Archive of Our Own

The flashing neon towers of downtown Tokyo illuminated the packed plaza outside the National Hero Billboard headquarters. Giant holographic screens towered over thousands of cheering citizens, displaying the newly tallied rescue statistics, clearance ratings, and public approval metrics of the year.

"And now, entering the top ten for the very first time in his soaring career!" the announcer’s voice boomed through the plaza sound system. "With zero civilian casualties across eighty-four metropolitan containment zones, the Unbreakable, Chivalrous Hero... Red Riot takes the Number Nine spot!"

The crowd erupted into an absolute roar of cheers. On the polished glass stage, Kirishima stepped up to the podium, clad in his heavy, crimson-plated hero armour. His shoulders were broader now, his presence formidable, unyielding, and brimming with the warm, protective light that had earned him the trust of the nation. He bowed deeply, his brilliant, sharp-toothed smile lighting up the massive broadcast monitors across Japan.

Yet, barely thirty minutes after the ceremonies, the Number Nine Hero had slipped entirely away from the press conferences and the flashing lights, boarding the quiet, late-night regional train into the northern ranges.

The gravel crunch beneath Kirishima’s boots was the only sound echoing through the moonlit pines. The mountain villa stood tall beneath the starlight, amber lanterns glowing warmly along the wooden engawa. The scent of woodsmoke, roasted tea, and rich, sweet burnt caramel drifted through the cool mountain air, instantly stripping every ounce of the city's exhaustion from Kirishima's bones.

As he reached the porch steps, the front door slid open. Katsuki stood in the doorway, lean, barefoot, and wrapped in a soft, oversized dark fleece. Around his neck, the titanium torc sat polished and bright, the red garnet glowing against his pale skin. He leaned against the timber frame, an eyebrow cocked with that familiar, devastatingly sharp smirk.

"Number Nine, huh?" Katsuki murmured, his crimson eyes gleaming with fierce, tender pride. "Took you long enough, hero." Kirishima dropped his duffel on the bottom step, crossing the distance in two long strides. 

He gathered Katsuki into his arms, lifting him clean off the floorboards and burying his face deep into the sweet, fragrant hollow of Katsuki’s neck, breathing in the rich, unblemished warmth of his mate.

"I don't care about the number, Katsuki," Kirishima whispered fiercely against his pulse point, his broad chest heaving with total, bottomless peace. "I only care about coming home."

Katsuki’s arms wrapped tight around Kirishima’s shoulders, his fingers sinking into the thick red spikes of his hair as he pulled the Alpha down into a deep, loving kiss under the quiet shelter of the mountains, their sanctuary forever unbroken.

The sirens of the emergency transport vehicles were still flashing across the slick asphalt of the Shinjuku overpass.

A multi-vehicle pileup caused by a rogue seismic quirk had threatened to collapse an entire elevated section of the expressway, but the disaster had been completely averted. Red Riot had held the structural load-bearing pillar with his bare, hardened shoulders for fourty-seven nail-biting minutes while emergency crews evacuated every civilian, not letting a single inch of concrete buckle.

Now standing just outside the yellow barrier tape, Kirishima wiped a smear of pulverized asphalt from his jaw with his shoulder brace. His dark crimson gear was scuffed and covered in dust, his muscular chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths, but his trademark sharp-toothed grin was already back in full force.

A cluster of news crews swarmed forward the moment the scene was declared clear. A reporter from Hero Network Daily thrust a foam-covered microphone toward him, the camera crew's ring light reflecting sharply off Kirishima's jagged gear.

"Red Riot! An incredible display of endurance on the overpass today!" the reporter began, speaking rapidly into the mic. "Engineers estimate that over thirty cars were trapped on that span. What was running through your head during those critical minutes?"

"Just the basics!" Kirishima answered, his voice clear, warm, and thoroughly grounded. "My job is to be the shield so the first responders can do their work without looking up. Everyone made it out without critical injuries, and that's all that matters. The local precinct and medical teams handled the evacuation flawlessly!"

"Unbelievable chivalry, as always," the reporter nodded, before her expression shifted into something distinctly more speculative. She lowered her notes, leaning in with an eager, conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. "Speaking of public admiration, Red Riot... The annual Hero Style & Allure rankings dropped their year-end issue this morning." Kirishima blinked, tilting his head with a blank, slightly confused expression. "Uh... The what?"

"For the third consecutive year," the reporter pressed, the camera zooming in tight on his dust-streaked face, "You've taken the undisputed Number One spot on the 'Nation's Hottest Hero' poll, beating out Best Jeanist and Hawks by a landslide margin. How does the Chivalrous Hero feel about holding the crown as Japan's most desirable Alpha?"

The transition was instant and catastrophic.

The formidable, mountain-shattering presence of the Number Nine Hero vanished in a single heartbeat. Kirishima’s jaw dropped, his eyes blowing wide as a ferocious, full-body scarlet blush rushed up his neck, engulfing his face and turning the tips of his pointed ears the exact shade of his hair.

"Wait–? Wh-What?!" Kirishima stammered, flailing both heavily armored hands in frantic, defensive waving motions. "Hold on, that's–that poll has nothing to do with rescue operations! That's totally off-topic!"

"The fans are calling it your 'rugged, protective charm'," The reporter chuckled, clearly delighted by the complete derailment of his stoic image. "Social media exploded after the photos from the summer relief gala. Any comments for the millions of citizens swooning over the Red Riot aesthetic?"

"I'm just wearing standard reinforced tactical gear!" Kirishima squeaked, his voice cracking slightly, letting out a mortified, muffled grunt, that was broadcast live to millions of television screens across the nation. 

"Please don't ask me about that on the news! My... My partner is definitely watching this right now, and I'm–I'm never, ever going to hear the end of it!"

Far away in the quiet mountain villa, the living room television was indeed tuned to the live broadcast. 

Sitting cross-legged on the tatami with a bowl of peeled apples slices in his lap, Katsuki watched the colossal, unbreakable hero dissolve into a flustered, stammering mess on live television. 

The titanium torc at Katsuki's throat caught the screen's flickering light as a wide, wickedly delighted smirk spread across his face as he giggled.

From the kitchen doorway, Touya leaned against the wood frame, holding a kettle and grinning from ear to ear. "'Nation's Hottest Hero', huh? Sounds like your little stray dog has quite the fan club, pup." Katsuki just laughed.

The moment the word 'partner' slipped past Kirishima's lips, the press corps collectively lost their minds.

Microphones surged forward like a sea of pointed spears, nearly clipping the jagged edges of his shoulder braces. The red indicator lights on half a dozen high-definition cameras blinked furiously as the live stream's chat sidebar morphed into an illegible blur of scrolling panic.

"Partner?! Red Riot, is it official?!"

"Are you courting an Omega, or are you in an unmated bond?!"

"Is it another Pro Hero from the Class A Heroes?!"

"Are the rumors about you and Uravity true, or is it someone entirely outside the hero registry?!"

Kirishima waved both hands frantically in front of his chest, his boots practically skidding backward on the gritty asphalt. The flush on his skin burned so hot he was half-convinced his sweat might trigger an accidental spark. "Whoa, whoa, hold on! Stop! Nobody said anything about Uraraka–She's practically my sister, guys, do not start that! And I– Look, it's completely private, okay? It’s–"

"Are you wearing a courting token?!" an entertainment blogger yelled from the second row, lunging forward with a zoom lens aimed directly at his waistline and belt. "We’ve seen the cedar fox charm on your gym duffel for five years! Is that from them?!"

"I'm not answering that!" Kirishima protested, pulling the collar of his gear up around his neck, looking like a man trapped in a sinkhole. "Come on, this was supposed to be a structural safety briefing–"

Before the press pack could tear him apart with another barrage of speculative gossip, a deafening sonic boom tore through the downtown grid three blocks east.

The asphalt beneath their boots lurched violently. Glass shattered in the high-rises overhead, showering the avenue in crystalline rain as an enormous plume of caustic, yellow-green smoke erupted from the base of the central banking plaza. The wail of civic air-raid sirens instantly drowned out the clamor of the cameras, cutting through the media circus like a cold razor.

The flustered boy with the red face vanished in a microsecond. Kirishima’s jaw locked. The jagged ridges along his jawline and brow hardened into impenetrable slate stone, his crimson eyes narrowing into lethal focus as his agency radio burst into frantic dispatch traffic. "Level-Four quirk assault at the South Plaza! Suspect with heavy concussive-blast capability is breaching the vaults!"

"Excuse me," Kirishima barked, his voice dropping into the deep, authoritative timbre of the Number Nine Hero. "Clear this sector immediately. Get behind the emergency barricades!"

He didn't wait for the journalists to scramble. Dropping low onto the balls of his feet, Kirishima drove his heels into the cracked pavement, launching himself forward in a devastating burst of speed that scattered gravel across the reporters' shoes. The news crew didn't retreat.

"Keep the drone on him!" the lead reporter barked to her cameraman, ditching her cue cards and sprinting toward the press van. "Follow that plume! If Red Riot is on the front line, that's our broadcast!"

At the South Plaza, the scene was pure chaos. A rogue mutant-type villain, made up of eight-foot tall jagged chitin and firing high-frequency shock pulses from his fists, was systematically pulverizing the concrete support colonnade beneath the municipal exchange. Debris rained down like mortar shells. Kirishima hit the plaza at a dead sprint.

Using 'Unbreakable', his skin turned to jagged obsidian-hard stone, his knuckles locking into brutal, chiseled battering rams. He intercepted a falling twelve-ton marble beam with a clean upward forearm block, shattering the stone into harmless gravel before driving straight through the dust cloud. 

The villain threw a concussive shockwave point-blank into his chest, but Kirishima didn't even slide an inch. Gritting his sharp teeth, he stepped inside the brute's reach, planted his back foot, and delivered a bone-rattling straight right into the villain's sternum, snapping the chitin armour and dropping the titan flat onto the shattered pavers in under forty seconds.

By the time the containment vans screeched to a halt to secure the unconscious giant, Kirishima was standing over the crater, exhaling a plume of hot vapour from his lips, his skin smoothing back into tan flesh.

He turned to wipe the sweat from his forehead, only to find the exact same Hero Network Daily crew tumbling out from behind a shattered ornamental fountain, breathless, disheveled, but with the camera lens pointed directly at him.

The reporter was wheezing, her hair a wild mess of plaster dust, but she thrust the foam microphone right back into his face without missing a single beat.

"Incredible takedown, Red Riot! Flawless suppression in under a minute!" she panted, clutching her chest before leaning in with predatory, journalistic zeal. 

"Now– Back to your partner! Did they scent you with that sugery note before your shift today, or do they prefer you staying completely unbonded until your agency contract renewal?!" Kirishima froze, one arm still raised mid-wipe, staring at the woman with wide, utterly incredulous eyes.

"Are you... Are you serious?!" Kirishima sputtered, his jaw dropping as he sputtered in agonizing defeat. "The building behind me is literally missing two pillars! Can I please just go file my incident report?!"

Denki sat back in the neon-lit gaming chair in his agency apartment, casually twirling a yellow lightning-bolt stylus between his fingers while his live broadcast feed rolled.

The view counter in the top-right corner of his screen had already crossed two hundred thousand viewers within four minutes of going live. 

Denki had his hair pushed back with a black headband, wearing a casual oversized hoodie, leaning in close to the microphone as the real-time chat scrolled by at light speed.

"What’s up, chat! Chargebolt in the building," Denki grinned, pointing double finger-guns straight at the high-definition webcam. "Just finished post-patrol paperwork, having a little juice pouch, figured we could do a quick twenty-minute Q&A before I pass out. Keep it chill, keep it– Whoa, okay, why is the chat moving like a waterfall?"

He leaned in, squinting at the wall of neon-highlighted superchats and questions flashing across his second monitor.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •236K Viewers

@bolt_stan99: DENKI DID YOU SEE THE RED RIOT INTERVIEW TODAY????

@hero_watcher_jp: PLEASE TELL US WHO RED RIOT’S PARTNER IS WE ARE BEGGING YOU

@charge_me_up: He said 'my partner' on national television and then took down a mutant villain in 40 seconds!! You were in his dorm class! You know who it is!!

@kiri_simp_central: Is it a civilian?! Is it someone from the agency?! Denki blink twice if it's an Omega from UA!!

A thoroughly mischievous, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Denki’s mouth. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his apple juice pouch, letting the suspense simmer for five agonizing seconds while the chat spam doubled in frequency.

"Man, you guys really don't waste any time, huh?" Denki chuckled, leaning his chin on his palm. "Look, as an official hero and his close and personal bro... I can neither confirm nor deny any specific details regarding Red Riot’s romantic timeline."

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •249K Viewers

@sparky_fan: THAT’S NOT A NO

@hero_watcher_jp: VAGUE ANSWER DETECTED!! WHAT DO YOU KNOW???

"What do I know? I know a lot of things, chat. I’m a man of great wisdom and boundless secrets," Denki said airily, tapping his temple. "Look, all I'm gonna say is... Eijirou is not a guy who changes his mind. When that man picks his lane, he stays in it. That cedar-fox charm on his bag? Been there since second year. Do the math."

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •268K Viewers

@pinky_cloud: SECOND YEAR?! So they’ve been together for five years?!

@tokyo_daily_tea: What kind of person are they?! Give us a hint!! Are they sweet? Are they soft?

Denki snorted, nearly choking on his straw. The mental image of Katsuki, decked out in dark mountain wool, casually threatening to disintegrate dorm doors and roasting top-tier heroes over kitchen appliances, flashed vividly across his brain.

"Sweet? Soft?" Denki laughed out loud, shaking his head with fond dread. "Chat, listen to me very carefully. If you value your life, do not call this person soft. If you tried to pinch their cheeks, you’d pull back a stump. They have a mouth on them that could strip paint off a battleship."

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •279K Viewers

@momo_enthusiast: WAIT SO THEY'RE SPICY???

@ultra_gossip: Sounds like an absolute menace lmao

@blondie_squad: Do they have a strong quirk?! Are they in hero work?!

Denki leaned back, raising an eyebrow with an infuriatingly smug expression. "Are they strong? Let's just say... If a certain ancient evil overlord tried to come after their house, they'd probably throw a boot at his head and tell him to wipe his feet at the door. They don't do public hero work. They're way cooler than that. Very exclusive. High-altitude living, if you catch my drift."

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •280K Viewers

@mountain_climber: High-altitude living??? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN???

@hero_tea_time: Wait, does Kirishima’s in-laws live in the mountains?!

@zap_bro: Denki you're giving us riddle master energy stop it 😭

"Hey, I gotta protect my own skin!" Denki laughed, raising both hands defensively. "If I leak their identity on a public stream, two things will happen: First, Eijirou will show up at my gym and make me do five hundred squats in heavy armour. Second, and much worse, a certain blonde terror will find my personal cell number and send his terrifying family to turn my gaming PC into a pile of blue embers."

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •291K Viewers

@shock_value: HIS FAMILY HAS BLUE EMBERS???

@agency_sleuth: BLUE EMBERS?! HOLD ON A MINUTE

@bolt_stan99: DENKI EXPLAIN THE BLUE EMBERS RIGHT NOW

Denki froze mid-laugh, realizing what had just slipped out, Touya's blue flames and Katsuki's hair colour, but it seemed like they only clocked the blue embers. His eyes widened just a fraction, the webcam catching his instant, hilarious regret.

"Aaaaaand that’s my bedtime!" Denki announced loudly, slamming his hand down on the keyboard to trigger the animated stream outro screen. 

"Hydrate, don't leave metal in the microwave, and support Red Riot on the charts! Peace out, chat!"

