All of them. All 8,523.”

He looked each person in the eye. Slowly. One by one.

“Five hundred of them were just on that 'nightmare vlog' you uploaded last night. Without permission.”

One woman opened her mouth.

Katsuki raised a hand.

“Don’t.”

She shut it.

“I knew I had to come in calm. Controlled. Because if I came in swinging, you’d all pretend I was just angry and emotional. So now that I have your attention, let me make something clear.”

He took a breath. Jaw tight.

“I don’t care who signed off on that video. I don’t care if you thought it was good PR. This wasn’t your story to tell. You took a private moment, cut it up, slapped on a title, and posted it for engagement.”

The tan guy tried again. “But the response was huge. There were thousands of positive—”

“And yet,” Katsuki said, voice rising, “none of you deleted the negative."

He slammed his hand on the table. The whole thing rattled.

“My family is not your content. My Omega is not your fucking clickbait. You’re lucky I haven’t filed to dissolve your entire department.”

He turned toward the door. Paused.

“Oh—and my manager says I’m on a three-day vacation. Wanna know why? Because the PR team is too scared to show their faces, and he didn’t want me to blow up the building like I told you I would when the contract was written.”

He glanced back.

“The lawyer will be in touch.”

And just like that, Katsuki walked out.

To go home.

To be with his family.

To protect what mattered most.

Chapter Text

The takeout containers were scattered across the coffee table — half-empty boxes of dumplings, yakisoba noodles with stray bean sprouts hanging off the edge, and three different kinds of mochi that Yuzuki had absolutely licked to claim as hers.

Katsuki didn’t even try to fight her on it. He was on “vacation,” as his manager insisted, and that meant absolutely no cooking.

Which was why Izuku was currently popping popcorn over the stove with one hand while holding Taiga on his hip with the other. The toddler was drowsy from food and cartoons, head nestled against Izuku’s shoulder, one tiny hand tucked under Izuku’s hoodie.

“Rio next!” Yuzuki shouted from the living room, hopping from cushion to cushion like the floor was lava.

“I thought you said Monster High,” Haruki groaned, sprawled across the beanbag with a blanket tossed haphazardly across his legs.

“I changed my mind!”

Haruki rolled his eyes, but Katsuki passed him the remote anyway. “Let her pick,” he said, ruffling his son’s hair as he passed. “We watched your robot show last time.”

“It’s mecha fantasy,” Haruki muttered, but there wasn’t much bite to it.

By the time Rio 2 was playing, the popcorn was ready, Taiga was fully asleep in Katsuki’s lap, and a game of uno was set up on the floor.

Izuku sat cross-legged, already munching on a handful of popcorn. Katsuki stretched out behind him, leaning against the couch, with one arm cradling their sleeping toddler and the other tossing pieces to Yuzuki when she opened her mouth like a baby bird.

Haruki was already annoyed, his turn being skipped for a third time.

Later, the four of them (minus the snoring toddler) played Sorry! sprawled out on the floor. Izuku kept winning. Haruki was salty about it.

Yuzuki was barely playing — she kept forgetting whose turn it was and getting distracted by the songs in the movie. At one point, she stood up with her cardboard sword from earlier and challenged Haruki to a duel mid-game.

Haruki didn’t hesitate. “En garde!” he declared, grabbing his own cardboard blade from the toy bin.

“You’re no match for the Blue Princess of the Forest!” Yuzuki declared, twirling dramatically.

Katsuki laughed — a real, belly-deep sound — as Haruki let himself be defeated, flopping onto the rug like he’d been mortally wounded.

Izuku clapped from the sidelines. “Our hero has fallen! What a tragic end!”

“She got me with the double spin move,” Haruki said weakly. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

Izuku leaned against Katsuki’s side, giggling as he nuzzled into his shoulder. Katsuki, in turn, pressed a kiss to his curls.

“Remind me to get her into fencing,” Izuku said softly.

“Oh yeah,” Katsuki grinned. “She’d own the circuit.”

Eventually, after some cleanup and a brief intermission where Izuku sang along to “What Is Love” from Rio 2 while swaying dramatically with Yuzuki in the kitchen, the energy in the house began to settle.

Katsuki joined the duet for the chorus, voice gruff but playful.

"It’s a crazy love…"

Izuku laughed mid-verse and nudged him with his hip. “You sound like you’re trying to seduce the microwave.”

“I’m trying to serenade you, nerd.”

Izuku’s eyes crinkled with warmth. “Mission accomplished.”

Afterward, Yuzuki curled up in Katsuki’s lap, Taiga napping soundly on a pile of blankets, and Haruki dragged the chess board from the shelf.

He dropped it in front of Izuku with a determined look.

“Rematch.”

Izuku arched a brow. “Since when did we have a first match?”

“Last week, but this time I’m gonna win.”

Katsuki smirked from the couch, now sandwiched between a half-asleep Yuzuki and an already-napping Taiga. “You sure about that?”

Haruki nodded, serious. “I’ve been watching videos.”

“Ooh, scary,” Izuku teased. “Are you gonna Queen’s Gambit me?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Exactly,” Katsuki muttered.

Haruki huffed. “Dad!”

Izuku chuckled and reached out to help him set up the board.

This game moved slow. Haruki was thinking through his moves. Concentrated. A little frown between his brows — the same one Katsuki got when trying not to burn dinner. Izuku’s play was fluid. Relaxed. But precise. Every move a trap waiting to be sprung.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to your son,” Haruki muttered fifteen minutes in.

“I’m building character,” Izuku said gently.

“You’re ruining me.”

“And I’m so proud.”

Katsuki watched them from across the room. The quietness of it. The steady click of pieces against the board. His chest ached — not with worry, but with something warm and full and good.

“I told you not to play against him,” Katsuki muttered, glancing over the board.

“He’s literally a strategist,” Haruki grumbled.

Izuku shrugged innocently, moving his piece with a grin. “And this game is all strategy.”

Katsuki chuckled. “You did this to yourself, kid.”

“You’re all against me,” Haruki groaned, flopping backward dramatically.

Izuku leaned forward and began setting the board back into its case, humming as he stacked the pieces away.

Haruki sat up, watching him for a second, then said, “You never did say why you chose to be an analyst and strategist.”

Izuku blinked, caught off guard for a moment. He glanced at Katsuki, who looked up from tucking the toddler into a blanket. There was something silent between them. Something understood.

Izuku smiled softly. “That’s a story for another day.”

When bedtime finally rolled around, all three kids were sticky-eyed and slouchy, bumping into each other like tired ducklings.

Katsuki helped brush Yuzuki’s hair while Izuku wrangled Taiga into pajamas. Haruki insisted he wasn’t tired and then promptly dozed off halfway through pulling his shirt over his head.

An hour later, when the house was silent, Katsuki’s phone buzzed on the nightstand.

From: Hana
Mister Tanaka has been fired. Official statement pending. The agency is pursuing legal action for defamation of public image regarding both Ground Zero and his mate.

Katsuki stared at the screen for a moment. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders for days finally began to loosen.

He set the phone down. Rolled toward Izuku, already curled up under the comforter. He slid an arm around his waist. Kissed the back of his neck.

“Mmm,” Izuku hummed, half-asleep. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Katsuki whispered. “Now I am.”

One by one, the kids wandered in. Yuzuki first, dragging a plushie the size of a small animal. Then Taiga, blinking sleepily and climbing up between them without a word. And finally — Haruki, awkward and too tall for this, hesitating at the doorway.

Katsuki lifted the blanket.

Haruki said nothing, just shuffled in and flopped beside them, careful not to squish anyone.

Katsuki looked down the line of his family. Five warm bodies all tucked into one bed.

He sighed softly. Closed his eyes.

Let the peace settle.

Tomorrow could bring what it wanted. But tonight? They were home.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was warm. Bright. Cluttered with half-eaten bowls of rice, leftover yakitori skewers, and Yuzuki’s chopsticks abandoned mid-table for some very serious plushie surgery on the couch.

Katsuki rolled his eyes as Taiga smeared soy sauce all over his sleeve.

Izuku laughed. “You’re the one who gave him the bottle.”

“I didn’t give him the bottle—he stole it, like the little gremlin he is.”

“He gets it from your side,” Izuku teased, and nudged Katsuki’s leg under the table.

“Bullshit. Gremlin is all you.”

“Language,” Haruki muttered around a mouthful of food, tone flat.

Katsuki raised a brow. “Oh, now you’re the manners police?”

Izuku grinned, leaning into Katsuki’s space just enough to make him huff.

“See?” Katsuki shot toward Haruki. “This. This is what I live with.”

Izuku’s smile faltered for just a second — barely a twitch — before it was gone again.

Haruki’s hand paused over his chopsticks. His stomach flipped.

The air felt suddenly… tight. Familiar.

He stood.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered, scraping his chair back.

Izuku blinked. “Haruki, you’ve barely—”

“I said I’m fine.”

He left before they could press.

He left before the sound of raised voices could echo in his head again.

—

Haruki is 4 when he learns his dad is a hero.
He watches him fly across the screen so fast the camera can’t keep up. Ground Zero — loud, explosive, bigger than life.
It’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen.

He’s also 4 when he hears his mama cry for the first time.

It’s behind the bathroom door. Haruki stands outside, small fists balled at his sides. He wants to help. But Mama told him not to knock unless it’s an emergency.
And he doesn’t think Mama would call this one.

Haruki is 6 when he realizes he was never supposed to be born.

He asks Mama: “Why did you have me?”
Izuku freezes.
Then he cries. Right there in the kitchen, hand over his mouth like the sound of it hurts too much.

Haruki doesn’t ask that question again.

Haruki is 7 when he figures out why Papa is always late.

Every day, Papa comes home and collapses — on the couch, in their bed, still in his hero gear.
But when Haruki crawls up and tugs his hand, Papa always opens his eyes. Always plays, even if it’s just for ten minutes.
Even when he’s exhausted.
Haruki doesn’t say it out loud, but it makes him feel special.

Haruki is 8 when his parents scream at each other.

It happened once and it is still one of the scariest things Haruki has heard.

It ends with Katsuki slamming the door. Izuku curls up in bed, eyes red, trying to stay quiet.
Haruki stands in the hallway and doesn’t breathe.
He doesn’t know how to fix this one.

Haruki is 9 when the world shifts.

Her name is Yuzuki. She comes home wrapped in pink blankets and soft coos.
His sister.
His partner in crime.
His gremlin twin.

Haruki thinks maybe things will be okay.

Haruki is 10 when he finds Mama on the floor.

He’s lying there. Still. Too still.

A bottle of pills sits open on the tile.
There are only two left.

Haruki doesn’t cry.
He kneels. He shakes his mom gently.

“Mama? Wake up.”

Nothing.

The silence is loud. The air is sharp. The floor is cold.

He calls Papa.
Papa comes home fast — faster than any villain fight Haruki’s ever seen.
He scoops Mama off the floor and clutches Haruki against his chest like he’s scared they’ll both vanish.

Papa whispers: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Later, when Mama’s awake, they talk.
Haruki learns it’s not the first time.
He learns sometimes being tired doesn’t mean sleep.
He doesn’t ask why.

But he doesn’t stop being angry. Angry at the world and at katsuki.

Haruki is 11 when his world flips again.
He holds his baby brother for the first time.
Taiga.
Small, squishy, loud.
Haruki kisses his forehead and swears he’ll never let him feel like a mistake.

Haruki is 12 when he learns the word depression.

He reads about it. Researches it. Watches videos.
And something in his chest goes quiet when he realizes
That’s what Mama has.

He doesn’t say anything.
But he brings him tea more often.
He turns the hallway light on when it gets dark.
He teaches Yuzuki to take her laundry to him to fold because sometimes Mama can’t do it.

Haruki is 13 when he learns the full story.

Why Mama flinches at his own worth.
Why Papa is always trying so hard.
Why there’s a scar on Mama’s neck and a hole in their past.

It doesn’t make him feel better.
But it makes things clearer.

Haruki still thinks he’s a mistake.

But now… he understands why they fought to keep him anyway.

Haruki is 14 when he follows in his father’s footsteps.

Hero school. Training.
People say he’s got the fire. The power. The name.

But Haruki knows the truth.

