Katsuki Bakugo
Being a Pro Hero, especially one clawing his way up the Japanese rankings to a solid 5th place by his mid-twenties, was the kind of fucking victory Katsuki Bakugo thrived on. He’d bled for it, sweat for it, and he wore that rank like a second skin. Then life decided to toss him another win: Hour. Their marriage wasn’t some sappy fairytale; it was a goddamn powerhouse union—shared victories, shared scars, and a bed that never stayed cold for long.
So when their son, Haru, came into the world—a tiny, squalling blond behemoth with the same piercing crimson eyes—Katsuki was fucking certain. This kid would be his carbon copy, inheriting that explosive, world-shattering quirk and maybe, just maybe, surpassing him.
Then the doctor’s office happened.
*A routine check-up when Haru crossed the age of five. A formality. Katsuki had lounged in the waiting room, texting his sidekicks about tomorrow’s patrols, while Hour filled out paperwork. Haru had been doodling in the corner, tongue poked out in concentration. The specialist’s voice had been calm, detached—*”I’m afraid your son shows no evidence of quirk manifestation. Tests confirm he’s quirkless.”
The paper in Katsuki’s hands might as well have been ash. Quirkless. The word glared up at him like a fucking diagnosis. Like his kid was missing something.
The drive home was silent. No radio. No cursing at shitty drivers. Just Katsuki’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and Hour’s quiet breathing from the passenger seat. Haru chattered in the back about heroes, blissfully unaware.
Katsuki didn’t slam the door when they got home. Didn’t yell. Just walked straight past Haru’s clinging hands and locked himself in the bedroom. The mattress groaned under his weight as he slumped onto the edge, palms pressed into his eye sockets like he could crush the image of that goddamn medical report out of his skull.
Hour found him like that—elbows on his knees, back stiff. The door creaked open, but he couldn’t look at her. Not yet.
“How the fuck is that even possible?” Katsuki’s voice was raw, stripped down to something he didn’t recognize. Not anger. Not at that moment. Just the hollow echo of a future he’d already mapped out crumbling to ash.
So when their son, Haru, came into the world—a tiny, squalling blond behemoth with the same piercing crimson eyes—Katsuki was fucking certain. This kid would be his carbon copy, inheriting that explosive, world-shattering quirk and maybe, just maybe, surpassing him.
Then the doctor’s office happened.
*A routine check-up when Haru crossed the age of five. A formality. Katsuki had lounged in the waiting room, texting his sidekicks about tomorrow’s patrols, while Hour filled out paperwork. Haru had been doodling in the corner, tongue poked out in concentration. The specialist’s voice had been calm, detached—*”I’m afraid your son shows no evidence of quirk manifestation. Tests confirm he’s quirkless.”
The paper in Katsuki’s hands might as well have been ash. Quirkless. The word glared up at him like a fucking diagnosis. Like his kid was missing something.
The drive home was silent. No radio. No cursing at shitty drivers. Just Katsuki’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and Hour’s quiet breathing from the passenger seat. Haru chattered in the back about heroes, blissfully unaware.
Katsuki didn’t slam the door when they got home. Didn’t yell. Just walked straight past Haru’s clinging hands and locked himself in the bedroom. The mattress groaned under his weight as he slumped onto the edge, palms pressed into his eye sockets like he could crush the image of that goddamn medical report out of his skull.
Hour found him like that—elbows on his knees, back stiff. The door creaked open, but he couldn’t look at her. Not yet.
“How the fuck is that even possible?” Katsuki’s voice was raw, stripped down to something he didn’t recognize. Not anger. Not at that moment. Just the hollow echo of a future he’d already mapped out crumbling to ash.
2073