He cut the broadcast feed with a frantic click, slumping back into his chair with a nervous wheeze, wondering if the mountain was already getting notifications.

Mina adjusted the ring light clamped to the edge of the breakroom table, her antennae bobbing with sheer enthusiasm.

"Hey, my beautiful acid drops!" Mina beamed directly into her phone camera, flashing a peace sign with manicured pink nails. The viewer count shot straight past a hundred and fifty thousand within forty seconds. 

"Post-patrol cooldown at the joint agency hub! Sero's out grabbing milk tea, but we are hanging out, unwinding, and living our best lives!"

The agency lounge behind her was vast and brightly lit, decorated in sleek industrial metal and oversized beanbags. In the background, about twenty feet back near the vending machines, Denki was sprawled half-upside down across a low leather sofa, lazily tossing a foam stress ball toward the ceiling tiles.

The live stream chat instantly exploded with scrolling text.

PinkyTheAlienQueen •LIVE •159K Viewers

@acid_queen_fan: MINA!! You looked amazing during that subway extraction!

@pinky_squad: Best girl!! 💕💕

@gossip_hero_central: ASK HER ABOUT CHARGEBOLT'S STREAM YESTERDAY!!

@red_riot_truth: MINA SPILL THE TEA ON RED RIOT’S MYSTERY PARTNER!! Denki almost leaked it last night!!

Mina threw her head back, bursting into a loud, infectious laugh. "Oh, you guys saw Sparky’s stream, did you? I heard he panicked and cut the feed like a coward the second he realized he talked too much!"

"I did not panic!" Denki shouted from the couch in the background, not even looking up as he caught the foam ball. "I concluded the broadcast with tactical precision!"

"You literally unplugged your router with your toe, Denki, we have the security footage," Mina called back over her shoulder before turning her yellow eyes back to the lens with a wicked, conspiratorial grin.

"Look, chat, I can't name names. I value my eyebrows, and I know for a fact that a certain someone's honourary big brother has zero hesitation when it comes to setting people on fire."

PinkyTheAlienQueen •LIVE •256K Viewers

@ultra_sleuth: HONOURARY BIG BROTHER???

@kiri_fanatic: PLEASE JUST ONE HINT WE ARE SUFFERING

@tokyo_daily_tea: Are they cute together?! Tell us that at least!!

"Cute? Oh, honey, they are nauseatingly domestic," Mina sighed dramatically, resting her chin in her palms. "You guys see Red Riot on the news looking all tough and rocky, right? But the minute he's off the clock, he's basically a giant golden retriever. Carries the groceries, remembers favorite tea blends, lets himself get bossed around by someone half his size who looks like an angry kitten but fights like a badger."

While Mina was animatedly mimicking a tiny hissing badger with her hands, the frosted glass door at the far end of the lounge slid open.

Hardly anyone in the chat caught it at first.

Kirishima stepped into the deep background, fresh out of the agency showers. His crimson hair was down, falling damp and flat around his face, and he was wearing a simple dark grey hoodie over comfortable joggers. 

He looked quiet, tired, and entirely off-duty, completely bypassing the bright ring light and heading straight toward the kitchenette counter.

He didn't notice the stream was live. He had his phone against his ear, humming in agreement every few seconds and leaned his hip against the counter when he reached the counter.

Even from twenty-five feet away and slightly out of focus behind Mina's shoulder, his entire posture shifted. The formidable, unyielding edge of the Number Nine Hero melted into soft, relaxed ease. A small, extraordinarily tender smile curved his mouth, his sharp teeth catching the dim counter light as he tilted his head, listening intently.

Mina kept talking, totally oblivious to what was happening in her background. "I mean, seriously, they've been together since high school! Red Riot made the final courting gift with his bare hands! It was the most romantic, chivalrous thing in the entire world–"

PinkyTheAlienQueen •LIVE •312K Viewers

@eagle_eye_stan: WAIT

@eagle_eye_stan: LOOK AT THE BACKGROUND

@hero_tracker: IS THAT KIRI BY THE KETTLE???

@kiri_simp_central: SHUT UP SHUT UP LOOK AT HIS FACE ON THE PHONE

@pink_riot: HE'S SMILING SO SOFTLY I'M GONNA CRY WHO IS HE CALLING

@shinjuku_daily: THE NUMBER 9 HERO HAS HIS HAIR DOWN AND HE LOOKS UTTERLY SMITTEN

In the background, Kirishima chuckled softly into the receiver, speaking in a low, quiet murmur that the microphone barely caught over Mina’s voice.

"...Yeah, shift's over. Heading to the station soon... Make sure Touya doesn't burn the rice, Kats... I love you, too." He hung up, sliding the phone into his pocket with that fond, dreamy expression still lingering on his face, totally unaware that three hundred thousand people had just watched the most guarded Alpha in Japan melt into a puddle on live television.

Denki, suddenly noticing the chat spamming Kirishima’s name, sat bolt upright on the sofa. His eyes shot to Kirishima, then to Mina's screen, and pure terror washed over his face.

"Mina," Denki squeaked, gesturing frantically with both hands across the room. "Mina, turn it off. Turn it off right now."

Mina blinked, looking down at the chat flying past like a blur of red hearts and screaming caps-lock. "Wait, what did you guys see–"

Denki scrambled off the couch, lunging forward with lightning speed and slapping his palm flat over Mina's phone camera, killing the video feed mid-gasp while the live comments reached absolute, historic pandemonium.

The flashing red and blue strobes of fifty emergency transports painted the rainy pavement outside the Yokohama bayfront in neon streaks.

A coordinated rogue cell had triggered seismic sinkholes beneath a massive commercial shipping dock, threatening to pull three passenger ferries and over two thousand civilians straight into the churning harbor. Class 3-A, now fully licensed, seasoned veterans operating under a joint task force, had executed a textbook mass extraction. 

Uraraka had floated entire chunks of collapsing concrete, Midoriya and Iida had shuttled civilians past the breach point in blinding bursts of speed, Shouto had flash-frozen the rising saltwater to stabilize the harbor walls, and Kirishima had wedged himself beneath the primary ferry gantry, taking the crushing weight of the shifting steel until the last child was clear.

Now, gathered on the dry asphalt of the primary staging area, the group was encircled by a veritable wall of press vans, satellite umbrellas, and dozens of eager reporters thrusting boom mics into their faces.

"Deku, Red Riot, Ingenium!" a lead correspondent called out over the flashing strobes, rain dripping from her clear umbrella. "An extraordinary zero-casualty outcome! The coordination between former Class A classmates continues to set the standard for national disaster response! Deku, what was the primary obstacle during the ferry stabilization?"

"The shifting tidal surge," Midoriya answered immediately, wiping rain and seafoam from his freckled forehead, his posture calm, practiced, and professional. "Shouto's ice barrier gave us the structural foundation, but Red Riot holding the main gantry hinge was the critical fulcrum that kept the entire dock from sliding into the sea."

"A true showcase of unyielding endurance," the reporter nodded, before pivoting sharply to zero in on Kirishima. Her eyes gleamed with the unmistakable hunger of an entertainment journalist seizing an opening. "Which brings us to a question the entire country has been asking since the Shinjuku incident. Red Riot! During the livestream incident two days ago, you were overheard confirming your partner’s name, Kats, and mentioning an individual named Touya."

Behind Kirishima, Denki choked on his own spit, violently burying his face into Sero’s shoulder to disguise a cough. Kirishima, still dripping wet in his cracked, scuffed gear, blinked.

"We just pulled two thousand people out of a sinkhole, ma'am." He said blinking again as his jaw set in a mixture of disbelief and utter exasperation. 

"We understand that, but public curiosity is at a fever pitch!" Another reporter chimed in, leaning over the barricade with a portable recorder. "Is your partner an unregistered civilian? And are the rumors connecting you to the Todoroki family's eldest son true?! Can the Number Nine Hero address the domestic speculation?!"

Before Kirishima could stammer out a defense, Shouto stepped forward. The Number Two Hero stood tall, his dual-colored hair plastered to his brow from the harbor mist, his mismatched eyes completely level, cold, and utterly unbothered.

"My brother Touya lives a quiet, private life," Shouto stated plainly, his tone brooking zero argument. "He makes excellent tea, he manages mountain timber, and his domestic affairs are not municipal matters."

Mina, standing just beside Uraraka with her hero mask pushed up, couldn't help the broad, irrepressible smirk tugging at her mouth. "What Todoroki means is, Eijirou's partner isn't a hero, but they're stronger than half the people on this dock. If you guys knew who was keeping him grounded every night, you'd understand why he's smiling so much."

​"Pinky, please, don't help," Kirishima groaned under his breath, raising a heavy hand to cover his eyes as a fierce red blush burned straight through the sea salt on his cheeks.

"Is it true you forged a courting torc with your own hands?!" a freelance columnist shouted, trying to squeeze past a cameraman. "Did they accept your full claim?!"

Iida stepped into the center of the ring, his dark engine armour gleaming in the rain as his arm chopped the air in rigid, defensive ninety-degree angles. "THIS PRESS CONFERENCE IS INTENDED FOR POST-INCIDENT CASUALTY LOGISTICS AND INFRASTRUCTURE CLEARANCE PROTOCOLS! MATTERS OF TRADITIONAL COURTSHIP, DOMESTIC BONDS, AND CIVILIAN PARTNERS ARE STRICTLY OUTSIDE THE JURISDICTION OF THIS DISPATCH! DISPERSE WITH DIGNITY!"

"Red Riot, just a yes or no!" the first reporter pressed, determined to get her headline. "Are you officially off the market?!"

Kirishima lowered his hand. Despite the brilliant crimson heat rushing up his neck, his crimson eyes softened, losing their flustered edge and settling into something unshakeable, profound, and steady.

He didn't look at the cameras. His hand drifted up out of pure instinct, his thumb brushing over the little cedar fox charm clipped securely to his utility harness, its wood worn smooth from years of quiet devotion.

"Yes," Kirishima said clearly, his voice carrying over the hum of the press vans and the patter of the rain, firm and proud. "I've been off the market since I was seventeen years old. He's not in the hero registry, he lives far away from the spotlight, and he's the strongest person I know. Having him to go home to is the reason I can stand under falling buildings."

The press pool erupted in a flurry of camera flashes and whispered gasps, but Kirishima simply turned on his heel, offering a polite, sharp-toothed bow to the bewildered reporters.

"Now, if you'll excuse us," Kirishima smiled, throwing an arm over Shouto's shoulder and nodding to Midoriya, "We have an incident report to file, and I have a train to catch."

The mid-autumn breeze carried the sharp, clean scent of dry cedar needles and distant river mist through the mountain canopy.

High up on the private ridge, Denki was sitting cross-legged on a polished cedar bench perched near the edge of the clearing. His phone was propped securely against a hollowed-out log, ringed with warm natural sunlight filtering down through ancient evergreens. 

Behind him, the panoramic view was utterly breathtaking: rolling slopes of amber and crimson autumn foliage, winding stone pathways, and the secluded timber rooflines of a sprawling, traditional mountain compound nestled deep in the forest.

The view count on the stream interface flickered, rapidly snowballing toward four hundred thousand within seconds.

"What’s up, chat! It’s Chargebolt, coming at you live from an undisclosed, extremely high-elevation paradise," Denki grinned, flashing a two-fingered salute with an iced ceramic mug in his other hand. "Taking my mandatory quarterly downtime. Look at those leaves! Look at that sunlight! No concrete, no sirens, just pure unadulterated peace."

The comment section was already tearing down the screen at supersonic speed.

 ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •391K Viewers

​@bolt_streamer: DENKI WHERE ARE YOU??? THAT VIEW IS GORGEOUS

@hero_tracker_hq: UNDISCLOSED LOCATION??? IS THAT THE SANCTUARY REGION???

@kiri_fan_club: CHARGEBOLT ARE YOU WITH RED RIOT RIGHT NOW?!

@daily_tea_shinjuku: CONGRATULATIONS TO THE NEW NUMBER FIVE HERO!!

@allure_magazine_stan: 4 YEARS RUNNING AS THE NUMBER 1 HOTTEST HERO HE CANNOT BE STOPPED

​Denki let out a booming laugh, shaking his head as he tapped the side of his mug. "Oh, you guys saw the Billboard charts yesterday? Yeah, man! Big congrats to my boy Eijirou! Cracked the Top Five at twenty-three years old! Number five overall hero in Japan! Still holding zero civilian casualties on heavy-response calls! And, of course, because the universe has a sense of humour, he sweeps the Hero Allure poll for the fourth straight year. The man literally walked into the agency yesterday complaining that the magazine used a photo where his hair wasn't spiky enough."

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •397K Viewers

​@red_riot_supremacy: He’s so humble it hurts 😭

@spicy_bolt: Has his partner seen the new billboard photos yet?!

@sleuth_hound: Denki please, is Red Riot in those woods with you?!

​"Oh, he's around," Denki smirked, leaning back on one palm, clearly relishing the suspense. "Though honestly, seeing the Number Five Hero get put on domestic duty the second he crosses the tree line is probably the funniest thing that has ever happened in the history of Pro Heroics. You guys think he's this terrifying, impenetrable rock wall, but up here–"

The dull, rhythmic 'thwack' echoed from the trees about thirty feet behind Denki, followed by the crisp crunch of boots on gravel.

The live stream chat went into a blind frenzy.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •416K Viewers

@eagle_eye_stan: WAIT LOOK BEHIND HIM

@kiri_simp_central: IN THE TREES

@hero_watcher_jp: IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS

Emerging from the shaded trail was Kirishima.

He looked formidable, built like an absolute fortress after another year of high-tier hero work, his broad shoulders and bare, corded arms catching the amber light. He wasn't in gear. He was wearing a faded charcoal tank top, dark canvas work trousers tucked into heavy leather boots, and a pair of worn suede work gloves. 

Hoisted effortlessly across his shoulder was a massive, cleanly quartered log of seasoned mountain timber.

He walked into the edge of the clearing, completely unbothered, tossing the log onto the woodpile with a thunderous, satisfying clatter that shook the dirt.

"Hey, Denki," Kirishima called out, wiping the sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his bare forearm, his crimson eyes crinkling with that brilliant, sharp-toothed grin. "Did you finish hauling those water buckets from the lower pump yet, or are you just sitting there talking to your phone?"

"I’m engaging with my public, Eijirou! It’s brand management!" Denki shot back, waving a hand dismissively.

Before Kirishima could reply, a figure stepped out from the covered walkway of the villa just behind the woodpile.

Because of the angle of the porch roof and the low, autumn sun slanting through the pine eaves, the upper veranda was cloaked in deep amber shadow. The phone's camera caught the lower half of the porch perfectly, but the figure's face remained entirely obscured in the overhang, only a slender, lithe silhouette from the collarbone down was visible to the hundreds of thousands watching.

The stranger wore an oversized, dark navy knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up past lean, scarred forearms, and a pair of soft, loose grey lounge pants. But resting squarely against the pale hollow of his throat, blazing like a miniature hearth in the sliver of sunlight, was the thick band of hammered, dark slate-titanium, its crimson garnet inlay gleaming with an unmistakable, hand-forged ridge pattern.

In one hand, he held out a stainless-steel thermos and a clean cotton towel. "Stop yammering at the fence, hair-dye," the voice drifted across the yard, calm, smoky, and laced with dry, effortless authority. "You've got three more cords of oak to split before Mama starts the hotpot, and if you drop bark chips on the engawa again, you're sleeping in the woodshed."

The Number Five Hero in Japan, the indomitable titan who held collapsing overpasses and leveled rogue syndicates, instantly softened into a sheepish, hopelessly fond smile.