He fights to protect people — because one day, he almost lost his whole world before he was even old enough to understand it.

He fights for Mom.

He fights for every kid who’s ever asked “why was I born?”
And still didn’t hear the answer.

—

Haruki lay on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, hands fisted in his sheets.

He could still hear the laughter from the kitchen. Soft. Fading. Like a song from a different life.

Izuku’s voice — gentle. Katsuki’s — gruff and constant.

They weren’t yelling now.

They hadn’t yelled like that in years.

But the memory was burned into his bones.

His fingers relaxed, slowly. He reached over to grab his phone and stared at the screen.

A pic of all of them at the beach when taiga was still small.

He huffed a tiny laugh. Then tossed the phone aside.

Maybe things weren’t perfect.

But they were his.

A soft knock on his door startled Haruki.

He knew who it was — too gentle to be Dad.

“You can come in, Mom.”

Izuku peeked in, eyes warm but cautious. “Hey. You okay? You left dinner pretty fast.”

Haruki hesitated, then sat up a little straighter on the bed.

“Do… do you remember that argument you had with Dad when I was eight?”

Izuku blinked. “...Yeah. I do. Why?”

“Dinner. I know you guys were just teasing each other, but… it reminded me of that.”

Izuku stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. He sat at the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “We never wanted you to carry that night with you.”

Haruki shrugged, eyes still on the blanket. “I didn’t think I was. I don't even remember what that fight was about. It just kind of… hit me.”

They sat in silence for a beat.

Then Izuku said, “You know… your dad goes to therapy. It’s part of his hero contract, I mean after raids, missions. But he goes pretty regularly even when we were in highschool.”

“really?” Haruki murmured.

Izuku smiled faintly. “He’s actually really good about it.”

“What about you?” Haruki asked, voice small.

Izuku hesitated.

“...I went once,” he said, looking down. “But I didn’t go back.”

“Why?”

Izuku sighed. His fingers twisted together in his lap.

“I struggle to open up,” he admitted. “I think… your dad is the only one who really knows everything. And even then, that’s because he lived through most of it with me.”

Haruki looked over, watching him closely. “Would you ever try again?”

Izuku blinked.

“I could go too,” Haruki added quickly, trying to sound casual. “Not with you or anything. Just… like, at the same time. Same day. So it doesn’t feel like doing it alone.”

Izuku’s eyes softened. For a moment, he didn’t say anything — just reached over and rested a hand over Haruki’s.

“Maybe,” he said, voice quiet. “That might help.”

Haruki nodded. “Cool. Yeah. Just… think about it.”

“I will.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like the space where healing starts.

Izuku gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

And for the first time in a while, Haruki didn’t feel like he was carrying it all alone.

Chapter Text

It was just past eight, and the kitchen was alive with the sounds of cereal crunching, clinking mugs, and a five-year-old declaring war on anyone who wasn’t ready to go to the park right now.

Izuku was seated at the end of the table, tablet propped up, fingers swiping through a rotating stream of hero stat logs. He wore his usual work fit — dark slacks, crisp button-up, sleeves rolled halfway — a casual clean that said “desk job” but still screamed “I will destroy you in debate.” His hair was pinned back with a plain green clip Yuzuki had given him, and his coffee was already halfway gone.

Katsuki, by contrast, looked like he’d been dragged out of a ditch. He was shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, one eye still squinting against the morning sun filtering through the curtains. His mug was full, untouched, steaming on the counter where he’d forgotten it.

"Park," Yuzuki declared again, fists on her hips like she owned the place. “You said we could go, and I already got shoes on!”

Across the table, Taiga was stabbing his pancakes with methodical intent. He hadn’t said a word all morning, but the two plastic dinosaurs he’d tucked into his sleeves were having a violent war under the table.

Katsuki grunted. “Yeah, yeah, I said we could go. I’m not dead yet.”

Yuzuki cheered like she’d just saved the world.

From the hallway, Haruki appeared with perfect timing, hair still sleep-mussed, hoodie half-zipped. His eyes lit up.

“We going to the park?”

Katsuki gave a short nod, rubbing his face. “Yeah, I guess—”

“Can we vlog it?”

That made Katsuki pause. Visibly.

“Hell no,” he said flatly, already regretting life. “PR’s got my ass in a vice. I don’t care if the agency’s suing that damn gossip leech. I’m not giving anyone more footage.”

Haruki held up both hands in mock innocence. “We don’t have to post it. But having it? For the memory? Could be nice.”

Izuku raised a brow but said nothing, sipping his coffee. Katsuki stared at Haruki for a long second, eyes narrowed.

“You going to the park?”

Haruki opened his mouth, then closed it.

“…Fuck,” he muttered, already turning to head back upstairs and get dressed.

Katsuki smirked into his cup. “That’s what I thought.”

Title: Private Feed Episode 7: "Hang at the Park" Uploaded: Sunday, August 17– 10:00 AM Runtime: 20:05 Minor’s faces blurred per NDA. Viewer discretion advised for language.

The video opens mid-walk. The camera shakes slightly with each step, catching uneven footage of pavement, a passing stroller, and the familiar figure of Ground Zero from behind. He’s dressed down: hoodie tied around his waist, black tank top, sunglasses. One hand grips a water bottle. The other rests protectively on the shoulder of a tiny boy in a sky-blue sunhat.

Taiga is babbling softly, but his voice is muffled. He walks with exaggerated effort, stomping one foot dramatically as he points toward the park entrance up ahead. His face is blurred.

Yuzuki runs ahead.

"Park!!"

Her voice is unmistakable—sharp, delighted, the kind of five-year-old chaos that makes parents nervous. Her pink sundress flaps behind her like a cape as she spins once, twice, then sprints toward the climbing structure. Her face is also blurred.

Katsuki doesn’t shout. He just calls her name, low and warning. She freezes mid-step, shoots him a sheepish grin, then skips back a few paces.

Haruki follows behind, holding the camera steady. Fourteen, in shorts and a loose tee, sunglasses pushed into his hair. He glances toward his dad.

"She's so fast. I don't remember being that fast," Haruki says off-camera.

"You were. But also you were better behaved," Katsuki mutters, not even looking back.

Haruki grins.

Cut.

They’re at the park now. The structure is quiet, mostly empty. A few families pack up strollers in the distance. The sun hangs warm and gentle above the trees.

Yuzuki climbs up the slide backward.

"You’re not supposed to do that," Haruki mutters from where he stands beneath it.

"I like it better this way," Yuzuki says.

She slithers down halfway, then curls into a ball under the slide. Haruki ducks down beside her. The camera is set to rest on a low tripod, catching the two of them beneath the shadowed plastic.

She leans over, whispering:

"Are you okay? You were quiet last night."

Haruki blinks. Yuzuki hugs her knees.

"You get like that sometimes," she adds. "Like when I get a tummy ache but pretend I don't."

Haruki doesn’t respond right away. He pulls at a blade of grass between his fingers.

"I'm fine," he says eventually.

"Okay," Yuzuki says simply. "Can we get ice cream after?"

Cut.

Katsuki sits on a nearby bench, elbows on his knees. The hoodie is off now, looped around Taiga’s waist like a makeshift harness. The toddler climbs up and down the side of the bench, occasionally stopping to show off a rock or leaf.

Haruki flops onto the bench beside his dad, camera resting beside them.

"Do you actually like taking the kids to the park?" he says.

Katsuki grunts. "I do. 'Cause it's quiet. And no one bugs us."

Taiga clambers up onto Katsuki’s lap and flops dramatically. Katsuki barely reacts.

"You're lucky he's not covered in sand," Haruki adds.

Cut.

Yuzuki shrieks in the background as she runs in wild, fast circles around a tree.

"I'M A GREMLINNNN," she screams, arms up like claws.

Katsuki doesn’t flinch. Haruki snorts.

Cut again.

They’re on the swings now. Three of them: Taiga in the toddler swing, Yuzuki in the regular, and Haruki, long-limbed, folded awkwardly into the third.

Katsuki stands behind them. Pushes each in turn.

Yuzuki squeals. "HIGHER, DAD! SKY HIGH!"

"You fall out, I'm not helping you," Katsuki warns.

Taiga kicks his legs and giggles.

"I'M FLYING," Yuzuki shouts.

Haruki leans back and closes his eyes as he swings.

"This is the most fun I've had all week."

"What? UA hero training not fun?" Katsuki jokes.

"Hell no."

Cut.

Katsuki now stands in front of the camera. He’s clearly holding it himself, angling the lens to face him. The sun glints off his sunglasses, his jaw set hard.

"I’ve got one thing to say," he growls. "If even one person steps outta line in the comments—one—I’m shutting this whole thing down. Private Feed ends. No more vids."

He stares into the lens for a beat longer than necessary.

"Got it?"

Cut.

They’re sitting in the shade now, on a blanket spread over the grass. Taiga munches on crackers. Yuzuki sips juice and tries to convince Haruki that rocks are edible if you believe hard enough.

Haruki, face flushed with amusement, says, "I think that's how you get a stomach pump."

Yuzuki grins. "Then I’ll have proof it’s magic."

Katsuki lies back, one arm over his eyes.

"Why are my kids so weird," he mutters.

"Because you raised us," Haruki answers immediately.

"Tch. Shut up."

Cut.

Final shot: the sun beginning to dip, long shadows on the grass. Taiga curled against Katsuki’s chest, half-asleep. Yuzuki slumped against Haruki’s side, eyes barely open. The air hums with the buzz of late summer insects.

No words.

Just soft breathing.

And the slow fade to black.

—

TOP COMMENTS:

@chaoschildfanclub:
Gremlin climbing the OUTSIDE of the slide while Haruki just films like it’s normal behavior 💀
↳ @muffinfortaiga:
She said “rules are suggestions” and Katsuki said “just don’t die”
↳ @groundzerodna:
Truly Katsuki’s kid. Fearless and mildly concerning.

@captainofsoft:
Baby Blue barely stumbles and Katsuki’s already halfway across the park like he was launched 😭
↳ @emergencysnackdad:
“Fall and learn” but he’s there to catch every time
↳ @fluffygroundzero:
He can’t help it. Soft mode is always one scraped knee away

@kacchansboystoo:
“Don’t eat the mulch” and gremlin goes dead silent like she was absolutely about to
↳ @gremlinfangirl:
She stared at him like he interrupted a gourmet meal
↳ @teamharuki:
Haruki in the back like a National Geographic crew: observe, never interfere💀

@pleasejustonedayofpeace:
Haruki: “Do you want to try the swings?”
Gremlin: already hanging upside down like a bat
↳ @bakufamfanclub:
They don’t try. They do
↳ @swingsareoptional:
Gremlin’s life motto is “what if I just climbed everything backwards”

@burnyourcomment:
The way Katsuki got real serious at the end: “We’re done if y’all can’t act right in the comments.”
↳ @respectthedad:
He said ✨parental boundaries✨ and meant it
↳ @apologyformyself:
I had to go back and check my own comment just in case 😭😭😭

TOP TAGS: #ParkDayChaos, #SoftDadKatsuki, #MiniGremlinsUnleashed, #GremlinIsAFeralPrincess, #BlueTumblesSafe, #HarukiTheCameraman, #GroundZeroFamilyMoments, #ClimbingEverythingAlways, #MulchIsNotASnack, #RespectTheDad

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be the best day of his life.

He was fourteen — just a kid with big dreams.
He’d met his idol. The Number One Hero. The Symbol of Peace.

And then All Might told him the truth.

"You should think of something more realistic. For someone like you. A quirkless Omega… heroism just isn’t in the cards."

That was the last straw Izuku had left.

His legs moved on their own after that. Out of the alley, past the sirens, through the tight-packed crowds of smoke and shouting and scattered debris. He didn’t remember the train ride. Or how long he’d walked. All he knew was the building had no fence on the roof and the stairs didn’t stop.

He just kept climbing.

He didn’t even cry at first. Just walked up twenty-seven flights like a ghost, his hands still clenched around the crushed notebook All Might had signed. Pages wrinkled. His dream inside, in ink, in ashes.

The wind was sharp when he reached the top. It tugged at his hoodie, his hair, the sweat on his neck. His lungs ached, legs numb. He didn’t know why he came up here. He didn’t even know what he was doing.

