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.