"I won't drop anything, I swear," Kirishima chuckled softly, stepping over to the edge of the timber veranda.

The live stream watched Kirishima take the towel, his large, scarred hand brushing gently against the pale, ringless fingers on the thermos. 

Without a second of hesitation, Kirishima leaned up into the porch shadow, clearly pressing a tender kiss to the mystery partner's cheek just out of frame.

The unseen figure made a quiet, disgruntled noise at the sweat, but a pale hand reached down out of the dark, calloused fingers resting steady and grounding against the back of Kirishima's neck, right above the collar of his tank top, brushing over the heated skin with pure, unquestioned belonging.

"Drink your tea," the smoky voice murmured, softer now as the hand patted Kirishima's shoulder before slipping back into the shadow of the house. "And tell your electric idiot over there to wipe his boots before he comes inside."

Denki glanced down at his phone screen. The chat was an impenetrable wall of screaming red text, exclamation marks, and crying emojis, moving so fast the stream application was visibly lagging.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •566K Viewers

@kiri_fanatic: THE TORC!!! THE COURTING TORC ON HIS NECK IS ON CAMERA

@daily_tea_shinjuku: WE DIDN'T GET THE FACE BUT LOOK AT THAT SWEATER

@ultra_sleuth: HE HAS HIM BY THE NAPE OF HIS NECK ON LIVE STREAM

@bolt_stan99: DENKI HE THREATENED TO MAKE THE NUMBER 5 HERO SLEEP IN A SHED

@tokyo_daily_tea: THE GARNET INLAY MATCHES RED RIOT'S QUIRK PATTERN EXACTLY

@mystery_omega: WHO IS THE SHADOWED OMEGA IN THE NAVY SWEATER I'M CRYING

Denki quickly slapped a hand over his mouth, coughing violently to hide his laughter as he leaned in close toward the lens.

"Well, chat," Denki whispered conspiratorially, his eyes dancing with sheer glee as he pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the most powerful, happily domesticated Alpha in the country. "You didn't get a face, but you got the attitude. I told you he had a spicy mouth. Now if you’ll excuse me, I value my life, and I have to go haul water before the boss of this mountain feeds me to the bears."

With a wink, Denki tapped the screen and killed the stream, leaving the internet to break into a million pieces trying to identify the headless mystery in the navy sweater, while the quiet serenity of the mountains remained entirely untouched.

The agency study was quiet save for the soft scratch of Midoriya’s stylus against a digital tablet.

Izuku sat centered in his webcam frame, a green hoodie zipped to his chin, his unruly curls freshly towel-dried after an afternoon patrol. His official channel, usually reserved for community safety breakdowns and tactical quirk analyses, had drawn over half a million viewers within minutes of going live.

"Hi everyone! Deku here," Izuku smiled, adjusting his glasses and leaning toward the microphone. "I promised a quick Q&A on disaster-relief kinetic redirection before the evening reports are filed. We’ll go through five or six questions from the community board, so feel free to drop them in the chat!"

The feed flashed with questions, but the aftermath of Denki’s mountain broadcast still held the entire internet in an iron grip.

Deku.Official •LIVE •500K Viewers

@smash_analyst: DEKU! Any thoughts on the new emergency seismic dispersal regulations?

@green_lightning_fan: Deku look so rested today!

@hero_gossip_weekly: DEKU PLEASE did you see Chargebolt’s stream yesterday?!

@red_riot_watch: DO YOU KNOW WHO THE NAVY SWEATER GUY IS??? HE CALLED RED RIOT 'HAIR-DYE'

Izuku offered a warm, slightly nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, yes, Denki’s stream... I did see some clips. But Eijirou-kun's personal life is his own to share, so let's try to focus on hero logistics, okay? Now, looking at the first question regarding kinetic–"

A sharp, familiar voice echoed from the hallway outside the open study door. "Oi! Greenie!" Izuku instantly clamped his mouth shut, his freckled face going completely rigid

The voice wasn't far away. It drifted cleanly into the room, carried by the quiet acoustics of the agency flat, husky, sharp around the edges, and layered with effortless, razor-sharp exasperation.

"Where the hell did you put the scorched-leaf poultice from the mountain? Eijirou took a blunt-force scrape to his ribs on the western sector and he’s pretending it doesn't sting so we don't miss the last train. If you moved the medicine tin to your hero junk drawer again, I’m throwing your notebook into the sink!"

A breathless, dead silence hit the live stream chat for two solid seconds before it detonated in absolute, uncontrolled hysteria.

Deku.Official •LIVE •785K Viewers

@hero_tea_daily: WAIT.

@kiri_stan_central: THAT VOICE

@bolt_archive: THE 'HAIR-DYE' VOICE???

@tokyo_daily_tea: "EIJIROU TOOK A BLUNT-FORCE SCRAPE"

@shinjuku_sleuth: THE NAVY SWEATER GUY IS IN DEKU’S APARTMENT RIGHT NOW

@allure_magazine_stan: HE THREATENED TO THROW DEKU'S NOTEBOOK IN THE SINK WHO IS THIS MENACE

@dynamite_tracker: IS THAT THE SAME GUY FROM YESTERDAY?????

Izuku looked like a deer trapped in the high beams of a freight train. His green eyes darted from the chat monitor, over the screen and to where the open door, presumably was, his hands hovering uselessly above his tablet.

"Uh-Uhm-Uh–! I-In the top cabinet! Blue ceramic box, next to the dry tea cakes!" Izuku yelled back, his voice squeaking slightly in sheer panic

"Found it!" the voice shouted back, accompanied by the distinctive clack of a heavy ceramic lid against timber, followed by low, affectionate scolding in the distance. "Sit still, you idiot. If you harden your skin while I'm cleaning the graze, the salve won't sink in... Stop laughing, I'm not being gentle."

A deep, unmistakably gravelly chuckle answered him from the adjoining room, Kirishima’s voice, low, rumbling, and completely besotted. "Yes, sir. You're the boss."

Izuku snapped his gaze back to his monitor. The view count was skyrocketing past eight hundred thousand, the comment section moving so fast the text turned into a shimmering, illegible blur of neon highlights and question marks.

"Okay! So! Kinetic redirection!" Izuku announced at a volume three notches too loud, waving both hands frantically in front of the lens with a brilliantly strained, terrified smile. "A very fascinating topic! Highly technical! We'll discuss the distribution of mass over shifting tectonic plates next time!"

He didn't wait for another comment to load. Reaching out with blinding speed, Izuku slapped the main terminal switch, killing the feed mid-sentence and slumping forward onto his desk with a long, exhausted groan while the entire hero community began piecing together the mystery in the hallway.

The sun had set over the city, and the private lounge of Creati’s downtown agency was bathed in warm, elegant light.

Momo sat upright on a velvet settee, the picture of poised sophistication in a tailored silk blouse, a delicate porcelain teacup resting on the low table before her. Beside her, slumped sideways with one leg slung over the carved armrest and a battered acoustic guitar propped against her knee, Jirou was lazily twirling an auxiliary earphone jack between two fingers.

The official broadcast feed was hosted under Creati’s verified agency banner, pulling over six hundred thousand viewers who had arrived expecting a high-society briefing on rescue logistics and community support initiatives.

Instead, they found the chat in the middle of a full-blown meltdown.

CreatiOfficial •LIVE •638K Viewers

@creati_elegance: Lady Creati looking radiant as always! ✨

@earphone_rock: JIROU!! Play a riff!!

@hero_tracker_hq: ARE WE GOING TO TALK ABOUT DEKU’S STREAM YESTERDAY???

@red_riot_tea: PLEASE TELL US WHO WAS SCOLDING RED RIOT IN THE HALLWAY

@mystery_omega_daily: You guys went to class with Red Riot!! WHO THREATENED TO DROWN DEKU’S NOTEBOOKS?!

Momo offered a graceful, polite smile, gently lifting her tea to her lips before speaking into the microphone. "Good evening, everyone. Kyouka and I wanted to share a brief update on the regional rehabilitation concert series scheduled for next month. It is our hope that music and humanitarian aid will continue to–"

"They're not listening to a word you're saying, Yaomomo," Jirou sighed, resting her chin in her palm as she watched the chat stream past like a waterfall of all-caps panic. "Look at that. Half the country is currently having an aneurysm because a certain red-haired idiot got caught being a baby about a scratch."

Momo set her teacup down with a faint clink, an amused, fond glint touching her dark eyes. "Well, Eijirou-san has always been rather dramatic when receiving first aid from those he cares about. But really, chat, you must respect the privacy of–

"Forget the privacy, they're driving themselves crazy trying to figure out who he is," Jirou snorted, tapping a low rhythm against the wood of her guitar. "Calling him a 'menace.' I mean, they're not wrong–the guy’s terrifying when he wants to be. But he has taste."

CreatiOfficial •LIVE •721K Viewers

@earphone_rock: WAIT JIROU KNOWS HIM PERSONALLY???

@daily_tea_shinjuku: WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE HAS TASTE???

@spicy_bolt: Jirou spill something please we are starving 😭

@kiri_fanatic: DOES HE LIKE YOUR MUSIC?!

"Yeah, he does, actually," Jirou said, her voice dropping into that quiet, genuine tone she used whenever she talked about things that actually mattered to her. A rare, faintly shy smile touched the corner of her mouth. 

"Back when we were in school, I sang a piece for him. Just acoustic. No heavy amps or stage lighting. He told me my voice was smooth and calming. Said it sounded like clear water running over cold river stones."

She plucked a single, resonant chord on the guitar, letting the note hang sweet and melancholic in the quiet air of the lounge.

"Coming from someone who barely hands out three compliments a year and spends the rest of his time threatening to blast people through walls with that sharp tongue of his... That meant a lot. He’s got an ear for honesty."

The comment feed froze for half a second before detonating in blinding, multi-colored chaos.

CreatiOfficial •LIVE •732K Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: HE CALLED HER VOICE SMOOTH AND CALMING???

@mystery_omega_daily: OKAY SO UNDER THE GROWL HE’S ACTUALLY A SWEETHEART

@tokyo_daily_tea: "CLEAR WATER OVER COLD RIVER STONES" ARE YOU KIDDING ME

@shinjuku_sleuth: The fiery mountain healer with the courting torc is a secret music critic

@allure_magazine_stan: No wonder Red Riot looks so hopelessly in love 😭

@creati_fan_club: Jirou’s face is so fond right now!!

Momo watched the screen, a small, knowing smile softening her expression as she glanced over at her friend. "He has always had a way of cutting straight to the truth, hasn't he?"

"Yeah," Jirou muttered, scratching her cheek with the tip of her jack, a faint blush warming her ears. "Even if he’d skin me alive if he heard me getting all sentimental on camera."

"Then perhaps we should pivot back to our scheduled program," Momo laughed softly, lifting her tea once more. "Before the mountain decides to send an angry message straight to our agency inbox."

The chat on Creati’s broadcast feed devolved into pure, unrestrained debate, the text flying so fast the window turned into a blur of neon highlights and punctuation.

CreatiOfficial •LIVE •741K Viewers

@subway_tracker: WAIT HOLD ON. "He has taste"? "A mouth that could strip paint"? Is this guy a Beta or an Omega?!

@dynamics_watch_jp: Literally was thinking the same thing!! He threatened to drown Deku’s notebooks and made the Number 5 Hero split firewood! No way an Omega talks like that, right?!

@beta_solidarity: Definitely a Beta. Bold, unbothered, zero instinctual deference, doesn't care about hero rankings at all. Beta energy 100%.

@tokyo_daily_tea: ARE YOU BLIND??? DID YOU NOT SEE THE COURTING TORC ON CHARGEBOLT’S STREAM?!

@torc_analyst: ^^^ THIS. Titanium and garnet sitting DIRECTLY over the scent gland! That is a traditional high-grade Omega protection torc!

@mountain_sleuth: But Betas can wear decorative neckbands too! And have you ever heard of an Omega who uses poultices and orders the "Nation’s Hottest Alpha" to sleep in a shed?!

@red_riot_truth: Red Riot literally looked like he was worshipping the ground he walked on! Alphas only get that ridiculously soft, compliant face around their mated Omega!

@omega_lib_now: Why do people still think Omegas have to be timid pushovers?! An Omega who takes no crap and keeps Red Riot in line is PEAK dynamic!

@creati_fan_club: Jirou’s face right now... she knows the truth and she’s not telling us a single thing!

Jirou rested her chin heavily on the curve of her acoustic guitar, watching the furious walls of text argue back and forth across the monitor. Her dark eyes gleamed with dry, thoroughly entertained amusement as her earphone jacks lazily tapped against her knees.

"Look at them fighting," Jirou muttered sideways to Momo, a deadpan smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "If they ever tried telling him he was supposed to act like a sweet, quiet little Omega, he’d probably shove an entire pinecone down their throats."

Momo hid a discreet, aristocratic cough behind her lace handkerchief, her shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter. "I believe the phrase he used last autumn when Denki questioned his authority was that he would 'grind his bones into potting soil.'"

"Exactly," Jirou snorted, leaning in toward the microphone with an infuriatingly vague, lopsided grin. "Argue all you want, chat. All I'll say is: whatever dynamic you think he is, he's the only person on earth who can make Red Riot fold with a single look, and he wears that garnet band like a crown."

The polished cedar table of the mountain villa’s private study caught the warm glow of an iron lantern.

Kirishima sat centered in the webcam’s frame, looking rugged and comfortable in an oversized crimson flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled past his thick, scarred forearms. His crimson hair was down, falling naturally around his face instead of styled in its sharp hero spikes, and the gold-plated "Number 5" pin from the Billboard ceremony sat casually on the shelf behind him, totally ignored.

The notification went out across the official Hero Network app, and the stream's view counter exploded instantly, blasting past five hundred thousand in thirty seconds flat.

"Hey, everyone! Red Riot here," Kirishima smiled, flashing a bright, jagged-toothed grin as he waved a broad hand at the lens. "I promised my PR team I'd do an end-of-season check-in before the winter patrols kick off. I've got about twenty minutes before dinner, so let's do a quick chat!"

The comment feed moved so fast it looked like water rushing through a broken dam.

Red_Riot_Rock •LIVE •579K Viewers

@kiri_stan_central: RED RIOT LIVE STREAM?!?!?!

@hero_watcher_jp: HIS HAIR IS DOWN HE LOOKS SO GOOD

@allure_magazine_stan: 4-TIME NATION'S HOTTEST HERO LOOKING EFFORTLESSLY MAJESTIC

@torc_investigator: EIJIROU PLEASE IS YOUR PARTNER THERE?!

@daily_tea_shinjuku: ARE YOU IN THE MOUNTAINS RIGHT NOW???

@dynamic_sleuth: SETTLE THE BET: IS HE A BETA OR AN OMEGA?!

Kirishima let out a low, warm laugh, leaning his forearms on the desk and rubbing the back of his neck. A familiar, boyish flush crept up his collar, but he didn't duck his head or run like he had in the press conferences. After years of building this life, there was only grounded pride in his crimson eyes.

"No, he’s not joining the stream, guys," Kirishima said, his voice dropping into that deep, gentle timbre that made the chat immediately lose its composure. "He values his peace, and I respect that more than anything. He's down at the wood stove right now, making sure the root stew doesn't boil over."

The comment section erupted in a wall of crying emojis and all-caps screaming.

Red_Riot_Rock •LIVE •643K Viewers

@tokyo_daily_tea: "HE VALUES HIS PEACE" 😭😭😭

@spicy_bolt: HE'S COOKING FOR YOU?!

@omega_rights_jp: Eijirou please tell us about the torc!! The whole country is debating if he's an Omega or a Beta!!