He stood near the edge. Not on it. But close enough.

And then everything hurt.

The world didn’t spin or darken like in the movies. His body just... stopped. The guilt. The shame. The disappointment. It swelled up and crashed down. His knees gave out. The drop was silent—like something in him short-circuited and folded under its own weight.

An Omega drop. Total shutdown.

He curled up on the gravel, heart racing even though his limbs wouldn't move. He couldn’t cry. Couldn’t scream. He just laid there, eyes glassy, cheeks damp, as the sun started to sink lower in the sky.

Izuku didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment, he was curled up on the rooftop, fingers clenched around a notebook, and the next, he was waking up warm.

Too warm.

Blankets were tucked around his body. There was a pillow under his head. He was in Katsuki’s room—he could tell by the posters, the smell, the faint hum of an old All Might lamp in the corner. His eyes cracked open slowly, lashes sticky from dried tears.

“Finally.”

Katsuki’s voice came from beside him. Not angry. Not mocking. Just… tired.

Izuku flinched and sat up too fast. The movement left him dizzy, stomach twisting as the weight of the last week returned with force. His quirkless diagnosis. His presentation as an Omega. The rooftop. All Might’s words.

The drop.

“I—” Izuku’s voice cracked. “Why… why did you bring me here?”

Katsuki didn’t answer at first. He sat cross-legged on the floor, still in his school uniform, though his tie was gone and his sleeves were rolled up. There was a tension in his jaw, but his hands were still.

“You dropped, Deku.”

The nickname didn’t sting like it used to. Not when Katsuki said it so softly.

“I found you shaking and curled up on a rooftop. I thought you were gonna die.”

Izuku curled inward again, arms wrapping around his knees. “I didn’t know what was happening,” he whispered. “I just… I just wanted to stop existing for a little while.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Katsuki stood. He crossed the room, grabbed something from the shelf, and tossed it on the bed.

A familiar hoodie.

Izuku blinked.

“It’s mine,” Katsuki muttered. “It smells like me. You… you looked like you needed grounding.”

Izuku hesitated, then pulled it into his lap. It was warm. Heavy. Comforting in a way he didn’t expect. The scent hit him almost immediately—spicy, smoky, sharp around the edges—but beneath it was something steady. Anchoring.

His body reacted before he could think. His shoulders dropped. His breathing slowed.

“You always said scenting was stupid,” Izuku murmured, eyes closing. “That you weren’t gonna be all Alpha about it.”

“I’m not,” Katsuki said quickly. “But you’re my—” He bit off the rest of the sentence and turned away. “Whatever. It helped, didn’t it?”

Izuku nodded.

The hoodie stayed wrapped around him all night. He didn’t sleep much, but he didn’t panic either. Katsuki stayed nearby, never crowding him, just existing in the same space. Close enough to touch. Safe.

Over the next few weeks, things changed.

Slowly.

Katsuki stopped yelling. Izuku stopped flinching.

They started walking home together again. Not talking, at first, but existing side by side like they used to before quirks and hormones and cruel words ruined everything. Izuku wore Katsuki’s hoodies more often. Sometimes he returned them. Sometimes he didn’t.

And then came the night the bond started.

It wasn’t dramatic. No fights. No ruts or heats or primal instincts. Just two fourteen-year-olds curled up on the floor of Katsuki’s room, the window cracked open to let in the spring air.

Izuku was wearing one of Katsuki’s older hoodies, sleeves too long, the hem brushing his thighs. Katsuki had a blanket tossed over both of them, and their knees were touching.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Izuku said suddenly, staring at the ceiling. “Not to you. Not to anyone.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m quirkless. I’m an Omega. I’m not going to UA.”

Katsuki didn’t look away from him. “You’re still you.”

Izuku’s heart clenched.

He turned his head, searching Katsuki’s face. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m yours,” Katsuki said, voice rough. “And you’re mine.”

There was no bite.

Just two kids leaning into each other, and the bond sliding into place like a door finally closing. Soft. Quiet. Real.

Izuku felt it settle in his chest like gravity.

And for the first time in months, he didn’t feel alone.

—

The first time Izuku realized something was wrong, he was hunched over a toilet, trembling.

It had started as a headache. Then the fever set in. He thought maybe he was getting sick. School stress. Maybe something Katsuki said had stuck too deep—like usual. But when he woke up drenched in sweat, hips aching and body pulsing with a low thrum that made his skin crawl, he knew.

His heat had started.

They had talked about it in health class, in whispers, in awkward pamphlets.

The bond between him and Katsuki was… strained, at best.
He didn’t talk about it. Not to his mother. Not to anyone.
Katsuki was trying — he’d started therapy, stopped yelling, tried to be kind. Careful.
But with him living at the UA dorms, things were still hard.
And Izuku still flinched when Katsuki raised his voice. When he moved too fast.

And yet, when the heat started, Izuku called him anyway — desperate, humiliated, shaking.
Katsuki was there within an hour.

It was awful. Overwhelming. Nothing like the stories. He sobbed halfway through it, gripping Katsuki’s shirt so hard his knuckles bled. Katsuki didn’t complain. He held him through every wave and tremor. He whispered apologies that Izuku couldn’t process. He tried to be gentle, even when their instincts weren’t.

And then it was over.

Or so he thought.

Two weeks later, he threw up during breakfast. Then again at lunch. He ignored it. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to say it out loud. But he knew in his heart.

The test was positive.

He stared at the lines in silence for so long his legs went numb. The tiny plastic stick trembled in his grip. The longer he looked, the more it felt like the ground beneath him was shifting. Splintering. Collapsing under his feet.

He waited another two weeks to tell his mother.

“Mom,” he whispered, standing awkwardly in the kitchen as she chopped vegetables. “Can I… talk to you about something?”

She hummed. “Of course, sweetheart. Is everything okay?”

“I… I think I’m pregnant.”

The knife stilled. She didn’t turn around. Not at first.

“You think you’re pregnant?”

His throat tightened. “I took two tests.”

Silence.

Slowly, she turned to face him. Her eyes swept over him—his slouched posture, his bitten nails, the hunch in his shoulders like he already knew what was coming.

“With who?” she asked, voice like ice.

He didn’t answer.

“Mom, I—”

“With who, Izuku?”

His voice cracked. “Katsuki.”

She stepped back like she’d been slapped.

“No,” she muttered. “No, no. Absolutely not. That—that boy bonded you without permission, and now—now you’re telling me he’s gotten you pregnant?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Izuku whispered, but the words felt weak. Even he didn’t fully believe them. “It wasn’t planned. It just—happened.”

“And now you expect me to just be okay with this?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I just… I don’t know what to do.”

She didn’t scream. That was the worst part. She didn’t cry, or hug him, or ask if he was okay. She just looked at him like he was a stranger.

“I think… you should find somewhere else to stay.”

His stomach dropped.

“Mom—?”

“You made your choice,” she said, turning back to the cutting board. “You’re almost eighteen. If you think you’re grown enough to have a child, then you’re grown enough to deal with the consequences.”

He stood there, frozen, while the sound of chopping resumed. Like nothing had happened.

Like he was nothing at all.

He left that night with a single duffel bag and nowhere to go.

Katsuki’s house was out of the question. He couldn’t bring himself to call. Couldn’t even look at his contact name.

So he wandered. Park benches. Late trains. Cold nights.

He wasn’t homeless. Not yet. But he was close.

When Mitsuki found out—three days in—she cursed so loudly he flinched.

“Damn that woman,” she muttered. “You’re a kid. And she just threw you out?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept his eyes on his tea.

“You’re staying here,” she said, no room for argument. “End of story.”

And he did.

She didn’t hover. She didn’t push. She gave him a warm bed and a door that locked and the space to cry when he needed to. Katsuki didn’t bring it up either. Not the pregnancy. Not the heat. Not the look in Izuku’s eyes when he showed up at their door.

But Izuku noticed the way he glanced at his belly when he thought Izuku wasn’t looking.

He noticed everything.

Depression didn’t come all at once.
It slipped in like fog — quiet, heavy.
At first, it was just tiredness. Then skipped meals.
Then the nausea that wouldn’t go away.

He didn’t go back to school.
Finished online instead.

Stopped checking his phone.

Stopped wanting to exist.

There were days he didn’t speak to anyone at all. Days he lay curled in bed with his arms wrapped around his stomach, terrified of what was happening inside him and too ashamed to ask for help.

He stopped writing in his notebooks.

Stopped believing he’d ever be anything more than this, an empty shell full of regret.

Mitsuki tried to reach him. Sometimes, Katsuki would knock gently and leave food outside the door. But no one knew what to say. How could they?

He was a seventeen-year-old Omega, carrying a child he hadn’t asked for, abandoned by the only person who was supposed to stay.

The darkness set in slowly.

But it stayed.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of machines and the occasional shuffle of nurses outside the door. The antiseptic smell clung to everything. Izuku's arms trembled as the nurse gently placed the baby on his chest. He held still, rigid, barely breathing.

Katsuki sat beside the bed, one hand clenched tight on the railing, the other gripping his own thigh so hard his knuckles were white. He said nothing, but he hadn’t left the room once. Not during the labor. Not during the aftermath. Not now.

Izuku stared down at the tiny bundle nestled against him.

Haruki was impossibly small. Pale and pink and warm in a way that made Izuku’s chest ache. His little fingers twitched, his mouth opened in a soft searching motion, and Izuku’s breath hitched.

He didn’t cry. Not at first.

He just… looked. At the faint gold tufts of hair. The furrowed little brow. The way Haruki pressed into him without hesitation, like Izuku was home. Safe.

And then his throat burned.

His hand hovered, then lowered, and gently — carefully — he touched Haruki’s back. His voice cracked as he whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to be your start.”

A beat passed.

Haruki made a tiny noise, the softest sound in the world, and curled closer like he’d known Izuku forever.

That’s what broke him.

Tears slid silently down Izuku’s cheeks as he stared down at the baby. His baby. The weight of everything — the rejection, the shame, the terror, the endless, gnawing loneliness — all of it collapsed in his chest at once.

And Katsuki… Katsuki didn’t say a word.

He just reached out and placed his hand over Izuku’s — steady, grounding, warm.

Izuku didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. But he felt it. That wordless I’m here.

Haruki yawned then, wriggled once, and let out a tiny sigh before falling asleep against him.

And Izuku, barely holding himself together, whispered, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Katsuki finally spoke, voice rough. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

—

Izuku learned early how to disappear.

He made himself small in crowds, in the glow of Ground Zero’s rising stardom. He wore dull colors, kept his head down, and smiled when people stared too long at the freckled boy clinging to his side. Haruki was what make it all feel worth it.

Even when the world felt unbearable, Izuku stayed for him.

In the early years, when Haruki was still small enough to carry, it had been easier. The three of them carved out their routines in a small but sunlit apartment Mitsuki helped them secure. Katsuki was often gone on patrols and internships. Izuku, officially listed as “unemployed” on most legal forms, worked quietly under a pseudonym, writing quirk assessments and combat strategy breakdowns for agencies that never asked for a face.

He was good at it. Brilliant, actually. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t a hero.

He never would be.

Katsuki tried to be present. He did. Even after long shifts or overnight missions, he’d drag himself home, change diapers, collapse on the couch with Haruki snoring on his chest. He’d kiss Izuku’s temple and whisper things like, “You’re doing good. You’re so fuckin’ strong.”

And sometimes, it was enough to keep the loneliness at bay.

But loneliness has sharp teeth. And it never stops gnawing.

The press found out when Haruki was four.

Some tabloid leaked a blurry photo—Katsuki in street clothes, one hand wrapped protectively around an Omega, the other holding a tiny, blond-haired child. Izuku remembered the way it hit him: a stomach drop, a flood of nausea, and a phone vibrating endlessly with unread messages.

Within hours, hashtags trended. “#GroundZeroBabyMama.” “#QuirklessOmega.” “#GoldDigger.”

They called him a homewrecker. A manipulator. A societal leech using a powerful Alpha to climb the ladder. Forums were flooded with conspiracy theories: that Izuku had used scent suppressants to trick Katsuki into a bond, that Haruki wasn’t even his kid, that the whole thing was a scandal Katsuki's agency had tried to bury.