Kirishima’s gaze drifted toward the small screen preview. His expression softened, the fierce, indomitable edge of the Number 5 Hero completely melting into pure devotion. 

His fingers reached up out of sheer habit, brushing against the tiny carved cedar fox charm now clipped to his shirt pocket.

"People get too hung up on titles and labels," Kirishima said softly, his tone steady and full of profound respect. "Around here, nobody cares about dynamic hierarchies. But yeah... I forged that titanium torc for him because he's an Omega who survived things that would have broken anyone else in half. He walked out of the dark, chose his own life, and let me be the one who gets to protect his back."

He tilted his head, a fond, sharp-toothed smirk touching his mouth. "Though if you ever saw him in an argument, you'd never think of the word 'fragile.' He’s fiercer than a wildfire, he keeps me humble, and he’s the strongest person on this mountain. He doesn't need to be on camera for everyone to know he's the center of my world.

A faint, muffled thump echoed from the floorboards below the room, followed by the distant sound of a ceramic spoon clattering against an iron pot.

Kirishima blinked, glancing down at his watch before looking back up at the camera with wide, hilarious dread.

"And the timer on the stove just went off," Kirishima whispered, raising his hands in a frantic, hurried sign-off as a wide grin split his face. "Which means if I'm not in my seat with clean hands in forty seconds, I'm going to get a lecture about cold broth. Thanks for tuning in, stay safe out there, and remember to look out for each other!"

He clicked the end-broadcast button with a single, decisive tap, cutting the feed mid-wave, turning toward the door with light in his eyes to run straight down to the kitchen.

Sero leaned back so far in his agency’s swivel chair that his knees bumped the underside of the drafting table. He was holding a cardboard cup of convenience-store iced coffee in one hand, wearing a slouchy, paint-splattered crewneck, and shooting an easy, lopsided grin right at the lens.

"Yo," Sero said, the stream counter on his agency channel blowing past three hundred thousand before he even finished taking a pull from his straw. "Cellophane here. Had a four-hour gap between precinct debriefs, figured I’d jump on and watch you guys lose your minds in real time."

He didn't even have to look at the monitor to know what was coming. The chat was a vertical streak of caps lock, red exclamation points, and fire emojis, running at full throttle off the fumes of Kirishima's stream the night before.

TheSeroPhane •LIVE •316K Viewers

@tape_dispenser_hero: CELLOPHANE!! MY BOY!

@kiri_stan_central: SERO YOU WERE HIS ROOMMATE IN THE DORMS

@omega_rights_jp: RED RIOT CONFIRMED HE'S AN OMEGA LAST NIGHT

@daily_tea_shinjuku: "HE'S FIERCIER THAN A WILDFIRE" HE SAID IT HIMSELF

@sleuth_hound: SERO PLEASE GIVE US TEA ON THE MOUNTAIN OMEGA

@hero_tracker_hq: Did you know him during high school?! Did you see the torc get forged?!

Sero let out a long, wheezing chuckle, shaking his head until his dark bangs flopped over his eyes. He set the iced coffee down with a dull plastic thud and propped his chin in his palm, his dark eyes crinkling with pure, unadulterated amusement.

"Man, you guys are relentless," Sero said, clicking his tongue. "First Sparky panics and pulls his cord, then Mina acts like she's innocent, Deku almost has a heart attack on camera, and now you want me to spill the beans? I like living, thanks. I’ve got agency bills to pay."

TheSeroPhane •LIVE •402K Viewers

@spicy_bolt: SERO PLEASE JUST ONE STORY

@tape_fanatic: What was it like having them around the dorms back then?!

@allure_magazine_stan: Is he really as terrifying as everyone says?!

"Terrifying?" Sero snorted, leaning forward and resting both elbows on the desk, pointing a finger directly at the webcam. "Listen. In our third year, Kaminari accidentally left a wet gym towel on the edge of the common-room sofa while the guy was visiting. Just a wet towel. You know what happened?"

The chat ground to a halt, hanging on every word.

TheSeroPhane •LIVE •458K Viewers

@hero_tea_time: WHAT HAPPENED???

@kiri_fan_club: DID HE YELL???

"He didn't say a single word," Sero said deadpan, his eyes wide with theatrical trauma. "He just picked up the towel using two wooden barbecue skewers, walked into the kitchen, threw it straight into a pot of boiling water on the stove, and left it there until Kaminari came downstairs. Then he looked Sparky dead in the eye and said, 'If your laundry touches the upholstery again, your head goes in the pot next.' And you wanna know what the worst part was? Eijirou was standing right beside him, eating a peach, and just nodded and went, 'He's right, bro, you gotta be more sanitary.'"

The comments detonated into a riot of laughter and keyboard smashes.

TheSeroPhane •LIVE •482K Viewers

@bolt_archive: LMAOOOO POOR DENKI

@red_riot_supremacy: "EIJIROU WAS EATING A PEACH" I'M CRYING

@tokyo_daily_tea: Eijirou is so hopelessly whipped it's actually historic

@dynamic_watch_jp: An Omega who threatens people with boiling pots... peak domestic terror

"Look, all jokes aside," Sero’s tone softened just a fraction, a genuine, fond warmth cutting through his lazy smirk. "People hear 'Omega' and they get this weird picture in their heads of someone fragile who needs to be hidden away behind high walls. But with those two? Eijirou doesn't protect him because he's weak. Eijirou protects the mountain because that's where the guy is finally allowed to just... Be."

He tapped the side of his coffee cup, his gaze drifting toward the window of his agency, looking out toward the distant northern peaks. 

"He cooks like a Michelin chef, his tongue is sharper than a utility knife, and he can read a room faster than any Pro on the charts. Eijirou’s been carrying the weight of the country on his back since he was sixteen. Having someone at the end of the line who doesn't care about the Billboard ranking, who just hands him a towel and tells him to quit being an idiot? That's what keeps the man unbreakable."

TheSeroPhane •LIVE •589K Viewers

@kiri_stan_central: OKAY WHO IS CUTTING ONIONS IN THIS CHAT

@allure_magazine_stan: That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard 😭

@hero_tracker_hq: Sero being the most grounded friend as always

@tape_dispenser_hero: What a bond...

Sero blinked at the sudden wave of crying emojis, suddenly realizing how sentimental he’d sounded. His goofy grin snapped right back into place, his hands waving in mock defense.

"All right, all right, cut the sappy comments before I get soft on camera," Sero laughed, scooping up his coffee and kicking his chair back. 

"Shift's starting in ten. Don't go harassing the mountain, leave Red Riot to his stew, and if you see Kaminari, ask him how his boiled towels taste. Peace!"

He reached out and tapped the disconnect toggle, leaving the stream black and the internet more captivated than ever by the quiet, fiery soul waiting in the northern pines.

The late-afternoon sun bounced off the high-rises outside the central agency briefing room.

Izuku had barely managed to set his official tablet into its desktop dock before the green light on the camera flared. He was dressed in his full dark-teal flight suit minus the cowl, his unruly curls slightly damp from post-patrol showers.

"Hello, everyone! Deku here," Izuku began, folding his hands neatly over the desk with a practiced, bright smile. "We're hosting a brief community check-in to go over the updated northern prefecture transit routes following the rockslide clearances last Tuesday. If you have inquiries regarding logistics–"

A violent flash of bright bubblegum pink blew into the frame from the left.

"Move over, Greenie, the public has real questions!" Mina cheered, practically tackling Izuku sideways as she hijacked the leather swivel chair's armrest, her arm around the back of Izuku's shoulders, her yellow horns nearly clipping the top edge of the webcam. She was still in her high-collared acid-resistant vest, flashing giant double peace signs with her nails painted shimmering silver.

"M-Mina-kun!" Izuku squeaked, tumbling half off the edge of the seat, desperately grabbing the desk to keep the camera from falling over. "This is an official administrative transit broadcast–!"

"Nobody cares about asphalt regulations today, Deku! The people are starving!" Mina laughed, leaning so close to the lens her gold-ringed sclera filled the screen.

The view counter spiked instantly, the numbers spinning wildly as the comment section collapsed into total, unhinged delirium.

Deku.Official •LIVE •611K Viewers

@pinky_acid_queen: MINA HAS BREACHED THE SECURE FEED

@hero_tracker_hq: NOT HER HIJACKING DEKU’S STREAM AGAIN LMAO

@deku_squad_stan: Poor Izuku fighting for his life in his own chair 😭 

@kiri_fan_club: MINA TELL US HOW EVERYONE FOUND OUT ABOUT THEM

@mystery_omega_daily: HOW WAS THE RELATIONSHIP REVEALED IN CLASS 3-A?!

@shinjuku_tea: Did Eijirou confess in the dorms?! Did you catch them together?!

Mina gasped theatrically, slapping both hands flat over her cheeks as her horns vibrated with pure delight. "Oh, you want the origin story? The actual, authentic, classified incident where the cat tumbled completely out of the bag?!"

"Mina, please," Izuku groaned from the floor, rubbing his temples with a hand over his face. "Aizawa-san will literally revoke our joint agency clearance. That was our second year–"

"Quiet, nerd, I'm doing investigative journalism!" Mina leaned in, her voice dropping into a low, gossipy stage-whisper that sent the chat scrolling twice as fast. "Okay, so picture this: Kiri is sprawled over the couch in the Dorm lounge, half-asleep after a four-hour endurance trial with Fat Gum. His phone was laying face-up on his chest." Mina snorted.

"My guy was almost completely dead to the world, like, I wasn't really the quietest and he didn't hear me come down to watch some TV." Izuku smiled.

Deku.Official •LIVE •864K Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: DONT TELL ME PINKY WAS THE ONE TO REVEAL IT???!!!!

@kiri_fan_club: I will actually start laugh crying

@pinky_acid_queen: lmao, why is that actually such a mina thing of her to do that tho

 "Anyways, so I was on a routine quest across the rug for the television remote, because with a million other people in a dorm it's bound to disappear." Mina rolled her eyes as Izuku snorted, covering his face. 

"So I stop dead in my tracks when the screen lights up with a notification. And guess what? It was from his looovvvveeeee." She sing-songed, Izuku snorted into his hands.

Deku.Official •LIVE •983K Viewers

@torc_analyst: THE TEMPERED TITANIUM TORC

@red_riot_truth: WE NEED THE REVEAL MINA DON'T STOP

"It basically went like this: if you fall asleep on the couch and you didn't drink water, i'm gonna hide your protein powder, so drink something, you idiot." Izuku whined as he turned away, you could see his shoulders moving up and down, a clear indication that he was laughing, Mina giggled.

"AND THERE WAS A RED LITTLE HEART AT THE END OF THE MESSAGE," She exclaimed and Izuku started laughing harder, "So being the 'chaos gremlin', as Kiri once called me, that I am, I took a picture and put it on our class chat." She tilted her head.

"But that's not even what really cemented it y'know, you guys have seen that fox charm, right? It was an exact match to the one that Kats won at a festival in Chiba."

The chat detonated into a storm of red hearts, crying faces, and keyboard smashes.

Deku.Official •LIVE •995K Viewers

@bolt_archive: THAT'S SO CUTE 😭😭

@tokyo_daily_tea: THE SAME CHARM??? I AM UNWELL

@omega_lib_now: Telling him to drink water before he passes out, that's so cute

@allure_magazine_stan: What did Eijirou do?! Tell us what Red Riot did!!

"What did he do?" Mina squealed, shaking Izuku by his shoulders while the green-haired hero wheezed.

"Kiri didn't even really notice until his phone started buzzing continuously." She snorted. "The whole chat went crazy, dude. Like, it's so hilarious, we actually forgot Mr. Red Riot's lovey dovey was in the chat, anyways, Todoroki was saying that he thought we knew because he'd gotten a picture of them cuddling in his nest." Izuku snorted so hard he choked.

"Kiri was actually so red, I thought he was gonna match with his hair, he actually said that his face was burning off." She giggled. Izuku looked like he was fighting for his life. 

"So when lovey dovey saw the picture I sent on the chat he said that I should delete it otherwise–" She stopped. Izuku looked at her and giggled. 

"Yeah, that was..." She shook her head, "Anyways, so then he threatened to kick my door down and Kiri said 'please don't do that, she's my friend.' When I tell you, Kats told him that he was gonna sleep on the floor, I swear I was gonna die, I couldn't breathe properly, Kiri was SO red." 

"But yeah, Kiri then confirmed and he rest was history." She got an evil grin on her face. "Kiri was then lovingly dubbed 'Romeo' for the next few weeks. Until Kats threatened to kick Denki's kneecaps in, then it stopped." Izuku whined again, wheezing and coughing slightly, Mina threw an arm around his shoulders.

"And that, chat, is how Class A found out that the fiercest Alpha in the country was completely, irrevocably, and wonderfully claimed by the sharpest Omega in Japan."

The soft, rhythmic murmur of a mountain stream bubbled somewhere just beyond the cedar grove.

​Ochaco sat perched on a flat granite boulder nestled among wild ferns, her phone propped against a mossy tree trunk with a small, flexible tripod. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the dense canopy in golden beams, illuminating her round, pink-tinted cheeks and the comfortable fleece vest she wore over a simple turtleneck.

"Hi, everyone! Uravity here," Ochaco smiled warmly, waving both hands at the lens, her fingertips carefully kept apart so she didn't send her lunch floating into the branches. "Taking a mandatory weekend off from metropolitan logistics. The agency told me I needed fresh air, so I took the high line up north. Look at how clear the sky is!"

​She turned the camera slightly to show off the tranquil forest: towering pines, ancient stone markers draped in lichen, and a narrow gravel path winding further up the ridge toward the secluded mountain villa.

​The view counter spiked instantly, surging past four hundred thousand within minutes.

UraRavity •LIVE •436K Viewers

@gravity_queen_stan: URAVITY IN THE MOUNTAINS???

@pink_cheeks_fan: She looks so refreshed and peaceful! ✨

@hero_tracker_hq: WAIT A MINUTE. The high line up north?!

@daily_tea_shinjuku: IS SHE IN THE RED RIOT SANCTUARY FOREST RIGHT NOW

@omega_rights_jp: OCHACO PLEASE ARE YOU VISITING THE FIERY OMEGA

@kiri_fan_club: Ask her if the relationship reveal story Mina told was real!!

​Ochaco giggled, tucking a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. "Yes, Mina’s story was completely real. Kirishima-kun–"

​A sharp, crisp 'crack' echoed through the trees from up the path, followed by a low, distinctly irritated scoff.

​The chat paused, the scrolling comments slowing for a fraction of a second before vibrating with anticipation.

​"Oi, Round Face." Ochaco didn't flinch. Instead, an affectionate, entirely unbothered grin spread across her face as she turned her head toward the upper trail.

​The voice was unmistakable. It drifted clearly through the cool mountain air, raspy, sharp-edged, and carrying that dry, devastating command that millions of people had now memorized from leaks and agency streams.

​"Drop the phone and carry this wicker basket before the wild mushrooms bruise," the voice called out, the sound of heavy boots crunching steadily over dry pine needles and twigs. "Eijirou hauled three sacks of dried kelp up the switchback and now he's passed out on the back veranda like a dead bear. If you let him sleep past four, he's going to whine about his stiff back all through dinner."

​The live stream chat went into an absolute, frantic meltdown.

UraRavity •LIVE •659K Viewers

​@shinjuku_sleuth: THE VOICE. IT'S HIM.