Katsuki went silent in the media. His agency’s PR team handled it with sharp, defensive statements. “Ground Zero does not comment on personal matters.”

But Izuku couldn’t hide. Not from the whispers at the grocery store. Not from the neighbors who suddenly avoided eye contact. Not from the sharp look people would give him on the street.

“You’ve brought shame to yourself,” they had said. “You can’t just keep blaming everyone else for your choices.”

Their bond was strong, but fragile. Like glass under pressure.

Katsuki loved him. That much Izuku knew. He came home when he could. He took Haruki on weekend trips, left handwritten notes in the kitchen, texted Izuku every day—even when he didn’t respond. He tried to make it work, in his brash, messy, Katsuki way.

And Izuku tried too.

He cooked dinner most night. Kept their home clean. Hugged Haruki a little tighter when the nightmares came. He took contract work from agencies in Europe or Korea, anything to feel useful again.

Some days, it almost felt normal.

But there were cracks. Conversations unfinished. Apologies unsaid. Moments where Katsuki would reach out, and Izuku would flinch. Not physically—but emotionally. Like touch still reminded him of being seventeen and terrified. Like love was a language he didn’t remember how to speak.

Katsuki never pushed. But the distance hurt them both.

The fight happened the night Katsuki came home from a week-long mission in Hokkaido.

Izuku was in the kitchen, stirring miso soup and chopping scallions. Haruki, now ten, was in his room watching old hero documentaries. The apartment smelled like rice and oil and something sweet from the bakery bag Katsuki left on the counter.

He was tired. Bone-tired. Mud on his boots, bruises under his eyes, a long, healing cut across his jaw. But something tugged him toward the bedroom.

He was looking for a clean shirt when he opened the wrong drawer.

Inside was a small, cardboard box. Folded carefully shut. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender.

He knew what it was before he even opened it.

Blades. Gauze. Ointment.

Katsuki’s breath caught in his throat.

“...Izuku?”

The wooden spoon clattered in the kitchen. Footsteps. Then silence.

Izuku appeared in the doorway, towel over his shoulder, face pale.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

Katsuki’s voice trembled. “What the fuck is this.”

“Don’t—please, Katsuki, just… put it back.”

“Are you hurting yourself? Are you fucking Izuku, what the hell.”

Izuku’s hands went to his arms, shielding them. “It’s not like that I didn’t I haven’t in a while I wasn’t going to, I just needed to feel safe.”

“Safe?! With that? You kept it next to my clothes, where our kid could find it—”

“I was careful! I am careful! Don’t talk to me like I’m like I’m some kind of fucking danger ”

“You are!” Katsuki shouted. “To yourself, I come home and find this I thought we were better than this, Izuku”

“You thought” Izuku laughed, loud and broken. “You thought what? That because I smile in pictures and make breakfast and clean up after you, I’m fine? You don’t fucking see me, Katsuki!”

“I do! I see everything! I try for you! I love you and you won’t let me in!”

“Because every time I let someone in, they leave!” Izuku screamed. “You think it’s easy, being your dirty secret? Being the quirkless Omega who ‘ruined’ Japan’s favorite Alpha?! I can’t even walk Haruki to school without wondering who’s going to spit on me next”

From down the hall, something crashed. A soft, startled sound.

Haruki.

Silence dropped like a hammer.

Izuku covered his mouth. Katsuki stood frozen.

Then small feet padded down the hallway. A sleepy, scared voice: “...Mama?”

Izuku turned just as Haruki peeked around the doorway, eyes wide, clutching a pillow.

“I heard yelling,” Haruki mumbled. “Are you mad?”

Izuku’s voice cracked. “No, baby, we’re—we’re not mad. I’m sorry. Go back to bed, okay? I’ll be there soon.”

Haruki lingered. “Both of you, promise?”

Katsuki knelt and opened his arms. Haruki ran into them.

“We promise,” Katsuki whispered, kissing his head.

They tucked him in together. Neither spoke.

That night, Katsuki slept on the couch.

Not because Izuku asked him to. But because the silence between them was unbearable.

He stared at the ceiling, the box long gone—Katsuki had taken it and thrown everything. Izuku didn’t even fight him on it.

He was too tired to fight anymore.

He thought about Inko. About the way her voice had chilled when she learned he was pregnant. You’re throwing your life away, Izuku. I didn’t raise you to be someone's mistake.

He thought about that rooftop, years ago, and the way katsuki looked at him after he woke up.

And he wondered—what if he wasn’t worth trying for anymore?

But in the morning, Katsuki made coffee. Quietly. Carefully. His eyes were red.

Izuku sat at the table, unsure if he should speak.

Katsuki slid a mug across to him. Then he sat.

“I’m not mad at you,” Katsuki said, voice hoarse. “I’m scared.”

Izuku didn’t know how to answer.

“I’ll never leave you,” Katsuki continued. “But you gotta let me help. You gotta let me see you.”

Izuku’s hands shook.

“I don’t know how to be okay,” he whispered. “But I want to try.”

Katsuki reached across the table. Warm fingers closed around his.

“That’s all I need.”

—

It had been nearly a year since Yuzuki was born, and Izuku still didn’t feel like himself.

If anything, he wasn’t sure he ever would again.

The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that clung like fog to his skin. The laundry basket overflowed. Dishes were stacked beside the sink, crusted and waiting. Toys littered the floor, a trail of forgotten play. But it wasn’t the mess that weighed on him. It was the silence. It was the stillness. It was the way he’d stopped talking in full sentences when Katsuki wasn’t home, the way he stopped smiling without realizing it.

He blinked down at his phone again, rereading the last message he’d sent to his mother.

"She’s crawling now. Yuzuki, I mean. I think she has my eyes."

A message sent three weeks ago. Left on read.

The thread was full of similar messages. Little lifelines, thrown out like ropes into a void: updates, questions, attempts to connect. He told himself he wasn’t expecting a reply anymore. He told himself it didn’t matter. But every time he opened that message thread, his heart clenched all the same.

They hadn’t really spoken for years. Not since she told him to leave.

Not since he’d shown her the positive test with shaking hands and hope curled like a tight wire in his chest. That hope had snapped so fast, it left scars.

He should’ve stopped trying. But he never could. Some part of him still thought maybe she’d see the pictures of the kids he occasionally sent. That she’d remember he was her son. That maybe she’d say something.

She didn’t.

And every silence was a fresh wound.

Izuku curled in on himself on the couch that evening, Yuzuki asleep in her crib, Haruki in bed after their nighttime routine. The static of the TV flickered over his face, a soft hum of voices he wasn’t listening to.

Katsuki was away on another mission. Three days gone. Maybe more. He hadn’t said exactly when he’d be back. It wasn’t his fault. But it still stung.

Izuku hadn’t showered in two days. He couldn’t remember what he’d eaten today. He didn’t feel sad so much as blank. Like a room with no windows. Like something had drained out of him and left only the shell behind.

When Yuzuki cried, he got up.

When Haruki asked for help, he smiled.

But inside, he felt like he was walking on glass every day.

Even when things were quiet, he was bracing for a scream. Even when they were happy, he couldn’t feel it.

He thought it would go away.

He thought he just needed to wait it out, be strong, hold on.

But the longer it went on, the heavier it became.

The pills were in the bathroom cabinet. A leftover prescription for anxiety, never finished. He stared at them for a long time, the cap cradled in his palm.

He didn’t want to die.

He really, really didn’t want to die.

He just wanted to stop feeling like this.

Stop waking up with a weight in his chest.

Stop hearing nothing but static when he looked in the mirror.

Stop imagining what it would’ve been like if he’d been someone else. Someone better. Someone his mom could love.

Just for a little while.

He took a few. Then a few more.

Then he curled up on the bathroom floor, the tile cool beneath his cheek, and waited for the noise to stop.

He didn’t hear Haruki’s voice right away.

Not until the knock on the door turned into frantic banging.

“Mama?”

Izuku blinked. The light hurt his eyes. His head felt heavy. Distant.

“Mama, are you okay?”

The sound of Haruki’s voice broke something open inside him.

“I—I’m fine,” he called, but it came out slurred, weak.

He tried to sit up. His arms barely responded.

There was a pause. Then small, running footsteps. Then a voice on the phone high and shaking saying, “Please, I need to call my dad. Something’s wrong with Mama.”

Katsuki arrived before the ambulance.

Izuku barely remembered the sound of the door bursting open. The way Katsuki called his name. The sting of bright light as Katsuki knelt down, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch him.

“Fuck, Izuku shit, what did you take?” His voice cracked. “Baby, look at me. Look at me”

Izuku’s lips moved. He thought he said something, but he couldn’t hear his own voice over the buzzing in his head.

Katsuki turned, shouted something out the door. Then there were more hands. Cold air. A stretcher.

He faded in and out.

But he remembered the look on Katsuki’s face.

Pale. Wrecked. Terrified.

Izuku had never wanted him to look like that.

The hospital was too bright. Too sterile.

The ceiling tiles blurred in and out. Time didn’t make sense.

When he came back to himself, really back, the first thing he saw was Katsuki sitting in a chair beside the bed, hands in his hair, elbows on his knees.

The room was silent.

Izuku whispered, “Is Haruki okay? Yuzuki?”

Katsuki’s head snapped up. His eyes were bloodshot.

“Their fine. He’s scared. But their both okay.”

Izuku closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean to I wasn’t trying to ”

“I know,” Katsuki said. Voice rough. “I know. But you scared the hell out of me.”

A beat.

“You scared all of us.”

Izuku nodded weakly. “I’m sorry.”

Silence stretched long.

Then Katsuki moved. Sat on the edge of the bed and curled a hand gently around Izuku’s wrist.

“You gotta let me help,” he said. “You gotta tell me when you’re hurting.”

Izuku’s throat closed. His voice shook. “I didn’t want to ruin anything. You were doing so good. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You think your pain is a mess?” Katsuki’s eyes were sharp. “You think I don’t want to carry that with you?”

Izuku couldn’t speak. He blinked back tears.

“I love you,” Katsuki said, like a truth he would never stop repeating. “I love you even when it’s heavy. Especially when it’s heavy.”

“I feel like I’m failing,” Izuku whispered. “Like I’m failing all the time. I can’t feel anything but guilt.”

“You’re not failing.” Katsuki pressed his forehead to Izuku’s hand. “You’re exhausted. You’re drowning. You’ve been trying to carry everything alone.”

A breath. Then softer:

“Let me hold some of it.”

The following days passed slowly.

Izuku stayed in the hospital under observation. The overdose hadn’t been fatalhadn’t even been high enough for permanent harm but it had been enough.

Enough to be a cry for help.

Enough for people to finally listen.

Therapy was arranged.

Mitsuki came to sit with the kids. Haruki wouldn’t sleep without holding Izuku’s hoodie.

When Izuku came home, he expected distance. Shame. Coldness.

Instead, Haruki hugged him so tightly he couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t go away again,” Haruki whispered.

Izuku cried for the first time in weeks.

Healing didn’t happen in a straight line.

Some days were better.

Some days the light filtered in through the cracks.

He started talking more. Started saying, “I’m not okay,” without guilt. Started texting Katsuki even when it felt like too much.

Sometimes, he reached for his phone and didn’t open his mother’s message thread.

Sometimes, he looked at his daughter, her tiny fists curled in sleep, and didn’t feel like a stranger.

Sometimes, he felt the bond between him and Katsuki hum warm under his skin.

He didn’t feel whole yet.

But for the first time in a long time—

He felt like he could.

—

The room was quiet, filtered sunlight warming the wooden floor beneath Izuku’s shoes. A small humidifier puffed quietly in the corner, making the air feel soft. Safe.

He sat curled slightly inward on the couch, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on a small crack in the wall. His voice was scratchy, like he hadn’t used it in a while. Which—he hadn’t. Not like this.

He let out a short, breathy laugh. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“And… yeah,” he said, fingers twisting in the hem of his sleeve. “That’s most of my life story, I guess.”

Across from him, the therapist didn’t write anything down. Just listened.

Izuku glanced up, eyes glassy but dry. “It sounds worse when you say it all at once.”

There was no judgment. Just a quiet hum from the clock behind them, ticking on.

“You survived it,” the therapist said gently. “That’s not nothing.”

Izuku looked back down, heart thudding slow and strange in his chest. Heavy. But not drowning.

He nodded.

“…Yeah.”

Chapter Text

Uploaded: Friday, August 31 — 11:17 AM
Title: “Private Feed episode 8: sick day chaos (healing soup + toddler co-host)”
Runtime: 32:46
Minor faces blurred per NDA. Viewer discretion is advised for language and feverish whining.

Katsuki looks exhausted. His hair is flattened on one side like he slept on the couch, and there’s a green face mask across his skin. Yuzuki is perched on his hip, face blurred. She’s giggling to herself while wrestling with a floppy, pastel-colored child’s face mask—smacking it into his cheek with all the grace of a sugared-up gremlin.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just sighs like his soul left his body three hours ago.

“You know you’re going to get sick, right?”

Yuzuki’s only response is to shove the mask harder into his face, her tiny hand grabbing at his nose.

Katsuki pulls the mask off his face and sets her gently down.

“Okay, go play. Maybe Haruki feels good enough to play with you.”

There’s the sound of rapid little footsteps slapping against the wood floor as she scurries off.

From somewhere off-screen, probably down the hall, comes a pitiful groan and a strained, miserable voice

“Please stop, I’m gonna throw up…”

Katsuki doesn’t miss a beat. He reaches for a mug, deadpan

“That’s what you get for last time.”

He smirks just slightly, then turns to the cabinet.

He pulls out three ceramic mugs, a plastic tumbler, and a neon green sippy cup. He’s methodical. Then pours hot water over teabags, adds honey to two, and quietly stirs.

Behind him, someone shuffles in.

Haruki enters the frame, rubbing at his eyes. His T-shirt is rumpled, pajama pants twisted low on his hips. His hair looks like it fought a pillow and lost. He coughs into his sleeve, and Katsuki doesn’t even turn around.

“You look like shit.”

Haruki groans.
“You haven’t even seen me.”

Katsuki finally glances over, smirks faintly, and hands him a warm mug—the green one.

“I can just tell. Here. It’ll help your throat.”

Haruki takes it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Katsuki grabs a mug and the neon green sippy cup in one hand then the camera in the other and starts walking down the hall. The apartment is quiet, save for muffled coughing and the soft hum of a humidifier. He turns left and pushes open a door.

The camera lifts—

Izuku and Taiga are bundled in a sea of blankets. Taiga’s small frame is curled tight against Izuku’s chest, clinging to his favorite blue blanket with one tiny fist. His fevered cheek is pressed into the crook of Izuku’s neck, warm and damp with sweat, while his other hand rests loosely over his mother’s heart. Izuku’s eyes are half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion, but his arms never loosen their hold. Both of them are flushed with fever, hair sticking out in wild, tangled tufts

Katsuki sets the camera down on the dresser.

He leans over and gently shakes Izuku’s shoulder.

“Hm?”

“I made tea. It'll help your throat.”

Izuku blinks slowly, still dazed, and then sits up enough to accept the mug with both hands.

“Thanks…”

Katsuki crouches beside the bed, brushing a hand down Taiga’s back.

“Hey, kiddo. Time to wake up.”

Taiga groans like a wounded animal, and Katsuki lets out a soft laugh.

The camera cuts to the living room.

Katsuki is slouched on the couch, one leg propped up, holding the remote in one hand and a half-drunk mug of tea in the other. Yuzuki is sitting on the floor in front of him, surrounded by a scattered army of plushies and mismatched building blocks. Her face is blurred, but she’s clearly content—waiting.

Katsuki exhales, thumb hovering over the remote.

“Alright, we need something mellow,” he mutters, half to himself, half to the vlog. “Can’t be Carmen Sandiego—she gets too amped. Wild Kratts? Nah, she starts climbing furniture. Bluey…?”

He pauses, grimaces.

“Nope. Too much energy.”

He scrolls a little more, then grunts in reluctant approval.

“Alright. I won’t die if we do Octonauts.”

He clicks it. The Octonauts intro music starts to play.

Yuzuki instantly goes still, posture straight, eyes on the screen. Katsuki sips his tea like he’s just made the most strategic decision of the day.

“Hazard pay. I deserve hazard pay,” he mumbles, leaning back.

The camera lingers on the peaceful scene for a few seconds: the cartoon theme song plays, Yuzuki hums along softly, and Katsuki just breathes.

The camera cuts to the kitchen.

Katsuki’s back at the counter, sleeves pushed up, a kitchen towel thrown over his shoulder. The angle’s slightly tilted like he propped the camera on a bag of rice. A big pot simmers on the stove behind him, steam fogging the edges of the lens just slightly.

He’s chopping carrots with clean, practiced movements, then slides them into the pot with a quiet sizzle.
“I’m making soup,” he says, not looking up. “Nothing fancy. Just chicken noodle.”

He moves on to celery next, dicing it with the same efficiency.

“Started the broth earlier. It’s got garlic, ginger, a whole chicken, and a bunch of spices.”

He tosses the celery in, gives the pot a stir, and turns to the camera for just a second.

“Usually I’d make the noodles from scratch, but—” he gestures vaguely toward the hallway, where a cough echoes in the distance. “Everyone’s sick. I don't have time for that.”

He grabs a bag of wide egg noodles from the counter and shrugs.

“These’ll do fine.”

He dumps them in, lowers the heat, and wipes his hands on the towel.

“Should be done in about an hour. If you’re sick—make soup. Or text someone until they make it for you. That’s what all my frien—”

He cuts himself off with a small scoff, waving the thought away like it’s smoke.
“What all my... ex-tras do, yeah. Extras.”

He clears his throat and turns back to the pot, voice quieter now.

“Anyway.”

The camera cuts back in. The soup is finished, steam curling lazily from the pot as Katsuki ladles it into five bowls. Each one goes on the counter in a neat row—green mug kid, hero mug adult, chipped ramen bowl, a little ceramic Totoro one, and a wide pastel pink one with cartoon bears.

“One for Haruki, one for Izuku, one for me, one for the gremlin, and the baby gets broth in her cup,” he mutters, half to himself.

He turns away from the bowls and opens a high cabinet, rummaging around until a clatter of bottles and boxes echoes off-camera. He sets down a row of cold meds, cough syrup, a digital thermometer, and a handful of chewable vitamins on the counter.

“Sick days are a whole damn operation,” he grumbles as he sorts the meds by person. “We got fevers, sore throats, congestion... I need a fuckin chart.”

Yuzuki toddles into frame, still in her little pajama set with ducks on it, and wraps her arms around his leg.

Katsuki pauses, glancing down, then ruffles her hair.

“You want some soup?” He bends down, tapping her nose. “You better not be next.”

She just babbles something and clings tighter.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The camera holds steady as he starts organizing the tray—bowls, spoons, tissues, the works—getting ready to deliver meals like a one-man nursing staff.

—
TOP COMMENTS:

@gremlinrising:
Ground zero whispering “you better not be next” while handing the Gremlin soup like a mafia boss protecting his turf 😭
↳ @soupandspite:
She clung to his leg like a koala and he still managed to carry soup and sass like a pro
↳ @privetdadwatch:
This man has toddler-proofed a crisis response system

@bluedownbad:
Blue sleeping on Izuku’s chest like a feverish burrito had me SOBBING
↳ @coughdropcrowd:
Blue’s tiny groan when Katsuki woke him up 😭 protect him at all costs
↳ @sickdayarchive:
It’s the blanket pile. It’s always the blanket pile that hits hardest.

@dadburnerstan:
Haruki barely alive, Katsuki roasting him without turning around…
↳ @mintytea4throats:
“You haven’t even seen me.” “I can just tell.” This man is wired for dadhood
↳ @harukihatersclub:
Haruki had one (1) moment of peace and Katsuki hit him with “you look like shit” 💀

@feralchildsurvivor:
Gremlin choosing violence before breakfast with that face mask 😭
↳ @tinychaosqueen:
Her slapping him with a pastel mask while giggling??? ICON
↳ @sickofitall:
Gremlin said “playtime or death.” Nothing in between.

@softkatsukicore:
Ground zero making soup and sorting cold meds with military precision. Sir. You are the mom now.
↳ @extrasoupclub:
“That’s what all my frien—extras do.” OKAY SO YOU DO HAVE FRIENDS, SIR.
↳ @warmbowlenergy:
This was healing content. This was “I need soup and dad” energy.

@blurtokprivetfeed:
The lineup of mugs and bowls 😭 Ground zero’s brain is 30% parenting, 70% logistics
↳ @theoctonautgeneral:
Him picking a show like it’s a life-or-death decision… bro just wanted a minute of quiet
↳ @kidshowcommentary:
“Bluey? Nope.” The trauma that show caused him is personal

TOP TAGS:
#SickDaySpecial, #SoftDadKatsuki
#GremlinIsAFeralPrincess, #TheReturnOfBluesBlanket, #SoupMedicCombo, #GroundZeroFamilyMoments, #GremlinVsThermometer, #YuzukiIsFineActually, #RespectTheDad, #ClimbingEverythingAlways, #ChickenSoupForTheSicklings, #KatsukiCuresWithSoupAndYelling

Chapter Text

The smell of eggs hits first—sharp and buttery, curling through the kitchen like a wake-up call that doesn’t need to yell. Katsuki flips the pan with one hand and holds his coffee in the other like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

Izuku’s bent over the counter next to him, packing Yuzuki’s lunchbox with methodical precision: two egg rolls, cucumber slices, rice balls shaped like tiny bunnies. Haruki’s hunched at the kitchen table, aggressively scribbling on a permission slip he forgot until this morning. Taiga’s yelling something from the bathroom about toothpaste being spicy.

Katsuki grunts. “How many damn lunches we got left?”

“Yours,” Izuku says, not looking up. “And don’t say you’ll just eat protein bars again.”

“...I like protein bars.”

“Uh-huh.” Izuku sips from his mug. “You also said you’d try not to explode at another intern this week.”

“That was a one-time—” Katsuki cuts himself off when Haruki slams his pen down.

“Dad, I need you to sign this—”

“Later.”

“It’s due today!”

“Then you should’ve remembered yesterday,” Katsuki snaps, but he signs it anyway, flipping the eggs without looking.

Haruki yanks the slip back and folds it into his bag, face scrunching like he’s already tired. He smooths out his UA uniform blazer and gulps the last of his juice. “I’m leaving now. Love you!”

“Wait, shoes,” Izuku calls, just as Haruki nearly flies out the door in his slippers.

There’s a thud, a groan, then the sound of Haruki stumbling back for his actual school shoes.

Yuzuki and Taiga tear into the room next, backpacks bouncing. Yuzuki’s got toothpaste on her chin and Taiga’s hair looks like he combed it with a fork. Izuku crouches down and fusses over both of them, dabbing faces, fixing collars, kissing foreheads.

“You’re not brushing your teeth with cinnamon again, are you?” Izuku asks Taiga.

“It smells like fire!” he yells happily.

“That’s… technically not a no.”

Katsuki sets a plate down in front of Izuku and taps the back of his neck with two fingers as he passes. It’s not quite a kiss, but it’s affectionate—grounding. A little thank you without needing to say it out loud.

Izuku gives him that look—the quiet, teasing kind—and nudges a bento toward him. “You should record today.”

Katsuki raises an eyebrow. “The hell for?”

“Your workday. Hero stuff. People are always asking how agencies run—you just grumble and walk away.”

“That’s because most of them don’t actually care. They want to hear me yell at a villain, not explain department budgets.”

Izuku shrugs, smirking into his coffee. “So make it interesting. You’re good at that.”

Katsuki snorts. “I’m good at blowing stuff up.”

“Exactly,” Izuku says. “Blow stuff up and teach people how permits work. It’s called balance.”

Katsuki grumbles, but he doesn’t say no.

He doesn’t say no because Izuku’s not wrong.

And also because the idea of yelling about hero agency logistics on camera is starting to sound kind of fun.

Izuku calls over his shoulder, already halfway out the door:
“Come on, we’re going to be late.”