@mystery_omega_daily: "ROUND FACE" LMAO HE CALLS HER ROUND FACE

@kiri_simp_central: "EIJIROU IS PASSED OUT LIKE A DEAD BEAR" 😭😭😭

@bolt_archive: HE'S FORAGING MUSHROOMS IN THE WOODS

@tokyo_daily_tea: URAVITY TURN THE CAMERA PLEASE WE WANT TO SEE HIM

@allure_magazine_stan: The Number 5 Hero taking naps on the porch after hauling kelp... they are so domestic I'm crying

​Just up the path, a slender shadow crossed between two sunlit trunks, though the angle of the boulder kept his face completely out of the lens' frame. All the camera caught was the lower hem of a heavy, dark olive wool coat, sturdy leather foraging boots dusted with soil, and the long, pale fingers of one hand casually swinging a deep woven basket filled with wild mountain herbs

​At his throat, the hammered slate-titanium and deep crimson garnet torc caught a stray beam of sunlight, flaring like a small, burning coal against his neck.

​"Coming, coming!" Ochaco called back brightly, entirely unbothered by the bossy tone. She looked back at her phone with an amused, sparkling look in her brown eyes. "See? I told you. He runs this entire mountain with an iron fist."

​"I heard that, cheeks!" the voice snapped back from just beyond the trees, though the edge was rounded off by a faint, fond huff. "Move your butt or I'm putting extra mountain peppers in your broth."

​Ochaco let out a cheerful, musical laugh, reaching out to tap the screen with one pink-gloved finger.

The mountain wind kicked up suddenly, sweeping down through the high canopy and sending a flurry of dry cedar needles spiraling across the forest trail.

Just as the shadowy figure paused beneath the dappled sunlight to shift the wicker basket, the gust caught the deep hood of his dark olive coat, tugging the heavy wool straight back off his head.

The camera caught it with pristine, razor-sharp clarity.

Spilling out into the brilliant afternoon light was a shock of thick, wildly spiky ash-blond hair, catching the gold of the sun like spun embers.

He didn't turn toward the lens, his back was angled half-away, his sharp profile and face still turned up the trail toward the villa, but there was no hiding the pale, curve of his ear, dusted faintly pink from the autumn chill, or the way the bright blond tufts bristled as he clicked his tongue in sharp irritation at the wind

With an impatient flick of his wrist, a pale, scarred hand reached up to shove the unruly blond strands out of his eyes, his fingers brushing right past the slate-titanium torc gleaming at the hollow of his neck before he yanked the hood back up, cloaking himself once more in shadow.

The live stream chat went into an absolute, apocalyptic frenzy.

UraRavity •LIVE •754K Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: HE'S BLOND.

@mystery_omega_daily: THE ASH-BLOND HAIR OH MY GOD

@shinjuku_sleuth: SPIKY ASH-BLOND HAIR AND A SCARRED NECK UNDER THE TORC

@bolt_archive: DENKI WASN'T LYING HE LITERALLY LOOKS LIKE A FIERY MENACE

@tokyo_daily_tea: RED RIOT AND A BLOND OMEGA IN THE MOUNTAINS I CANNOT BREATHE

@kiri_stan_central: THE CONTRAST WITH EIJIROU'S RED HAIR MUST BE INSANE

@allure_magazine_stan: HE'S GORGEOUS EVEN FROM THE BACK OF HIS HEAD PLEASE

Ochaco’s eyes widened slightly as she glanced down at the wall of screaming caps-lock pouring over her phone. She let out a breathless, panicked squeak, realizing the wind had just blown four years of tight-lipped agency secrecy right into the open air.

"Hurry up, Round Face, the wind is picking up!" the blond muttered impatiently, already marching up the stone steps without looking back, the hem of his coat swishing against the fern fronds.

"Right behind you!" Ochaco yelled, instantly lunging forward, planting her thumb squarely over the camera lens to kill the broadcast before her phone could capture another single, glorious lock of hair.

The low hum of the mountain compound’s courtyard lantern spilled across the broad wooden floor of the outdoor gear shed.

Kirishima was sitting on an overturned cedar crate, his red hero boots resting on the stone threshold. He wore an oversized, dark grey waffle-knit henley with the sleeves shoved up his forearms, a pair of worn canvas trousers, and his phone perched on an eye-level tool shelf.

The live stream counter spiked so fast the streaming platform’s server crashed for a three-second hiccup before stabilizing at six hundred and eighty thousand concurrent viewers.

"Hey, everyone," Kirishima said. He didn't lead with his booming hero laugh or the classic 'Unbreakable' salute. Instead, he rubbed a hand down the side of his face, his expression an excruciating, hilarious mix of profound defeat and fond amusement. "So... I just woke up from my nap on the veranda."

The chat moved like a high-voltage fuse box bursting into flame.

Red_Riot_Rock •LIVE •683K Viewers

@kiri_fan_club: HE'S AWAKE

@shinjuku_sleuth: DID YOU SLEEP LIKE A DEAD BEAR LIKE HE SAID

@hero_tracker_hq: HE SAW URAVITY’S STREAM

@tokyo_daily_tea: EIJIROU THE ENTIRE COUNTRY KNOWS

@bolt_archive: CHARGEBOLT WARNED US ABOUT THE SPICY BLOND MENACE WE JUST FOCUSED ON THE BLUE EMBERS AND MISSED THAT DETAIL COMPLETELY

@allure_magazine_stan: THE ASH BLOND HAIR MATCHES THE GARNET TORC PERFECTLY WE ARE UNWELL

Kirishima took a slow, deliberate breath, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. He looked directly into the lens, his sharp teeth showing slightly as a warm, helpless grin tugged at his mouth despite himself.

"I leave Uraraka alone in the cedar grove for twenty minutes," Kirishima murmured, shaking his head until his dark red hair fell into his eyes. "Twenty minutes. And a gust of wind undoes four years of agency NDAs and Sero's tape protocols."

The comment section erupted in laughing emojis and screaming caps.

Red_Riot_Rock •LIVE •695K Viewers

@mystery_omega_daily: THE WIND WORKED FOR THE PRESS TODAY

@omega_lib_now: Is it true he yelled at Uravity for bruising the wild mushrooms?!

@kiri_simp_central: HE'S BLOND AND HAS A SCARRED NAPE AND WEARS A SLATE TORC

@red_riot_truth: TELL US HE DOESN'T KNOW YET PLEASE

"Oh, he knows," Kirishima chuckled, the sound deep, dry, and thoroughly resigned. "My phone had ninety-four missed calls from Mina and Denki before I even had my boots on. And then I walked into the kitchen, and my mate was standing over the cutting board with an eight-inch santoku knife, staring at me like he was debating whether to chop the burdock root or my head."

The chat broke into absolute bedlam.

Red_Riot_Rock •LIVE •702K Viewers

@hero_tea_time: THE SANTOKU KNIFE HELP

@bolt_stan99: DENKI'S RUNNING FOR HIS LIFE RIGHT NOW LMAO

@tokyo_daily_tea: Did he blame you for falling asleep?!

"He blamed the wind, then he blamed Uraraka, then he blamed my hair for 'distracting the cosmos,'" Kirishima smiled softly, his crimson eyes softening with a quiet, unconditional warmth. He reached out to trace the smooth cedar fox charm clipped to his collar. 

"Look, chat. You guys saw the spiky blond hair. You know he's an Omega who isn't afraid to bark at top-ranked heroes. You know he's here with me." He paused, his voice leveling into something protective, steady, and unshakeable.

"He didn't ask to be famous. He fought through an entire war's worth of garbage just to earn this quiet patch of dirt, this kitchen, and this porch. So yeah... He's blond. He's fiery as hell. He's the best cook on this island and he has a heart bigger than the whole prefecture, even if he'd threaten to drop an anvil on me for saying it out loud."

Kirishima leaned an inch closer to the camera, his crimson gaze turning firm. "Leave the telephoto lenses out of the northern pines. Don't bring press vans up the switchbacks. He gave you the hair because the wind took the hood, that's all the public gets. The rest stays right here, on this mountain."

From the dark breezeway just behind the shed, a wooden sliding screen rattled open with a sharp, familiar 'thwack'.

"Oi! Rock-head!" Kirishima’s shoulders instantly jumped half an inch. He froze, his head snapping toward the door with wide, comically terrified eyes. "The dashi is simmering down and the radish slices aren't set!" The raspy, sharp-edged voice echoed from the house, utterly devoid of mercy. "If you're still sitting on that fruit crate whispering to a telephone when the steam clears, you're eating cold rice with a wooden spoon!"

A collective cheer swept through the live stream comments as the view count pushed past seven hundred and fifty thousand.

Red_Riot_Rock •LIVE •752K Viewers

@shinjuku_sleuth: HE'S CALLING HIM IN FOR DINNER

@kiri_fanatic: GO EAT YOUR RADISH EIJIROU DON'T GET HIT WITH THE SPOON

@allure_magazine_stan: The Number 1 Hottest Hero answering to his blond mountain boss is everything

"Coming, Kats!" Kirishima called back over his shoulder, his voice bright, obedient, and brimming with unadulterated joy.

He looked back to the lens, flashed one last blinding, sharp-toothed grin, and gave a quick two-fingered salute.

"You heard the boss, chat. Duty calls. Eat your vegetables, stay out of trouble, and leave the mountain alone."

He tapped the screen with a blunt, scarred thumb, cutting the feed to black as the quiet timber halls swallowed up the sound of his running steps.

The mountain villa fell quiet as the late-autumn frost settled over the pines, sealing the valley under a heavy, breathless chill. 

Outside, the world of hero rankings, flashing press cameras, and speculative chatter dissolved into absolute silence, kept miles away by the locked timber gates and the quiet canopy of the northern woods.

Inside the innermost room of the house, the heavy wooden shoji screens were slid shut, blocking out the cold drafts. The air was thick and sweltering, sweet with the heavy scent of rich, browned butter and caramel that had turned heady, molten, and undeniably vulnerable.

Katsuki sat in the center of the vast futon, surrounded by the nest he had spent the afternoon building. It was an instinctive, meticulous fortress made of Kirishima’s heaviest crimson flannel shirts, wool blankets, and thick training hoodies carrying the grounding, steady trace of cedar and sun-baked stone.

His ash-blond hair was damp, clinging to his temples and forehead as the heat rolled through his veins like fever. The titanium torc at his throat was warm against his fevered skin, its garnet stone catching the low, amber flicker of the bedside lantern. His breathing came fast and shallow, his scarlet eyes hazy with the overwhelming pull of his cycle, stripped bare of his razor-sharp defenses.

When the screen slid open with a soft, careful rustle, Katsuki didn't flinch. His head lifted, a low, needy hum vibrating in his chest the instant the cool draft gave way to the rushing, overwhelming scent of pure, protective Alpha cedar.

Kirishima stood in the doorway, quiet and broad-shouldered, carrying a wooden tray with clean towels and a pitcher of cold spring water. He had already shed his boots and gear, wearing only soft cotton trousers, his dark crimson hair falling loose around his scarred brow. 

The moment his gaze locked onto the nest, and the flushed, trembling figure waiting in the center of it, his crimson eyes darkened with deep, instinctual reverence.

"Hey," Kirishima murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that settled straight into Katsuki’s bones. He set the tray down on the low table just outside the woven mats, keeping his movements slow and deliberate, offering no threat to the nest's boundaries until he was called. "I'm here, Katsuki."

Katsuki let out a sharp, breathless click of his tongue, but his fingers reached out from beneath the blankets, curling into the fabric of Kirishima’s discarded flannel. "Stop talking... And get in here, idiot."

A soft, profoundly tender smile curved Kirishima’s lips. He stepped onto the tatami, crawling into the nest on hands and knees until he was hovering over Katsuki, his immense warmth casting a protective shelter over the fevered Omega.

The moment Kirishima’s broad, calloused hands settled on Katsuki’s hips, Katsuki let out a long, ragged exhale, collapsing forward into his mate's solid chest. His arms locked tight around Kirishima's neck, his blunt fingers tangling into the thick red locks at his nape, pulling him down until their foreheads pressed together.

"You're burning up," Kirishima whispered against his lips, his hand coming up to gently cradle the back of Katsuki’s head, his thumb stroking over the sensitive, heated skin just beneath his ear. "I’ve got you. I'm right here."

"Shut up... And hold me," Katsuki muttered feverishly, his teeth grazing the hard line of Kirishima’s collarbone before his mouth found Kirishima's in a desperate, bruising kiss that tasted of heat, salt, and raw devotion.

Kirishima gathered him close, pulling Katsuki entirely into his lap, his broad back a shield against the rest of the world. For the next three days, there were no cameras, no public titles, and no wars left to fight, only the quiet rhythm of their breathing, the slow passage of water and gentle touches in the dark, and the absolute, unbreakable safety of the nest they had built together.

The rain had stopped over the fractured asphalt of the Ginza shopping district, leaving the pavement slick and reflecting the harsh glare of broadcast spotlights.

Emergency personnel were already clearing the cordon. A high-tier kinetic brute had detonated a reinforced concrete parking structure, and Red Riot had held the central underground foundation with his bare back for fifty-two minutes while sub-level transit passengers were routed to safety. 

The structural collapse had sliced through his heavy crimson gear, leaving a brutal grid of fresh, ragged lacerations and blunt-force abrasions across the breadth of his muscular shoulders and spine.

Now sitting on the lowered tailgate of an emergency medical van, Kirishima had a thick white towel draped loosely around his neck. Paramedics were packing antiseptic gel over the jagged, blooming welts along his shoulder blades, but Kirishima barely winced, his breathing steady, deep, and grounded.

The press perimeter didn't dare push past the hazard tape, but the wall of lenses was thicker than ever.

"Red Riot! An incredible, selfless display at the Ginza terminal!" a senior correspondent from Heroic Standard projected her voice over the hum of the auxiliary generators. "With this afternoon's zero-fatality extraction, municipal analysts have officially confirmed your elevation: the Number 3 Pro Hero in Japan! Only Deku and Shouto stand ahead of you on the Billboard charts!"

Kirishima looked up from beneath damp red bangs, offering a weary but bright, sharp-toothed grin. "Rankings don't mean much when the concrete is falling, ma'am. The joint tactical unit cleared the concourse in record time, and the municipal engineers did the heavy lifting on the bypass. I was just the anchor."

"Always deflecting praise," the reporter said, though her gaze dropped unmistakably to the heavy, stark white bandages wrapping across his broad back. Her expression shifted into that familiar, intensely speculative curiosity that followed him everywhere. 

"Yet even with the brutal physical toll of your quirk, even with those severe impact scars marking your shoulders today, Hero Style & Allure announced their five-year retrospective this morning. For the fifth consecutive year, you hold the Number One spot as the Nation's Hottest Hero. In fact, public sentiment polls surged thirty percent after the raw press photos from this afternoon's collapse surfaced."

A collective murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered photographers, shutters clicking incessantly to capture the raw, rugged silhouette of the scarred shield.

Kirishima let out a low, rueful chuckle, scratching the side of his neck with a finger. A faint trace of that old, boyish blush touched the bridge of his nose, but the frantic stammering of his early twenties was long gone. At twenty-five, the Number Three Hero carried himself with an unshakeable, tranquil maturity.

"I think people have a funny definition of beauty if they're looking at cracked skin and surgical gauze," Kirishima said softly, his deep voice carrying easily over the damp plaza.

"The fans call it the 'mark of an indomitable protector,'" another reporter called out from the second row, leaning over the rope. "Does your mate agree with the public verdict? How does the blond mountain healer feel about Japan's most desirable Alpha coming home with another set of permanent scars across his back?"

The question hung in the cool evening air.

Kirishima’s crimson eyes softened instantly, a quiet, devastatingly tender warmth sweeping across his rugged features. He reached down with one scarred thumb, brushing lightly over the tiny, worn cedar fox charm still clipped faithfully to his tactical belt.