Yuzuki bounds after him with her backpack bouncing, Taiga toddling behind her with a mouthful of granola bar and a fistful of crayon drawings. The door shuts with a solid clunk, and just like that — Katsuki is alone.

The house feels quiet in their absence, too quiet for how early it is. He stretches once, jaw cracking, then heads down the hall toward the bedroom.

Their shared room still smells faintly of Katsuki’s burnt caramel and Izuku’s forest rain — warm, sharp, grounding. Katsuki breathes it in as he steps across the wood floor, cracking his neck once before yanking open the closet.

He grabs a hoodie and jeans — civilian clothes for now, since he’ll suit up in the locker room at the agency — and pulls them on without much thought. Muscle memory. Routine.

But when he turns back toward the dresser, something catches his eye.

The camera.

Left out, battery full, memory card loaded.
Izuku must’ve charged it last night.

Katsuki stares at it for a second. The house is still. The light’s good. His hair’s not awful.
“...Why the hell not,” he mutters, grabbing it.

The lens reflects a warped little version of himself as he grabs the camera.

—

Uploaded: Sunday, September 7— 10:12 AM
Title: Private Feed episode 8: the inner workings of a hero agency (feat. caffeine, chaos, and Denki's existential crisis)
Runtime: 47:26
Minor faces blurred per NDA. Viewer discretion is advised for language, explosions, and light teasing.

The video opens with a close-up of worn sneakers stepping onto concrete. The camera pans up, slightly shaky, to reveal a tall building with sleek glass panels and a wide awning etched with bold lettering: Red Riot Hero Agency.

The camera flips to Katsuki’s face. His expression is flat, mouth set in a near-glare, but the bags under his eyes suggest he’s already been up for hours.

“I’m gonna— I guess explain what happens at an agency. Izuku thought it’d be—”

KIRISHIMA (off-screen): “Ay, Kats!”

Katsuki groans, eyes flicking toward the interruption just as Kirishima walks on-screen, slinging an arm around his shoulders. He’s grinning, his red hair tied back.

“So we watched your last vlog.”

DENKI (sliding into frame) “Yeah, how’re the kiddos? I saw Izu earlier.”

“They’re fine.”

“Good, good… but—”

“You really almost said ‘friends,’ man. That was wild.”

“We were on the couch screaming. Like, did he just—did our emotionally constipated friend almost admit he has friends?”

Katsuki rolls his eyes and pushes past them. The camera shifts as he holds it up again.

“Anyway.”

—

The footage cuts to Katsuki walking down a well-lit corridor, the camera catching glimpses of pristine white walls lined with memorabilia — glossy hero posters, a couple cracked villain masks mounted like trophies, and a framed photo of his first patrol team. His boots echo lightly against the polished tile.

“That’s my desk.”

He gestures off to the side at a modest, somewhat chaotic workstation nestled between two large windows. The desk is cluttered in a way that suggests he knows where everything is, even if no one else could guess it. There’s a half-drained coffee mug, a tangle of charging cords, a small plant barely clinging to life, and front and center — a brightly colored finger painting in a glittery frame.

“Don’t judge the mess. It’s organized chaos.”

He continues walking, the camera panning to a hallway at the end of the corridor — this one more closed off, lined with sleek, locked doors and very little foot traffic.

“Down there—” he points without getting too close, “That’s strategy and analyst headquarters. I'm not really allowed to record in there. But Izuku works down that way.”

He doesn’t stop long. The video pans as he turns toward a wide glass wall that looks into a modern office space. Inside, several sharply dressed professionals are scattered across desks and monitors, some on calls, others typing rapidly. One of them looks up and gives a quick nod before returning to their screen.

““That’s the PR office. They handle all our press stuff — statements, scheduling, livestream approvals... They’re the reason I haven’t been canceled yet.”

“Hero agencies like ours partner with external PR firms. Means we don’t have to hire a whole media division, just contract a company and they send reps to work on-site. That way we get specialists without babysitting the whole system ourselves.”

He walks past the glass, tossing a casual wave to someone inside who gives him a tight nod.

“They’re also the bastards that made me start the channel. So blame them.”

He walks a few paces farther before motioning to a side door.

“Locker rooms. No one’s in ‘em right now.”

The camera enters briefly, revealing a clean, tiled space with long benches and metallic lockers labeled with hero names. It's silent except for the hum of fluorescent lighting.

“My locker’s in the back”

He leads the way to the far end of the row, stopping at two adjacent lockers: one labeled GROUND ZERO, the other RED RIOT.

He opens his locker briefly — inside are a spare pair of gloves, a few energy bars, extra gauntlet parts, and a photo of the kids taped to the inside of the door.

—

The video jump cuts to street level. Katsuki’s in full hero gear now, GoPro clipped to his chest rig. The city hums in the background. He exchanges quick greetings with civilians and keeps a brisk pace.

“I usually patrol this sector in the mornings. There’s been some petty theft lately, nothing major.”

The camera captures a brief moment of Katsuki stopping to sign a kid’s Ground Zero notebook.

—

Katsuki sits on the rooftop of the agency building, a breeze ruffling his hair as he sets the camera on a ledge across from him. Behind him, the city stretches out, sunlight glinting off glass buildings. He pops open a bento box — rice, grilled chicken, a few vegetables packed neatly inside.

Izuku sits beside him, out of uniform and dressed casually. His own bento rests in his lap, half-finished. He takes a slow sip from a thermos.

“You’re holding the camera too low. Right now people can only see your chin and like... your collarbone.”

“I didn’t ask for a film critique.”

Izuku smiles faintly, resting his chopsticks on the edge of the box.

“You’re doing great, though.”

They fall into an easy silence, the sound of distant traffic blending with the occasional gull cry overhead. Katsuki grabs a piece of tamagoyaki from his box and chews thoughtfully.

—

Katsuki’s back at his desk, He flips through paperwork with mild annoyance. He grabs the paper in front of him and picks it up showing the camera.

“So this one—this is a repair bill. Explosion grazed a corner store, left a scorch mark. Owner wants the wall repainted and the window replaced. I gotta sign off for the agency to cover it.”

He picks up another paper.

KATSUKI: “This is an intern incident report. Kid was shadowing me Tuesday. We broke up a fight near a convenience store — they have to write it all out and I gotta sign off that it’s accurate since I was there.”

He scribbles his signature.

KATSUKI: “Half my job is signing crap.”

—

The final shot comes from inside a parked car, the lighting warm and golden from the late afternoon sun. The camera, propped on the dashboard, is angled slightly to the side, capturing Katsuki in the passenger seat. Behind him, the back row is crammed: Kirishima and Denki are squeezed on either side of Haruki, who’s proudly holding up a melting ice cream cone. Next to him, Yuzuki sits in her car seat, humming as she munches happily on her own cone, chocolate dripping onto her dress and the seat below.

“Bro, she dropped some on your seat,” Denki says casually, licking his own cone.

Katsuki turns his head slowly, eyes narrowing as he takes in the chocolate mess spreading on the fabric.

“I just cleaned this car.”

Kirishima laughs. “You’re the one who said this car needed ‘more room for the kids.’ This is what you signed up for, man.”

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” Denki adds, grinning.

Haruki bursts out laughing. Yuzuki kicks her feet, pleased with herself.

Katsuki drags a hand down his face and groans, not even trying to hide his pain. “We’re getting it detailed tomorrow. I don’t care what it costs.”

The camera shifts slightly as Katsuki adjusts it, then turns it toward the window. Outside, the sunset spills gold and orange over the buildings, casting long shadows. Izuku’s reflection is visible in the passenger-side glass, both hands steady on the wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead.

In the back, the noise softens—Denki teasing, Kirishima laughing, Haruki telling Yuzuki she has chocolate on her nose.

Katsuki doesn’t say anything else. He just lets the camera roll as the sun dips lower, and the car hums with the sound of family.

—

TOP COMMENTS:

@heroobserver:
Katsuki almost said “friends” again? I’m still laughing. These two really keep him on his toes. 😂
↳ @quirkqueen:
Right? It’s like watching a grumpy cat almost purr. Precious.
↳ @strategistfan:
Honestly, that’s progress for Ground Zero. Baby steps!

@vlogfanatic:
Love how he actually gave us a full tour of the agency! Super informative but still with that classic Katsuki attitude.
↳ @mediajunkie:
Yeah, it’s cool seeing the “behind the scenes” without the usual hero chaos.
↳ @prinsider:
Also, shoutout to the PR team for keeping this mess from going viral in a bad way lol.

@kidscaregiver:
The end with the ice cream and kids crammed in the backseat? That’s pure family goals.
↳ @dadlifepro:
Literally the best kind of chaos. Love seeing this side of Katsuki. Also red riot and denki crammed in there too. You just know they begged ground zero for ice cream too🤣
↳ @yuzukifan:
Gremlin stealing the show with that ice cream mess haha.

@agencyinsider:
So why doesn’t Katsuki own the agency if he’s top 5? Curious how that works.
↳ @herohistorybuff:
Some agencies are corporate-owned or partnered, not necessarily hero-owned.
↳ @industryvet:
Yeah, ownership is complicated. He’s never out right said it but I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to deal with that.

@teammates4life:
Kirishima and Denki teasing Katsuki is the best part of this vlog. Those subtle cracks in his armor are gold.
↳ @friendlycritic:
They keep him human, you know? Even Ground Zero needs friends.
↳ @chillvibesonly:
Can’t wait to see what they roast him about next!

TOP TAGS:
#HeroAgencyTour #GroundZeroOnDuty #PRTeamBlameGame #KirishimaAndDenkiRoast #RooftopLunchBreak #FamilyCarChaos #IceCreamMafia #RealLifeHeroBusiness #BehindTheScenesHeroLife

Chapter Text

The office lights buzz overhead, casting sterile shadows across the hallway as Katsuki trudges in. His patrol gear is crusted with grime, one sleeve torn, a shallow cut still leaking sluggishly down his bicep. He smells like sweat, smoke, and sewer sludge. Every step echoes like a curse. He’s already dreading the mountain of reports waiting on his desk.

With a scowl, he slams open the office. His desk is messy with paperwork, a busted old phone charger, and a glossy white envelope edged in gold foil.

He narrows his eyes.

On the back, in loopy cursive, it reads:
"For Katsuki. Don’t forget your manners. —Hana"

He rips it open like it insulted him.

“You are formally invited to the Annual Hero Gala.
Attendance expected.
Formal wear required.
You are given 2 extra tickets for your mate and oldest pup.”

Katsuki’s lip curls. “Fucking glittery ass scam event.”

He storms down the hall and slams open Hana’s door without knocking.

"What the fuck is this?"

Hana doesn’t even flinch. She's reclined behind her desk, scrolling through two monitors at once, sipping red wine from a dainty floral teacup. Her reading glasses are perched on the edge of her nose like she’s in a period drama.

“Tickets to the Hero Gala,” she says, not bothering to look up. “Didn’t Jake tell you about it?”

“Jake?”

“New intern. Sweet boy. From America. Scared of you.”

Katsuki’s eye twitches.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s festive.”

“It’s a trap.”

“It’s PR, Katsuki.”

She finally looks up and raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t show up with your mate and your adorable, overachieving child, people start asking questions. Like whether your marriage is collapsing. Or whether you’ve stopped contributing to the Hero Network's charity fund.”

“We do charity every damn week.”

“Not in a tux, you don’t.”

Katsuki groans. Loudly. But he takes the damn envelope,muttering under his breath.

“Fucking hate galas.”

“Wear something nice this time,” Hana calls sweetly as he slams the door behind him.

—

The next day after work Katsuki finally found a moment to tell Izuku and Haruki that they are going to the hero gala.

“What?!”
“Cool, can I pick what I wear?"

They speak at the same time

Now Katsuki and Izuku are sitting at the kitchen table making phone calls to every babysitter they can think of. In the background, the kids are screaming—Taiga is chasing Yuzuki through the living room wielding a feather duster like a sword.

They’re hunched over the dining table with a babysitter list between them.

“Okay… Uraraka and Iida are both going. Gala stuff.”

“Yeah. Shinsou offered, but—”
Taiga screeches. Something crashes.
“Yuzuki bit him last time.”

still hopeful “What about Aizawa?”

“Picked up. Said ‘absolutely not.’ Hung up.”

A beat of silence. Another crash. Then Izuku sighs.

“Thats fair, he does have to deal with Haruki all day at school. We could ask your parents.”

Katsuki groans like it physically hurts him.

“My mom’ll feed them sugar and teach Taiga to swear in six languages.”

-Mitsuki on a video call.-
She’s already holding a mug of wine and looks delighted.

“Of course I’ll babysit. I live those gremlins. MASARU WE'RE BABYSITTING.

The soft voice of masaru comes through the phone “oh how fun”

The kids cheer like it’s Christmas morning when they find out.

—

Izuku stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the sheer black tie around his neck for the third time. The copper clamp caught the soft light of the vanity, warm and gleaming. The sheer fabric of his top rested light against his skin, the delicate forest green leaf shapes almost blending into the deep green of his tailored jacket and pants. It was understated, but elegant. Heroic, even, in its own quiet way.

He exhaled. The knot sat neatly now. His fingers lingered on the copper clasp, grounding himself.

From the bedroom doorway, he heard Katsuki’s voice.

“You decent?”

Izuku turned, one brow raised. “Since when has that ever stopped you?”

The door opened with a quiet click, and Katsuki stepped in, still adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. He looked—

He looked good.

The burnt orange vest under his black tuxedo brought warmth to the sharp lines of his suit, and the folded green pocket square—Izuku’s green—was a quiet nod only he would understand. His blond hair was tamed just enough, and the gleam of his emerald studs matched the slight green tint in his eyes, the ones that softened when they landed on Izuku.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Katsuki muttered, low and gruff, “Damn.”

Izuku laughed under his breath and looked down. “Too much?”

“No,” Katsuki said, walking closer. “You look like—like the forest itself came alive and got class.”

Izuku blinked at him, startled, then flushed. “That’s not even a real sentence.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t a poet,” Katsuki said, reaching out. His fingers found the copper clasp at Izuku’s neck, brushing against his skin. “But you look perfect.”

Before Izuku could say anything else, there was a knock at the door.

“You guys done being gross?” Haruki’s voice filtered through, muffled but playful.

Izuku stepped back, straightening his jacket. “Come in.”

Haruki entered, already dressed, though he was fussing with the sleeves of his suit. He paused when he saw them, standing there in soft lighting and coordinated colors, the small space filled with quiet love.

And they paused, too.

Haruki’s suit was sharp black, tailored to his frame, but it was the back that took Izuku’s breath. When Haruki turned slightly, the sheer forest green swirl cutout across his back caught the light just enough to shimmer. The copper and green embroidery at his cuffs and hem looked like flames curling into leaves—delicate, deliberate, and entirely him.

“You look beautiful,” Izuku said before he could stop himself.

Haruki groaned dramatically. “Mom—”

“Let him say it, dumbass,” Katsuki said, but his voice was gentler than usual. “Because he’s right.”

Haruki ducked his head, lips twitching. “You two match like a couple at prom. I feel like I should stand a few feet behind so people don’t get confused.”

“You’ll outshine us both,” Izuku said, stepping forward to fix the fold in Haruki’s sleeve. “Like always.”

Katsuki added, “Just don’t trip on the damn carpet.”

Haruki narrowed his eyes. “I won't."

The three of them laughed, the air easier now, the nerves of the evening softened by years of routine and closeness.

Izuku stood back to look at them, heart aching with how full it was. Katsuki in burnt orange and black. Haruki in swirling dark green. Himself, standing between them.

A family, ready to face the lights.

—

The car door swung open with a soft click, and Katsuki was the first to step out, golden light from the event’s entrance spilling across his suit like fire. He turned back without hesitation, one hand reaching inward. Izuku took it, careful in his movements, shoes hitting the curb with practiced grace. Katsuki’s other hand came to rest instinctively on the small of Izuku’s back, steadying, guiding. As soon as Izuku was beside him, they both leaned down slightly, offering hands to the third figure still inside.

Haruki stepped out, a mix of nerves and pride fluttering behind his careful posture. The cameras hadn’t started yet. For just a second, everything was quiet. Then—

Flash.
Flash.
Flashflashflash.

The press came alive, camera shutters clicking in a tidal wave of light. Katsuki didn’t flinch. His arm slid from Izuku’s back to settle across Haruki’s shoulder, anchoring both of them with calm certainty.

“Let’s go get some pictures taken,” he muttered, more to them than the cameras.

They walked together, Katsuki between his mate and their son, flashes bathing their path like a lightning storm. Izuku’s hand brushed against Katsuki’s, and Haruki lifted his chin with a quiet kind of pride, eyes straight ahead.

The red carpet was a sea of black and gold and velvet ropes, but it didn’t take long to find familiar faces cutting through the chaos.

“Todoroki!” Izuku called, and the stoic man turned mid-pose, face breaking into something soft as he spotted them. Nearby, Mina in a backless sparkling gown twirled, pink skin glittering under the lights, and Kirishima threw up a massive grin.

“Katsuki! Bro!” Kirishima bellowed. “Get over here!”

Soon they were swallowed into the chaos of their old classmates and friends all together, laughing louder than the cameras could keep up with.

Mina grinned wickedly and struck a pose, back turned to the cameras as she looped her arm around Haruki. “Hey, sunshine! Show off that suit!”

Haruki blinked, then caught on and turned his back to the press just like her, throwing a casual look over his shoulder. Their backs—sparkling dress and crisp tailored lines—drew another wave of camera flashes.

Kirishima, always the showman, flexed a bicep and hoisted both Izuku and Uraraka up by an arm each. They dangled like they weighed nothing, all three of them grinning like kids at recess.

Denki jumped in and struck a dramatic pose like he was a supermodel mid-stride. Jirou just rolled her eyes, but sidled up next to him anyway.

It wasn’t long before someone called for a full group photo. Katsuki and Izuku ended up dead center, Katsuki’s arm tossed lazily over Izuku’s shoulders. Izuku leaned into it, barely tall enough to press his head into Katsuki’s collarbone. His shorter frame looked even smaller next to Kirishima and Iida towering next to them .

To their left, Mina and Kirishima leaned into each other, red and pink clashing beautifully. On the right, Uraraka and Iida clasped hands—her in a soft peach gown, him in tailored navy. In the front row, Todoroki crouched low next to Haruki and Momo, the three of them carefully placed to balance the frame. Momo’s hand was resting lightly on Haruki’s shoulder.

A few seconds later, Todoroki and Momo stood and, with minimal coordination, formed a large heart shape with their arms. Haruki was herded into the middle of it, slightly confused but grinning anyway. The cameras loved it.

Then, in a rare moment of chaos, Mina stormed over to Katsuki between photos.

“Stand up straight, you gremlin,” she barked, reaching out to mess up his hair—something only she would dare at a formal event.

Katsuki ducked too slow, scowling half-heartedly as her fingers ruffled his carefully styled hair.

“Dumbass,” he muttered.

She beamed. “Love you too.”

Behind them, Haruki laughed. Izuku did too—shoulders soft, smile real.

The cameras kept flashing, but for once, it didn’t feel like a performance.

The double doors opened with a soft but commanding creak, spilling light onto the waiting corridor. One by one, they stepped in—not as scattered pro heroes, but as something tighter, older, familiar. Friends. A found family.

Todoroki led with quiet elegance, Momo on his arm, poised and radiant. Jirou followed with Denki at her side, her heels clicking confidently across the marble. Kirishima grinned as he strolled in with Mina, both dressed to stand out, and both very aware they were succeeding. Iida walked tall beside Uraraka, ever the gentleman, adjusting his cuffs with precise care.

At the back of the group, Katsuki, Izuku, and Haruki brought up the rear, their matching silhouettes calm and striking. No one said a word, but heads turned anyway.

As they crossed the threshold together, laughter rising in soft pockets, they looked less like guests and more like the heartbeat of the room.

The ballroom responded like a living thing. Conversations dimmed just enough to let their entrance be felt. Flashbulbs cracked from the sides of the room—paparazzi positioned discreetly behind flower arrangements, gala staff pretending not to angle their phones.

Izuku smiled graciously, the motion tight but practiced. Haruki held his posture, hands clasped neatly in front of him, his sharp-shouldered jacket catching the low gold lighting. Beside them, Katsuki didn't smile at all. He didn’t have to. His presence alone pulled attention like gravity.

A server swept by with flutes of sparkling juice. Jirou snagged one and handed it to Haruki with a wink, which earned a quiet thanks and the barest quirk of a smile. Mina waved off the tray—she already had something more colorful in hand—and dragged Kirishima toward the dance floor where couples swirled in graceful motion.

From the raised dais at the front of the room, a sleek voice called out over the mic. "And here we have the Agency Alpha guests of the evening," the emcee announced. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our heroes and their families!"

Polite applause followed, refined and rhythmic.

Iida bowed at the waist. Todoroki nodded once, his expression unreadable but his hand resting lightly at the small of Momo’s back.

Izuku gave a little wave before reaching to fix Haruki’s collar, voice barely above a whisper. “You good?”
Haruki nodded. “Mhm. Just nervous.”
Katsuki murmured, “Don’t trip,” in the way only he could—gruff but secretly fond. Haruki snorted and instantly relaxed.

They began moving again, splitting naturally into smaller circles as the crowd folded around them. Donors approached with sparkling jewelry and sharper smiles, hoping for just a moment of attention.

Haruki stood beside Izuku near the center floral display, nodding politely at every compliment on his suit. The outfit had been a point of debate online since the first photo leaked—dark, minimal, cropped at the waist with a high collar and sheer detailing at the sides. Risky for his age, some had said. But Haruki stood tall in it, surrounded by people who had seen him through every version of himself. He wore the suit like armor.

“Excuse me,” came a soft voice. A reporter in a navy dress hovered at the edge of their space, holding her mic in one hand and her press badge in the other. “Just a quick one, if that’s alright?”

Izuku’s expression didn’t falter. “We’re here to support the cause tonight.”

“Of course, of course,” the reporter nodded. “But can we ask—Haruki, was that suit your idea?”

Haruki blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. I worked with a designer. They let me help sketch it.”

A flicker of surprise, then a smile. “It’s bold.”

Haruki shrugged. “So’s my family.”

That earned a louder chuckle from Katsuki nearby, which the mic thankfully didn’t catch. The reporter smiled, nodded her thanks, and backed off, sensing the boundary.

As the string quartet picked up a sweeping melody, Todoroki and Momo began a slow waltz at the edge of the floor. More couples followed—Denki and Jirou, then Mina pulling Kirishima into a spinning mess of limbs and laughter. Even Iida took Uraraka’s hand with the solemn grace of a dance instructor.

Izuku felt a hand slip into his. “Wanna dance?” Katsuki murmured.

“I’ll step on your foot.”

“You always do.” He tugged him toward the floor anyway.

Haruki stayed where he was, watching. Just… taking it all in. These were the people who shaped his world. Bright, fierce, imperfect. Not idols. Not legends. Just people.

His family.

And tonight, they were together.

—

Article Title: Hero Gala 2025: Fashion, Fundraising, and a Flurry of Rumors
By Aimi Fushiguro | HeroWatch Japan

The 2025 Annual Hero Gala dazzled fans and media alike this year, with the red carpet showcasing everything from classic hero couture to daring personal statements. Among the highlights were appearances by Japan's top heroes—including Ground Zero, Freezeburn, Creati, Chargebolt, and Uravity—and not for the first time, their families.

Haruki Midoriya-Bakugou, son of Ground Zero and a rising face in the public eye, made a splash not only by walking the carpet with his father but by wearing a tailored black velvet suit featuring a tastefully backless design, paired with delicate gold jewelry and his signature confidence. While praised by many for pushing the envelope of traditional alpha presentation, the outfit also sparked backlash online, with some critics deeming it "inappropriate" or "attention-seeking." Fans quickly fired back in support, citing his grace, self-expression, and the double standard often applied to alpha-presenting individuals. #LetHarukiBreathe trended worldwide by the end of the night.

Despite the noise, the evening was a success in its mission: over ¥83 million was raised for orphaned children of retired or deceased heroes, with several anonymous donations believed to come from high-ranking pros. An additional ¥2.3 billion—record-breaking—was raised for trauma recovery and Quirkless Youth Support.