"He's going to be furious," Kirishima admitted with a quiet, fond smile that silenced the entire press corps. "He's going to cross his arms, call me a reckless stone-headed idiot, and threaten to throw my dinner to the crows."

He paused, his gaze lifting toward the dark northern horizon, where the mountain ranges lay veiled beneath cold autumn mist.

"And then he’s going to make me sit on the tatami, light the cedar smudge, and spend three hours cleaning every single scratch with that scorched-leaf poultice of his. He won't care that I'm Number Three, and he definitely won't care about a magazine poll. To him, my back isn't a trophy or an aesthetic, it's just the thing that keeps me alive so I can walk through the front door."

Kirishima stood up from the bumper, testing his shoulders with a slow, disciplined roll before accepting a clean dark jacket from his agency sidekick. He turned back to the flashing cameras, giving them a polite, respectful bow.

"The public can look all they want," Kirishima said, his sharp-toothed grin flashing warm and final under the floodlights. "But every scar I carry belongs to the man holding the needle in the northern pines."

The sweltering heat of midsummer shimmered off the concrete concourse outside the central Tokyo dispatch hub.

Having just concluded his mandatory two-week personal leave, his first extended absence since claiming the Number Three spot, Red Riot was immediately deployed to resolve a heavy industrial crane collapse over the rail lines. The mission had gone cleanly without a single structural failure, but the humid afternoon had turned the tarmac into a sauna.

Jogging back toward the perimeter to give the standard tactical debrief, Kirishima peeled off his shredded, sweat-soaked utility vest, carrying the heavy armoured harness in one hand. He was wearing only an open-backed, sleeveless tactical compression rig, leaving the expanse of his sun-bronzed skin completely exposed to the late-afternoon sun.

The gathered press corps surged against the blue barrier ropes, lenses raised, and then, almost in unison, the rapid-fire click of hundreds of high-speed shutters hitched.

The reporters froze, their eyes widening in shock.

​Across the vast, muscled landscape of the Number Three Hero’s upper back and shoulders, the brutal, jagged pale scars from the Ginza concrete collapse were completely healed over. But overlapping them, carved deep and unmistakable across the crest of his shoulder blades and tracing down along the line of his spine, were half a dozen fresh, sharp, parallel claw marks.

They weren't jagged shrapnel cuts. They weren't the blunt, crushing abrasions of shattered masonry or steel rebar. They were smooth, deliberate crescents, faint traces of bruising blooming beneath the crimson flush of healing skin.

The chaotic clamour of the press line surged over the barricades, dozens of reporters craning their necks with predatory hunger.

"Red Riot!" a correspondent from Heroic Gossip Weekly practically shrieked, leaning so far over the yellow barricade her microphone nearly tapped his chest. "Your two-week sabbatical in the northern prefectures, were you engaged in active tactical recovery, or was that an official mating cycle retreat?!"

Kirishima blinked, totally bewildered by the frantic, breathless energy coming from the press line. "Uh, what? No, the agency cleared my leave for family time. I was just helping around the property and–"

"The marks on your back, Red Riot!" another journalist yelled, a telephoto zoom lens pointed dead-center in his face. "The marks on your left shoulder blade look deep and half-healed, they're distinctly crescent in shape, cut right across the muscle!" He yelled. "Those aren't impact wounds from industrial debris! Are those defensive lacerations from your mate?!"

The realization hit him like a freight train. His jaw dropped. His eyes blew wide, and a violent, incandescent crimson flush rocketed up from beneath his collar, engulfing his throat, his jaw, and the pointed tips of his ears until he was practically glowing under the afternoon sun. "That's–That has nothing to do with the rail incident!

The chaotic clamor of the press line surged over the barricades, dozens of reporters craning their necks with predatory hunger. "Red Riot, don't dodge the question!" an entertainment anchor pressed, her microphone thrusting forward. "A two-week sabbatical during midsummer, paired with deep claw marks scored directly down an Alpha's scent lines–! Are you denying these are heat-cycle mating marks?!"

Kirishima's hand tightened around the shredded ballistic vest, his jaw tightening as the flustered blush on his face abruptly gave way to something stiff, strained, and uncomfortable.

"I already told you, no," Kirishima said, his voice flattening into an uncharacteristically sharp edge. "It has nothing to do with a heat cycle. We weren't– It wasn't like that."

A chorus of skeptical scoffs and muttered chuckles rippled through the media pack. "Oh, come on, Red Riot! Denying it only makes it more obvious!" a tabloid photographer shouted, snapping another burst of photos aimed at the exposed slivers of red, raised tracks cresting over his shoulder. 

"An unyielding Alpha coming back from a mountain retreat with his back shredded? Who else would leave those kinds of marks if not an Omega caught in the crest of a cycle?!"

Kirishima went dead still. The air around him suddenly felt heavy, suffocating, and bitterly cold. The bright, easygoing warmth that had defined the Number Three Hero for five straight years evaporated completely. His hand slowly loosened around the torn vest, letting the heavy nylon hang limply in his fist as he stood taller.

His crimson eyes swept over the reporters, not with the ferocious anger he used on villains, but with a profound, quiet disappointment that hit the front row like a physical blow.

"He had a nightmare," Kirishima said. The quiet timbre of his voice carried over the idle rumble of the emergency generators, slicing clean through the noise of the tarmac.

The press line fell abruptly, awkwardly silent. "He woke up in the dark, trapped in a memory from a war he never wanted to fight in," Kirishima continued, his gaze unblinking and dead level. "He was shaking so violently he couldn't tell where the room ended and the dirt began. I reached out to pull him into my arms so he’d know he was safe, and his fingers locked into my back because he was terrified that if he let go, the sky was going to collapse on us again."

A thick, suffocating wave of embarrassment rolled through the gathered journalists. Several camera operators slowly lowered their lenses, looking down at their boots.

"My quirk hardens my skin against steel, against concrete, against bombs," Kirishima murmured, his voice laced with an ache that ran leagues deeper than any physical wound. "I deliberately kept it soft. I let him hold on as hard as he needed to, because I'd rather bleed through my own skin ten times over than let the person I love feel alone in the dark for even a second."

He looked at the microphones, then at the bright broadcast lights, shaking his head slowly with heavy, bitter exhaustion. "He fought to earn his peace. He gave up everything so this country could rebuild, and you people treat his survival like tabloid gossip to boost your view counts."

Without another word, Kirishima turned his back on the cameras, pulling on a clean agency jacket handed to him by a stone-faced sidekick, and marched toward the underground staging tunnel without looking back once.

That evening, the internet was not laughing.

Denki sat in his agency apartment, staring at his live stream feed. He hadn't even plugged in his usual LED party lights or cracked a joke. He just sat in a simple tie-dye hoodie, watching the chat window scroll.

The view count had blown past nine hundred thousand in under ten minutes, but there were no dancing emojis, no spicy jokes, and no caps-lock banter about the Nation's Hottest Hero.

Instead, the screen was a solemn, relentless flood of collective shame and remorse.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •916K Viewers

@hero_watcher_jp: Please tell Red Riot we are so, so sorry.

@tokyo_daily_tea: The way the press cornered him was disgusting. He didn't deserve that.

@shinjuku_solidarity: We are deeply sorry to Red Riot and to his mate. We forgot that behind the peace we enjoy, people paid with their souls.

@bolt_archive: Denki, please pass our apologies to Eijirou. The media crossed a line that should never have been touched.

@omega_rights_jp: An Alpha holding his mate through trauma while deliberately softening his quirk... That is the purest definition of strength. The press owes them both an official apology.

@kiri_fan_club: Tell him we love him. Tell him we respect his mate's privacy. We will drown out the tabloids.

@allure_magazine_stan: No more questions about his scars. Ever.

Denki leaned forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers, his golden eyes unusually serious as he read the comments.

"I see the chat," Denki said softly into the microphone. "And yeah... Eijirou saw the broadcast replay before he caught the night train back up north."

He paused, letting out a quiet sigh. "Look, guys. We joke around a lot. Eijirou is the sunniest, most generous guy you’ll ever meet, and he puts up with a lot of media nonsense because he wants people to feel safe and happy. But the blond on that mountain? That’s his sanctuary. That’s the guy who kept Eijirou’s soul intact when the rest of the world was burning down around us."

Denki tapped the desk lightly, his voice firm. "I'll pass along your messages. Eijirou doesn't hold grudges, he’s too good of a man for that. But take this as a lesson: don't confuse an Omega's scars with an invitation to pry. They carry the weight of what happened so the rest of us don't have to."

Denki nodded once to the camera, his lopsided, familiar warmth returning just slightly at the sea of heartfelt apologies still pouring across the screen.

"Give the mountain its quiet. He's where he belongs tonight, keeping the nightmares away."

The flashing amber beacons of heavy construction crawlers illuminated the drizzling evening mist outside the Musutafu highway overpass.

A localized mudslide triggered by torrential rain had undercut the elevated transit pylons, trapping two intercity buses against the retaining wall. 

Red Riot had anchored the compromised pillar with his own hardened frame for an agonizingly long one-hundred-and-thirty-two minutes while the emergency teams evacuated every commuter, holding the shifting tonnes of wet earth and steel until hydraulic jacks could be locked into place.

Now standing by the cordon line, Kirishima had a thick dry towel slung over his neck, his heavy dark coat zipped all the way up to his jaw to keep the damp chill off his damp uniform. Beside him, agency sidekicks were wrapping up their equipment tallies, and the standard press pool stood assembled behind the police tape.

The atmosphere among the media was distinctly, noticeably subdued. There were no shoving matches for prime angles, no tabloid anchors shouting salacious personal questions over the roar of the generators, and no predatory telephoto lenses angling toward the collar of his shirt.

A veteran correspondent from the Metropolitan News Network stepped to the front of the tape, clearing his throat. His microphone remained lowered at waist level, and the camera behind him was framed respectfully wide.

"Red Riot," the reporter began, his voice calm, measured, and stripped entirely of tabloid sensationalism. "Firstly, on behalf of the city logistics desk and the transit division, exceptional work on the pylon stabilization. The zero-casualty outcome under active earth-movement conditions is a testament to your endurance."

Kirishima blinked, surprised by the solemn, grounded tone. He offered a small, polite nod, the tight tension in his shoulders dropping just an inch. "Thank you, sir. The municipal earth-movers got the shoring in faster than expected. The rescue workers deserve the credit."

The reporter didn't immediately follow with another technical inquiry. Instead, he exchanged a quiet, deliberate glance with three other senior journalists in the front row, including the lead correspondent from Heroic Gossip Weekly, who stood with her notebook lowered, looking thoroughly chastened.

Together, the front rank of the press pool bowed, a formal, deeply respectful forty-five-degree tilt of genuine remorse.

"Before we conclude the tactical dispatch," the Metropolitan News Network correspondent said, lifting his head to look Kirishima directly in the eye, "We wish to offer an official and unreserved apology to you, and to your household."

Kirishima went completely still, his hand halting where it rested on the strap of his gear pack. "The invasive and reckless conduct displayed at the rail hub debriefing two weeks ago was a failure of our professional ethics and a gross violation of basic human dignity," The journalist continued, his tone solemn and steady.

"Our duty is to chronicle the courage that keeps this nation standing, not to exploit the private pain, survival, or sacred bonds of the people who make that sacrifice possible. We crossed a line we should never have approached. We are deeply sorry to you, Red Riot, and we ask that you extend our profound apologies to your mate."

The surrounding photographers and camera crews didn't interrupt; many lowered their rigs in silent concurrence. A profound, quiet stillness settled over the damp pavement.

Kirishima stared at the bowed line of reporters. For a moment, the heavy weight of the past two weeks, the sharp sting of exposed vulnerability, the anger on the mountain, and the lingering ache in his chest, seemed to soften into the cool night air. The guarded, distant look in his crimson eyes melted away, replaced by that deep, steady sincerity that had made him an anchor for millions.

He took a slow breath, stepping forward and returning the bow, not as an unyielding titan, but as an honest man acknowledging honest remorse.

"Thank you," Kirishima said softly, his voice carrying clearly through the quiet drizzle. "I appreciate that. It takes real guts to own a mistake, especially under broadcast lights."

He straightened up, his hand drifting naturally to his belt, his thumb lightly grazing the smooth cedar fox charm hidden beneath his heavy coat. 

A faint, quiet smile touched the corners of his mouth, warm and completely free of bitterness.

"He doesn't watch the municipal briefings much," Kirishima added, his sharp teeth showing just slightly with fond humor. "He'd probably tell you all to stop wasting airtime bowing in the rain and go home to drink some hot tea before you catch a chill. But... I'll tell him you said it. It matters."

The reporters smiled faintly, a visible wave of relief washing through the press line as the lingering tension finally broke.

"Stay warm out there tonight, everyone," Kirishima nodded with an easy two-fingered salute, turning back toward the agency transport with light in his step. "I’ve got an evening train to catch, and someone on a mountain is waiting to make sure I eat a hot meal."

The early afternoon sun slanted through the dense cedar canopy, bathing the wide, polished timber engawa in bright amber light.

Izuku was sitting cross-legged on the smooth wooden boards, leaning his back against one of the cedar support pillars. His phone was propped securely on an overturned tea crate, framed so that the background showed only the mossy stone steps and the tranquil expanse of the northern pine forest, keeping the main compound doors well out of the lens.

"Hi everyone! Deku here," Izuku smiled into the camera, looking relaxed in an oversized dark green knit sweater, his curly hair untamed in the mountain breeze. "Taking a quiet rest day before the joint tactical summit next week. The air up here is always so clear."

The chat numbers surged past half a million in moments, the comments rolling steadily with warm greetings and casual questions about his training schedule.

A pair of heavy footsteps padded across the engawa from just outside the camera's view, accompanied by the rustle of a thick flannel shirt.

A bright, spiky crimson head dipped right into the top corner of the frame. Kirishima leaned down, grinning his signature, jagged-toothed smile, his crimson eyes crinkling warmly. He had a hand wrapped around a ceramic mug of steaming roasted barley tea, looking thoroughly content and off-duty.

"Hey, chat!" Kirishima chuckled, giving a quick, friendly wave with his free hand. "Make sure you're all staying hydrated today. Midoriya’s been sitting on this porch taking notes since two, don't let him talk your ears off about gear specs."

"E-Eijirou-kun, I was answering rescue inquiries!" Izuku sputtered with an embarrassed laugh, ducking his head.

The live comments exploded into an instant flurry of red hearts and cheerful waves.

Deku.Official •LIVE •579K Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: RED RIOT!!

@kiri_fan_club: HE LOOKS SO HAPPY AND RESTED

@green_lightning_fan: Love seeing the top heroes relaxing together! ✨

@tokyo_daily_tea: The mountain air suits him so well!!

Before Kirishima could tease Izuku any further, a sharp, raspy voice sliced cleanly across the courtyard from the direction of the outbuilding.

"Oi! Stone-head! Sparky!" Kirishima’s shoulders straightened immediately, a sheepish, hopelessly fond smile taking over his face.

"The windbreak on the lower drying shed isn't going to hoist itself!" the voice barked, husky, dry, and crackling with effortless, absolute authority. "Quit hovering over the nerd's phone and grab the heavy hemp line before the gusts take the tarps! And tell that yellow-haired slacker if he drops another timber peg into the fern bed, he’s raking the entire west yard with his bare hands!"

In the far distance, a faint, terrified wail from Denki echoed through the pines: "I didn't drop it, it rolled, I swear–!"