As expected, the event was also rife with whispers and speculation—dating rumors made their rounds yet again. Long-standing suspicions about Todoroki and Yaoyorozu re-surfaced after the pair were seen arriving together, while familiar gossip surrounded Kirishima and Ashido, who were reportedly seen arguing and later sneaking away hand-in-hand. Sources claim the two have had an on-and-off relationship for years. Other fan-favorite “pairings” back in the spotlight include Denki Kaminari and Kyoka Jiro (who arrived together but declined interviews) and Ochako Uraraka and Tenya Iida, both of whom were seated beside one another during dinner and spotted laughing with each other well into the afterparty.

While reps for all involved declined to comment, fans—and tabloids—remain hungry for confirmation.

Still, beneath the glamor and rumor mill, the gala carried a tone of unity and quiet celebration. As the night wore on, many heroes and guests were spotted simply enjoying each other’s company—shoes off, suits wrinkled, laughter spilling from half-finished wine glasses and glittering under the soft chandelier light. A rare moment of rest, humanity, and earned peace in a world that rarely offers it.

Comments:

@heroics4life: Haruki Midoriya-Bakugou is shaping up to be just as iconic as his parents. That suit? That confidence? Absolute serve.

@supportquirklessorg: So proud to see trauma recovery and Quirkless youth getting real support for once. We need more of this.

@bluelantern22: I’m all for charity, but the red carpet drama was louder than the actual cause. Hope the money still goes where it’s needed.

@anon_nomore: It’s the fact that they let their FOURTEEN YEAR OLD walk around a red carpet basically half-naked. At that age my mama would’ve slapped the sh*t out of me if I wore a crop top.

@momodailynews
For the record: Haruki is 14, not 8. And this is a red carpet, not a school hallway. There were stylists involved.

@bloominglady: Can we talk about how stunning everyone looked? Mina and Kirishima radiated couple energy, don’t even lie.

@kiricanonsoclose:
Can we just acknowledge Kirishima lifting two full-grown adults with one arm each?? That's MY number one hero.

@alphaomega: ¥2.3 billion?? That’s history-making. Say what you want, but this generation of heroes shows up.

@enoughalready: Momo and Todoroki have been “just friends” for years but always show up together? Yeah okay. PR stunts 101.

@realtruthhero: ¥2.3 billion? For what? So spoiled little brats can pretend to be relevant again? Pass.

@quirklessandbitter: All this money and still no real change. Quirkless kids don’t need gala speeches—they need rights.

@quirkwatcher52
Shoto and Cerati have made multiple statements that they’re just friends. Let them breathe. Neither of them is dating anyone publicly so they just come to these things together.

@micdrop_jiro
Jirou literally said she's gay. Like, out loud. Into a mic. In front of cameras. Can we stop shipping her with Kaminari now?

@denki4days
Denki has said multiple times he’s dating someone but doesn’t want to expose them for safety reasons. Respect that.

@supportdeku
Izuku’s always been private about his family and Haruki’s almost never seen in public. (Until Private Feed) You can disagree with the outfit without accusing them of being bad parents.

@mediaethicspls:
I know it’s fun to speculate but maybe let a 14-year-old exist without being picked apart online for once?

@quirkylemonade:
Haruki’s outfit wasn’t even revealing by industry standards. Y’all really only mad because it doesn’t fit your idea of how an alpha “should” look.

Chapter Text

“Dad…”

“Dad…”

“Dad.”

Katsuki’s eyes fly open at the sound of his name, paired with a cold hand pressing against his arm. He turns his head, blinking against the darkness. Haruki stands beside the bed — hair a mess like he’s been tossing and turning for hours, hands trembling faintly in the low light.

“Can we go for a drive?”

“What? It’s like midnight,” Katsuki rasps, voice still thick with sleep. “Why?”

Haruki hesitates. “Bad dream.”

Now that Katsuki’s more awake, he can see it clearer — the way Haruki’s usually warm hands are ice cold, the way his hoodie is half-on like he threw it over himself in a rush. The kind of look no parent could say no to.

Katsuki sighs and sits up. “Give me a minute. Get dressed. And I hope you know you’re picking the music.”

Haruki gives a tiny nod and runs out of the room. Katsuki rubs his face, then turns to Izuku, nudging his shoulder.

“Izu, baby, wake up.”

A muffled, “What?” comes from the blankets.

“I’m taking Haruki on a drive. Just wanted to let you know.”

“It’s late…” Izuku murmurs.

“I know.”

“Be safe.”

Katsuki leans over and kisses his cheek. “Always.”

He pulls on a t-shirt, grabs his wallet and keys, and walks out to find Haruki already by the front door — hoodie zipped up, shoes on, phone in hand… and a small camera dangling from its strap.

“You’re bringing the camera?” Katsuki asks.

Haruki just nods and fidgets with his fingers.

Katsuki steps into his sneakers, ruffles Haruki’s hair as he passes, and opens the front door.

“Let’s go.”

By the time the car starts, the camera is on and Haruki’s phone is connected to the aux.

—

Uploaded: Sunday, September 14— 9:54 AM
Title: Private Feed episode 9:Midnight drive
Runtime: 47:26

The low hum of the engine fills the mic as the car backs slowly out of the driveway. Streetlights catch on the windshield, casting slow-moving shadows across the dash. A notification sound blips faintly—Haruki’s phone connects to the aux.

A moment later, Martine Blue by Dark Live begins to play. Smooth. Slow. Like waves crashing on velvet.
The timestamp flickers in the corner of the screen. Nothing else moves.

Haruki doesn’t speak. He’s slouched slightly in the passenger seat, hoodie pulled over his head, phone resting in his lap. His face is turned toward the window, where dark trees blur past in soft motion.

Katsuki’s eyes stay forward, one hand resting loose on the wheel, the other gripping the shifter. The soft blue light of the dash reflects in his eyes. His jaw is tight—not angry, just awake. Present.

The camera captures the slight movement of the car shifting lanes, the rhythm of passing headlights, the flicker of Haruki's fingers tapping against his thigh in time with the music.

A full minute passes. Then another.

No words.

Only music and the quiet ache of an unspoken something—too fragile to touch, too loud to ignore.

The city lights blur by in streaks of amber and red, reflected in the windshield like fireflies trying to escape.

By the time the eighth song comes on—“Through the Night” by IU—the silence has thickened into something heavy, something waiting.

Katsuki exhales through his nose, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. He doesn’t glance over, but his voice breaks the stillness, low and even.

"You want to just go for a drive... or pick something up?"

Haruki doesn’t answer right away. He shifts slightly in his seat, eyes still trained on the dark horizon where the road meets nothing. The soft glow of the dashboard paints his face in blues and greys, turning his quiet profile into something older than it should be.

Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know. Drive, I guess.”

Katsuki nods, even though Haruki isn’t looking. “Alright.”

They lapse back into silence, but something’s changed. The question cracked the surface, just a little. The weight in the car shifts—not gone, but noticed.

Haruki thumbs through his playlist again. A few seconds later, the music changes to something a little warmer, slower. Therapy by KAYAM plays.

Katsuki glances over this time, just for a second.

Katsuki doesn't press. Won't press. He could. He sees the way Haruki’s jaw is tight, how his fingers won’t stop moving. But not tonight. Not yet.

Instead, he taps his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the beat and mutters, “I kind of want a coffee.”

Haruki cracks a small smile, barely there but real. “Can we get pancakes too?”

“Pancakes,” Katsuki echoes, as if testing the word. “Middle of the night, in my slippers, and you want pancakes.”

Haruki finally turns to look at him, the light from a passing streetlamp catching in his eyes. “Is that a yes?”

Katsuki huffs. “ok”

They don’t say much after that, just drive. The road is open, the night wide and forgiving. For now, the silence between them feels less like something broken and more like something healing.

The camera cuts to Katsuki and Haruki sitting in a 24-hour diner, the booth lit by the soft yellow glow of a hanging lamp. A faint hum of chatter and the sizzle from the kitchen drift in the background, along with the clink of silverware from another table. Outside, the parking lot is mostly empty, streetlights throwing pale halos onto wet asphalt.

A waitress with tired eyes but an easy smile steps up to the table, pen poised over her pad.

“Hi there. What can I get started for you?”

“I’ll get a waffle,” Katsuki says without glancing at the menu, “side of scrambled eggs and bacon.” He tilts his head toward Haruki. “Kid, what you want?”

Haruki fumbles with the laminated menu for a second, then sets it down. “Uh… can I get a stack of pancakes with the same sides? Oh— and a fruit bowl.”

“Plus an extra cup of coffee,” Katsuki adds, already fishing his wallet out to hand her a card.

“Of course. I’ll get that started, and your coffee will be right out,” she says, giving them a nod before disappearing toward the kitchen.

The next minute is quiet except for the scrape of Haruki adjusting his seat. Then a different waiter—a young woman, probably in her early twenties—sets down the steaming mug of coffee. She pauses, eyes widening.

“Oh my god… you’re Ground Zero,” she says in a rush, almost dropping her tray. “That’s— that’s so cool. Could I maybe… have an autograph?”

Katsuki’s jaw tightens, but he pulls a pen from his jacket pocket and scrawls his name on the back of a receipt. “Here.”

She beams. “Thank you! My brother’s gonna freak.” She hurries off, leaving Haruki half-hidden behind his hand, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

When the food finally comes, the plates are still steaming. Haruki pushes his eggs onto Katsuki’s plate without hesitation, then forks half of Katsuki’s waffle with practiced speed.

“You’re gonna have to eat eggs one day,” Katsuki says around a sip of coffee.

“I’ll die before that day comes,” Haruki replies without missing a beat.

Katsuki huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. They eat in a comfortable silence, the kind that says more than words.

Once the plates are empty, Katsuki drops a few bills on the table and slides out of the booth. They step outside into the cool night, breath puffing in the air.

“So,” Katsuki says, unlocking the car, “home or more driving?”

Haruki glances at the empty streets. “It’s, like, 2 a.m. Don’t you have work?”

“Yeah, I do. You’ve got school. But if you need to keep going, we can.”

Haruki shakes his head. “Let’s go home.”

The drive back is warmer, music spilling softly through the speakers—Lockdown by Koffee, the beat bouncing just enough to get them both singing along under their breath. By the time Golden by Huntrix comes on, the singing’s louder, laughter filling the car.

The camera fades out just as the headlights sweep across their driveway, the music still playing as the screen goes black.

—
TOP COMMENTS:

@LateNightWithHaru:
This felt so… safe? Like watching two people just exist in each other’s company without needing to fill the silence. 🥹
↳ @sleepyplaylist:
Right?? The no-talking parts hit harder than anything they could’ve said.
↳ @dinerjunkie:
It’s like we were just… sitting there with them at 2am.

@EggsAreTheDevil:
Haruki sliding the eggs onto Katsuki’s plate IMMEDIATELY is peak stubbornness and I respect it.
↳ @scramblelife:
One day he’s gonna give in and the internet will never let him live it down.
↳ @EggsAreEvil:
Not happening. Ever. 💪

@KatsukiStan89:
The way Katsuki just said “ok” to pancakes like he wasn’t gonna fight it at all 🫠 Dad of the year.
↳ @pancakeprophet:
He knows better than to argue with middle-of-the-night pancakes.
↳ @fluffywaffles:
Facts. Pancakes are a peace treaty.

@GroundZeroMain:
The autograph moment had me wheezing—Haruki trying not to laugh was the best part 😂
↳ @sugarandsass:
You know Haruki brought it up in the car just to tease him more.
↳ @bkguhater2lover:
That silent laugh >>>>>

@SoftEdges:
Katsuki saying “home or more driving?” like he’d actually keep going if Haruki needed to… my heart is in shambles.
↳ @teaandquiet:
That’s love, and not the loud kind—like the steady, reliable kind.
↳ @cloud_hero:
He really said “the road’s yours, kid.” 😭

@UnexpectedVibes:
Okay but I was fully expecting Ground Zero and Haruki to blast rock or metal… instead we got cozy nighttime indie???
↳ @latecarrides:
Right?? It was giving “drive through a small town at 1am after the rain.”
↳ @goldenlight:
Haruki’s music taste just healed my inner child.