"Coming, Kats!" Kirishima called back over his shoulder without a second's hesitation, his tone bright and utterly devoted. He reached down, quickly patting Izuku’s shoulder with a broad, scarred palm. "Duty calls, Izuku. Don't let him catch you skipping your tea."

With a quick, sharp-toothed wink at the camera, Kirishima vaulted lightly off the edge of the engawa, his boots crunching over the gravel as he trotted off toward the drying shed

A soft rustle of fleece sounded beside the crate, and Ochaco slid into the frame, settling cross-legged right next to Izuku on the boards. She had a thick wool blanket draped over her knees and was holding two small porcelain bowls of dried persimmon slices, her round cheeks pink from the crisp mountain chill.

"Hi, everyone!" Ochaco chirped brightly, offering one of the bowls to Izuku, who took a slice with a grateful smile. She leaned her chin on her hand, looking at the chat scrolling by with amused, sparkling eyes. 

"Don't mind them. You can't have a single quiet afternoon up here without someone being assigned heavy manual labour."

"He means well," Izuku chuckled softly, taking a bite of the sweet fruit as the rhythmic sound of timber pegs being hammered echoed faintly from the woods. "The wind really is picking up tonight."

"Oh, absolutely," Ochaco agreed with a fond giggle, tucking her blanket tighter around herself. "Now, Deku-kun, where were we on the northern logistics report?"

The low, rhythmic thumping of an axe splitting oak wood echoed across the clearing, underscored by the gentle rush of the mountain wind through the pines.

Denki was lounging on a low wooden bench near the perimeter of the courtyard, leaning back against a weathered timber post with an ice-cold can of barley tea resting against his knee. His golden hair was a bit rumpled, a faint smear of dark sawdust on his cheek from his recent tour of duty at the woodshed.

He propped his phone up on his knee, grinning into the lens as the viewer count skyrocketed into the hundreds of thousands within seconds.

"What’s up, chat! Chargebolt here, surviving another intense round of mountain hard labour," Denki chuckled, dusting his hands off on his jeans as the sound of the axe splitting oak ceased. "The tarps are tied, the timber pegs have been rescued from the ferns, and I have officially earned my right to sit down and do nothing for the next three hours."

The chat flew by in a cascade of laughing emojis and teasing comments.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •526K Viewers

@bolt_streamer: Denki looking exhausted as always lmaooo

@kiri_fan_club: DID THE BLOND MENACE MAKE YOU RAKE THE YARD?!

@shinjuku_sleuth: We heard you screaming on Deku’s stream earlier!!

@hero_tracker_hq: Chargebolt are you still at the sanctuary villa?!

@tokyo_daily_tea: Show us the mountains!!

"Rake the yard? He threatened to make me chop kindling until midnight," Denki grinned, rolling his eyes with affectionate theatricality. "Look, you guys keep asking what it’s actually like up here when the cameras are off. Here, I'll give you five seconds of pure rural reality before I get my head taken off."

Carefully, deliberately, Denki rotated the phone, angling the camera across the wide, gravel courtyard toward the edge of the covered engawa.

The stream caught the scene in stunning, golden afternoon clarity. Kirishima was sitting on the raised wooden steps of the veranda, wearing a dark sleeveless undershirt that left the heavy, muscular contours of his shoulders exposed. His red hair was completely loose, blowing slightly in the breeze. He looked tired from the yard work, but there was an ease in his posture that simply didn't exist when he was in the city, an open, peaceful softness.

Standing directly behind him on the polished boards of the porch was Katsuki. His back was turned entirely toward the camera. 

The view was unmistakable; a dense crown of spiky, ash-blond hair catching the amber sunlight, the broad yet lean cut of his shoulders cloaked in a loose, cream-colored knitted cardigan with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. The heavy, dark slate titanium of the courting torc encircled the pale skin of his neck, the deep red garnet inlay catching the slant of the sun with a quiet, smoldering brilliance.

Katsuki was holding a wooden comb in one hand and a small tin of cedar-oil salve in the other. With practiced, quiet familiarity, Katsuki reached down, running his blunt fingers through the unruly mess of Kirishima’s red bangs, gently parting the strands before applying a light touch of salve to a small bramble scratch along Kirishima's temple. His touch wasn't rushed or impatient; it was steady, thorough, and deeply tender.

Kirishima leaned back into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed as his head tilted naturally against the front of Katsuki’s thigh. His large, scarred hand reached up without looking, finding Katsuki’s free wrist and resting there, his thumb sweeping back and forth over the pale skin in a slow, rhythmic circle of complete, absolute devotion.

Katsuki didn't pull away. He just clicked his tongue softly, a faint sound barely picked up by the microphone, and tapped the side of Kirishima's skull with the flat of the comb, murmuring something inaudible that made Kirishima’s lips curve into a brilliant, jagged-toothed, hopelessly smitten smile.

The live chat froze for half a second before detonating into an absolute wall of breathless, unhinged all-caps.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •872K Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: OH MY GOD.

@kiri_fan_club: LOOK AT THEM. LOOK AT THEM.

@allure_magazine_stan: HE'S COMBING HIS HAIR ON THE PORCH 😭😭😭

@mystery_omega_daily: THE ASH-BLOND SPIKES AND THE TORC ON HIS NAPE

@tokyo_daily_tea: THE WAY EIJIROU LEANED INTO HIS LEG I AM CRYING IN A REVENGE ARC

@shinjuku_sleuth: THE DOMESTICITY. HE IS LITERALLY TAKING CARE OF HIM

@bolt_archive: DENKI PLEASE DON'T GET CAUGHT THIS IS SACRED

Denki whipped the camera back around to his own face with lightning speed, clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle an enormous wheeze of laughter as his golden eyes went wide with mock terror.

"All right, all right, that's enough!" Denki hissed in a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes darting toward the veranda to make sure neither of them had noticed the lens. "You guys got your five seconds of domestic bliss. If he realizes I just broadcast him acting soft to eight hundred thousand people, he’s going to use my bones as firewood pegs."

He gave a frantic, two-fingered peace sign to the lens, grinning ear to ear. "Stay safe, chat. Chargebolt out before I get murdered!"

Denki tapped the screen with a sharp jab, cutting the feed to black while the quiet breeze through the pines swallowed the sound of soft laughing and the soft, murmurous warmth of the porch behind him.

The late-afternoon sun cast long, bronze shadows across the raked dirt of the mountain villa's lower training yard.

Mina sat on the low stone retaining wall bordering the grounds, her legs swinging casually over the edge. She had her agency phone securely gripped in one bright pink hand, her yellow horns gleaming in the mountain light as she grinned directly into the lens. 

Beside her, perched on the flat boulder with a chilled sports drink between his knees, Kirishima was drying the back of his neck with a small hand towel, looking relaxed and sun-warmed in a loose camouflage tank top.

The broadcast counter on Mina's channel climbed past six hundred thousand within seconds of going live, the comment feed a frantic blur of pink and red emojis.

PinkyTheAlienQueen •LIVE •649K Viewers

@pinky_squad: MINA AND RED RIOT LIVE TOGETHER!

@hero_tracker_hq: The mountain compound looks so peaceful today!

@daily_tea_shinjuku: Red Riot looks so rested!!

@kiri_fan_central: Eijirou! How's the shoulder feeling?!

"Hey, everyone! Pinky here with your favorite Number Three Hero," Mina chirped, leaning her shoulder lightly into Kirishima's arm. "We're winding down after a heavy conditioning circuit up in the ridge air. Say hi, Eijirou!

"Hey, guys," Kirishima chuckled, giving the lens an easy two-fingered salute, his crimson eyes crinkling. "Hope everyone's staying hydrated down in the cities. The heatwave is no joke this week."

Before the chat could even respond, a thunderous 'CRACK' echoed from the far end of the terrace, followed by the crystalline hiss of frost violently evaporating into steam.

A low, sharp voice cut through the haze across the yard: "Predictable, half-n-half! Your left pivot is dragging by a quarter-second!"

A split-second later, a dull, resonant thump rattled the dirt as two bodies locked in high-speed, technical hand-to-hand combat, gravel spraying under heavy tactical soles.

The comment section immediately hitched, the scrolling text speeding up to lightspeed.

PinkyTheAlienQueen •LIVE •743K Viewers

@smash_analyst: WAIT WHAT WAS THAT

@hero_watcher_jp: WAS THAT ICE CRACKING???

@shinjuku_sleuth: IS THE NUMBER TWO HERO SPARRING IN THE BACKGROUND?!

@allure_magazine_stan: WHO IS HE FIGHTING WITH THAT VOICE

@mystery_omega_daily: THE RASPY VOICE AGAIN OH MY GOD

Mina's dark eyes gleamed with pure, wicked excitement. She turned her head toward the clearing, watching the brutal, fluid exchange of strikes about fifty yards away, then whipped her head back to Kirishima. 

She leaned in close, tapping his bicep with one silver-painted fingernail, her expression practically begging. "Eijirou," Mina whispered in an exaggerated, theatrical stage-voice that carried perfectly into the microphone. "Can I turn the camera? Just for five seconds? Can I show them from the back?

Kirishima paused, lowering the towel from his neck. He glanced toward the far clearing, where Shouto was sweeping a low kick only to be instantly checked by a lightning-fast block and a vicious, sweeping counter that forced the Number Two Hero to skid back two paces on a thin sheet of frost.

The blond's movements were breathtaking, compact, lethal, and effortlessly dominant, moving with the terrifying precision of someone who understood combat down to the marrow of his bones.

A slow, profoundly proud, sharp-toothed smile spread across Kirishima’s face. "As long as it's only from the back," Kirishima said, his deep voice carrying a quiet, protective boundary that brooked zero compromise. "No faces. Not a single frame."

"Deal!" Mina squeaked, spinning the phone around with practiced smoothness. The camera zoomed in across the sunlit clearing.

Shouto stood with his guard raised, panting faintly, steam rising in pale ribbons from his right side. But the camera’s focus, and the focus of every single viewer watching, locked entirely onto the figure facing him.

He stood with his back squarely to the lens. His spiky, ash-blond hair bristled in the cool breeze, glowing like pale fire against the dark pine backdrop. He wore a fitted, sleeveless black compression top that showed off the lean, corded muscle of his back and a pair of dark tactical pants tucked into reinforced boots. 

Gleaming proudly at the pale nape of his neck, resting snug against his skin, was the dark slate-titanium of the courting torc, its crimson garnet flashing like a live ember every time he shifted his weight.

"Again," the blond barked, dropping into a low, predatory stance that left zero openings, his voice ringing crisp across the dirt. "Stop thinking about your balance and just take the center line, Icy-Hot."

Shouto gave a subtle, respectful nod, adjusting his stance without a single word of complaint.

The chat went into an absolute, apocalyptic meltdown.

PinkyTheAlienQueen •LIVE •959K Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: HE IS SPARRING WITH TODOROKI SHOUTO

@tokyo_daily_tea: AND WINNING??? HE JUST CHECKED THE NUMBER TWO HERO'S BALANCE

@omega_rights_jp: THE LEAN MUSCLE ON HIS BACK AND THE SLATE TORC OH MY GOD

@bolt_archive: HE CALLED HIM ICY-HOT TO HIS FACE

@kiri_fan_central: THE WAY EIJIROU LOOKS AT HIM RIGHT NOW I'M SOBBING

@shinjuku_sleuth: A civilian Omega schooling the Top 2 in hand-to-hand combat... He is unreal

Mina smoothly whipped the phone back around to catch Kirishima's face just as the boyish, helplessly smitten grin took over his entire expression.

"Told you," Kirishima murmured softly to the lens, his crimson eyes gleaming with fierce, unshakable adoration as the sound of boots colliding on packed earth resumed in the background. "Strongest person on this mountain."

The mid-morning sun cast a bright, clean glare over the glass-and-steel balcony of Deku’s Tokyo agency office.

Izuku sat centered in front of his high-resolution web camera, wearing a high-collared black athletic compression shirt with his dark green hero utility belt slung over the back of his chair. He was cradling an oversized ceramic mug of green tea, his freckled cheeks flushed with healthy color from an early perimeter patrol.

His channel had gone live less than three minutes ago, and the concurrent viewer tally had already smashed past one point two million.

"Good morning, everyone! Deku here," Izuku smiled, adjusting his glasses with the knuckle of his index finger. "Taking a short breather before the municipal tactical briefing at noon. I saw the forums were very active after Mina’s broadcast from the northern prefecture yesterday, so let's address some of the questions that came in regarding close-quarters combat dynamics."

The chat screen didn't even pretend to care about standard combat doctrine. It was an avalanche of neon tags, question marks, and pure adrenaline.

Deku.Official •LIVE •1.29M Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: DEKU DID YOU SEE HIM FIGHT SHOUTO YESTERDAY

@smash_analyst: The sweep check on Shouto's left pivot was TEXTBOOK perfection

@daily_tea_shinjuku: DEKU PLEASE ANSWER THE REAL QUESTION

@shinjuku_sleuth: Could the blond mountain Omega beat YOU in a fight?!

@number_one_stan: Deku is the Number One Hero in Japan, obviously he’d win, right?!

@omega_rights_jp: But he handled Shouto like he was an intern!! Could he take Deku down too?!

@allure_magazine_stan: DEKU SETTLE THE DEBATE COULD HE BEAT YOU

Izuku looked down at the wall of scrolling text, froze mid-sip, and slowly lowered his tea mug onto the wooden desk with a soft, careful clink.

He didn't laugh. He didn't wave his hands in modest embarrassment like he usually did when fans compared him to other heroes. Instead, a profound, almost reverent stillness settled over his expressive face. His bright green eyes widened slightly, and a faint, involuntary shiver rolled through his shoulders, not from fear, but from the bone-deep, instinctive memory of a thousand grueling clashes etched into his muscle memory.

"Could he beat me?" Izuku repeated softly, his voice quiet, steady, and utterly serious. The live stream chat slowed to a dead crawl, hanging on every syllable from the nation's strongest hero.

"If we're talking about pure, unrestricted hand-to-hand combat without quirks?" Izuku leaned forward, resting his forearms flat on the desk, looking dead into the camera lens with complete, unshakeable sincerity. "Yes. Absolutely. In four moves or less."

The comment section froze entirely, then detonated into pure, chaotic hysteria.

Deku.Official •LIVE •2.03M Viewers

@smash_analyst: HE SAID YES IN FOUR MOVES OR LESS WHAT

@tokyo_daily_tea: THE NUMBER ONE HERO JUST ADMITTED A CIVILIAN OMEGA COULD DROP HIM

@hero_watcher_jp: DEKU ARE YOU SERIOUS?!

@bolt_archive: DENKI WASN'T EXAGGERATING HE IS A LITERAL MONSTER

@shinjuku_sleuth: HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE HE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A HERO LICENSE

"Look," Izuku said, a faint, nostalgic smile finally breaking through his serious expression as he raised one hand to calm the panic on the screen.

"You have to understand how his mind works. People see someone living quietly in the mountains and they assume his instincts have gone soft. But his tactical processing speed is unlike anyone else on the planet. He doesn't just read an opponent's rhythm, he dissects it before you even shift your center of gravity."

Izuku lifted his right hand, pointing to a small, faded scar just above his collarbone. "Every single fundamental instinct I have for combat, how to read momentum, how to feint without telegraphing, how to survive when your back is against a wall, I learned by fighting him until we both collapsed in the dirt. When he sparred with Todoroki-kun yesterday, he wasn't trying to overpower him. He was correcting his balance because he can't stand seeing someone fight with flaws in their form."

Izuku took another sip of his tea, his eyes crinkling with deep, unspoken respect. "In a full-scale hero deployment with maximum quirk output, the parameters would be different, of course. But in a ring? In raw technique, precision, and pure combat brilliance? There isn't a hero on the Billboard charts who wouldn't end up face-down in the dirt if they stepped into his yard thinking he was fragile."

A warm, fond chuckle escaped Izuku's chest as he looked at the stunned silence of the chat. "Eijirou-kun isn't just lucky to have him as a mate. All of us are lucky that the sharpest mind in Japan chose to cultivate a peaceful mountain garden instead of coming after our rankings."

Sero had propped his phone on an overturned timber planter at the edge of the mountain villa’s lower dirt ring. He sat cross-legged on the grass, an ice pop hanging from his lips, reading off the fast-scrolling agency chat.

"Alright, Q&A lightning round while the tea brews," Sero drawled, tapping the screen with a blunt thumb. He squinted at a highlighted superchat. "'Since Deku said the mountain boss could take him in four moves, will we ever see Red Riot spar with him? Or Deku versus him for real?!' Man, you guys are bloodthirsty."

Over by the porch steps, Kirishima was unlacing his running shoes, while Izuku sat nearby on the engawa, carefully stretching his hamstrings. 

Further back in the shade, arms crossed over a dark sleeveless compression shirt, Katsuki was leaning against a cedar post, his back half-turned to the yard as he waited for the yard kettle to whistle.

Sero glanced from the screen to the trio, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "Hey. Chat wants to know if you two have the guts to step into the ring with the chef."

Kirishima looked up, a bright, challenging spark igniting in his crimson eyes. "I'm always down to test my stance against him. What do you say, Kats?"

From the shadowed porch, a low, raspy scoff cut through the mountain air. "You're both going to eat dirt before the kettle boils. Don't cry to the agency doctors when your ribs ache."

"Quirkless fundamentals only," Izuku piped up, his eyes wide and eager, instantly scrambling to his feet like an excited recruit. "Just raw hand-to-hand form! Sero-kun, keep the tripod low, angle it from the perimeter line so the lens stays below his collar!"

"Got it covered," Sero laughed, adjusting the mount until the camera framed only the raked dirt circle from the waist down, the upper edge perfectly cropped to show broad shoulders, lean backs, and flying limbs without a single trace of anyone's face. "Feed’s live, boys. No faces, no quirks. Show the chat what you've got."

The view count shattered two million in seconds.

First stepped Kirishima into the ring, his bare, scarred shoulders flexing as he took a solid, grounded stance. The camera caught the ash-blond figure stepping smoothly into frame opposite him, back squarely to the lens, the dark slate-titanium and gleaming garnet torc prominent against his pale nape, spiky blond tufts catching the noon light.

"Keep your guard tight, rock-head," the husky voice snapped. Kirishima lunged forward with a heavy, textbook straight jab. Katsuki didn't back up. He slipped inside the guard with blinding fluidity, his palm striking the inside of Kirishima's elbow to deflect the force, sweeping a heel hard against Kirishima's lead ankle, and planting a clean, open palm dead-center against Kirishima’s sternum.

The Number Three Hero went flying backward, hitting the packed dirt with a heavy, resonant thud and a wheeze of knocked-out breath.

Before Kirishima could even roll over, Katsuki's boot was hovering an inch above his throat, pinned. "Two moves," Katsuki clicked his tongue, retracting his foot and offering a scarred hand to yank his mate upright.

Kirishima took it with a breathless, jagged-toothed laugh, hauling himself up and planting an unscripted, utterly smitten kiss to the pale knuckles before stepping back outside the line. "Still too heavy on the lead foot. Good catch."

"Greenie, get in here," Katsuki barked.

Izuku stepped into the ring with a crisp, low crouch, eyes focused. He moved faster than Kirishima, feinting a low sweep before driving an elbow upward toward the blind spot.

The exchange was terrifyingly fast. The audio feed picked up the sharp, rhythmic crack-crack-slap of forearms colliding, dust billowing around their boots. Izuku managed a clean hip-pivot, attempting a classic shoulder throw, but Katsuki anticipated the leverage instantly. Twisting his torso mid-air, Katsuki hooked his heel behind Izuku’s knee, wrenching the momentum sideways.

With a brutal, flawless hip-toss, Katsuki slammed Izuku flat on his back into the dirt, dropping a knee firmly onto Izuku’s bicep and locking his wrist against the ground in a vice-like hold.

Izuku tapped out three times against the soil, gasping for air. "Four moves... exactly four." Katsuki released the hold, stepping back as his chest rose and fell in steady, unbothered rhythm, never once turning toward the camera lens. He casually reached up, adjusting the titanium torc at his throat with a flick of his wrist.

"Your balance is leaning right because you're favoring the old shoulder fracture," the smoky voice reprimanded calmly, heading back toward the engawa. "Fix it before the five-o'clock run. Kettle’s whistling. Someone bring the mugs."

Sero swiveled the camera back up to his own grinning face, watching the chat scroll in a blind, incoherent blur of screaming caps and terrified awe.

"And that, chat," Sero smirked, taking a slow bite of his ice pop, "Is why the Number One and Number Three heroes eat their vegetables when they're told."

The soft, amber glow of a paper floor lantern illuminated the corner of the villa’s low-ceilinged living room.

Kirishima had his phone leaning against an earthenware vase on the low cedar table, sitting cross-legged on the tatami mats with an oversized black fleece sweater pulled over his frame. His crimson hair was down, falling softly around his scarred brow, and a warm ceramic mug of roasted barley tea sat steaming near his elbow.

"Evening, everyone," Kirishima rumbled quietly into the mic, flashing a gentle, sharp-toothed smile that lacked the booming bravado of a stadium press conference. "Just checking in before turning in early. Tomorrow's high-altitude endurance training starts at dawn, so I've got ten minutes to say hello."

The stream view counter rocketed past four hundred thousand within seconds, the text a rolling cascade of hearts and well-wishes from across the country.

Red_Riot_Rock •LIVE •479K Viewers

@kiri_fan_central: Eijirou's looking so cozy!!

@tokyo_daily_tea: Late night stream?! The lighting is so warm 😭

@hero_tracker_hq: Good luck with dawn drills tomorrow Red Riot!!

@mountain_sleuth: The sanctuary looks so peaceful tonight ✨

"Yeah, the frost came in early tonight," Kirishima murmured, leaning an elbow on the low table and resting his chin in his hand, his eyes scanning the comments with fond ease. "Already had to bank the wood stove twice. Sero and Midoriya headed down on the evening train, so the house is finally–"

A soft rustle of heavy wool and the faint, unmistakable sliding click of tatami mats shifted just off-camera.

Kirishima didn't even turn his head. His entire posture softened instantly, the broad line of his shoulders relaxing by an inch as his crimson eyes warmed with deep, instinctual comfort.

From the left edge of the frame, a figure settled heavily onto the floor right beside him. The camera didn't catch the face, not even a sliver of jawline or profile. But right there, encroaching into the corner of the frame and resting squarely against Kirishima’s shoulder, was an unmistakable crown of dense, wild, spiky ash-blond hair.

The pale, unruly strands brushed directly against the black fleece of Kirishima’s sleeve, glowing like pale gold under the low amber lantern. The blond didn't say a word, clearly exhausted from the day’s firewood hauling and sparring, simply leaning his heavy head sideways against Kirishima’s bicep with complete, unhesitating familiarity.

The live chat froze dead for a heartbeat before exploding into an avalanche of frantic, breathless caps lock.

Red_Riot_Rock •LIVE •698K Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: THE ASH-BLOND HAIR.

@mystery_omega_daily: HE'S RESTING HIS HEAD ON EIJIROU'S SHOULDER.

@allure_magazine_stan: LOOK AT THE SPIKES IN THE FRAME OH MY GOD

@kiri_fan_central: HE'S LEANING ON HIM HE'S LEANING ON HIM

@shinjuku_sleuth: The most dangerous man in Japan using Red Riot as a pillow 😭😭😭

@tokyo_daily_tea: EIJIROU DON'T MOVE YOU’LL WAKE HIM

Kirishima looked down at the comments, then shifted his gaze slightly sideways to where the blond spikes were pressed warm against his arm. A quiet, helpless smile spread across his face, tender, completely unbothered by the live broadcast, and brimming with fierce, quiet adoration.

Slowly, carefully, Kirishima raised his free hand, his broad, calloused fingers sinking effortlessly into the thick blond hair. With slow, practiced gentleness, he thumbed through the spiky strands, scratching lightly against Katsuki’s scalp in a rhythmic, soothing motion that drew a soft, muffled huff from the blond buried against his side.

"Alright, chat," Kirishima whispered, his deep voice dropping into an intimate, gravelly murmur so as not to disturb the quiet room. He reached over with his other hand, hovering his thumb right over the screen's disconnect icon while his fingers never stopped stroking through the blond locks.

"Someone's completely out of fuel and using me as a headrest. Time to log off. Have a good night, stay warm out there, and take care of each other."

With a soft, jagged-toothed grin, Kirishima tapped the screen, cutting the stream to black while the quiet mountain night wrapped around them.

The high-profile studio of Heroic Standard was washed in cool, architectural lighting. Kirishima sat comfortably in the guest armchair, a tailored charcoal suit jacket stretching across his immense, scarred shoulders, crisp white collar unbuttoned at the throat. At twenty-five, Japan’s Number Three Pro Hero carried an easy, grounded authority that filled the soundstage without a single trace of posturing.

Across from him, Senior Anchor Sato leaned forward over his notes, his expression engaged and measured.

"You've solidified your standing in the top tier for two consecutive years now, Red Riot," Sato began, gesturing to the holographic display behind them showing Kirishima’s tactical rescue stats. "Your public approval is virtually unrivaled, and yet, the public remains fascinated by the world you leave behind when you step off the train in the northern mountains."

Kirishima let out a low, good-natured chuckle, his sharp teeth showing slightly. "The mountains keep me honest, Sato-san. If I brought the Billboard rankings into my kitchen, my dinner would end up on the floor."

Sato smiled, but his tone shifted subtly, leaning into the question millions had submitted over the agency’s broadcast line.

"Over the past several months, through joint agency streams and off-duty footage from your peers, the public has caught undeniable glimpses of your mate. We know he’s an Omega with ash-blond hair. We know he wears a slate-titanium courting torc bearing your agency’s mark. We’ve seen him out-maneuver the Number One and Number Two heroes in hand-to-hand combat, and we’ve seen how deeply anchored you are to him."

Sato paused, looking Kirishima squarely in the eye. "The public feels protective of him, but the curiosity is undeniable. Every press conference ends with the same unspoken inquiry: 'When will Red Riot officially introduce him to the world?' Is there a timeline for a formal public debut?"

The studio fell quiet, the control room monitors holding on Kirishima’s face. Kirishima didn't tense up. He didn't offer a rehearsed, evasive public relations deflect. Instead, he sat back slightly, resting his large, calloused hands on his thighs, his crimson eyes clear and calm.

"No," Kirishima said evenly. The word was quiet, definitive, and stripped entirely of hostility. Sato tilted his head, intrigued. "No?"

"No," Kirishima repeated, a faint, fond warmth softening the hard line of his jaw. "People think of a 'reveal' like it's the final chapter of a story, like we're holding back a secret just waiting for the right red carpet or an agency anniversary. But that’s looking at it from the wrong end of the lens."

He sat up straighter, speaking with that raw, unshakeable sincerity that had defined his career. "He isn't a secret I'm hiding from the world. He's a human being who gave everything he had to the front lines when he was just a kid. He bled for this society, he carried scars that people don't get to see, and when the dust finally settled, he made a conscious choice: he chose silence, clean air, a wood stove, and a garden over the noise."

Kirishima shook his head slowly, a faint, protective smile touching his lips. "He doesn't belong to the Pro Heroics Network. He doesn't owe anyone an interview, a photo, or an autograph. My public life belongs to the people, I signed up to be the shield that takes the hit so everyone else can sleep at night. That's my duty, and I love it with everything I've got."

His voice dropped into a steady, gravelly resonance. "But when I walk up those stone steps into the pines, I'm not the Number Three Hero. I'm just Eijirou. And the person waiting on that porch is the only piece of my life that gets to stay untouched by cameras, ratings, and headlines. Leaving his face out of the frame isn't about shame or fear, it's the highest form of respect I can give him."

Sato studied him for a long moment, visibly struck by the conviction in the young hero's voice, before offering a slow, respectful nod. "A sanctuary that remains sacred."

"Exactly," Kirishima grinned, the easy, boyish light returning to his features as he gave a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. "Besides, if I ever brought a camera crew past our timber gate, he wouldn't just refuse the interview, he’d blast me down the switchback with an iron skillet. And between you and me, Sato-san, I value my hide too much to test him."

The morning mountain air had turned crisp with early autumn, painting the jagged ridge above the villa in shades of deep amber and russet.

Down in the city, the Hero Public Safety Commission and Red Riot’s agency dispatch had released a brief, joint statement: Japan’s Number Three Hero was taking an emergency seven-day administrative leave for "personal family matters." No press conferences, no remote debriefs, and zero scheduled public appearances. 

The internet had flared with wild speculation for an hour before collective sentiment, mindful of the last time reporters had pried, demanded the press leave the northern railway completely alone.

Up on the mountain, the quiet was absolute.

Inside the compound's master bedroom, the wooden shoji screens were parted just enough to let in the cool breeze carrying the scent of pine sap and damp river earth. The vast futon in the center of the tatami was no longer just a bed; it had been transformed into an enormous, thick fortress of a nest. 

Every single one of Kirishima’s heaviest flannel shirts, worn tactical hoodies, and fleece blankets had been dragged in, arranged in meticulous, defensive rings.

In the center of it, curled on his side beneath a mountain of dark wool, Katsuki lay asleep. His sharp features, usually set in lines of caustic defiance or intense concentration, were relaxed, his lips parted slightly as he breathed in slow, heavy rhythms. His spiky ash-blond hair was a mess against the pillow, catching the pale morning light. 

Over his frame, he wore one of Kirishima’s thick crimson zip-up jackets, and with the zipper pulled all the way down, the softly rounded swell of his lower abdomen was distinctly visible.

Even in early pregnancy, his body was adjusting with fierce intensity, the heady, intoxicating scent of warm, buttery sugar and sweet milk lingering thick and heavy in the nest, mixed with the grounding, protective trace of cedar. The slate-titanium torc at his throat rose and fell with each breath, the deep garnet resting snugly over his pulse.

The shoji screen slid open with barely a whisper. Kirishima stepped into the room barefoot, moving with the quiet, careful grace of a man who would rather shatter a boulder with his skull than disturb the peace inside this room. 

He carried a heavy lacquered wooden tray; a steaming bowl of ginger-infused rice porridge with poached root vegetables, a cup of lukewarm roasted barley tea, and a small dish of sour pickled plums.

He had shed his hero armour days ago. Dressed in soft grey sweatpants and a worn black long-sleeve undershirt, his unstyled crimson hair hung loose around his face, he looked entirely off-duty, soft-edged and utterly devoted.

As Kirishima knelt slowly at the edge of the tatami mats, Katsuki’s eyelids fluttered. A low, sleepy rumble rasped in Katsuki’s chest, not a growl of warning, but an instinctual, sleepy summons that made Kirishima’s crimson eyes soften into liquid warmth. Katsuki didn't open his eyes immediately; instead, a pale hand emerged from under the duvet, fingers blindly searching the edge of the nest until they tangled into Kirishima’s pant leg.

"You're late, rock-head," Katsuki muttered, his voice rough and thick with sleep, burying his face deeper into the pillow scented with Kirishima's collar.

"It’s barely seven, Kats," Kirishima whispered, setting the tray carefully on the low side table outside the nest’s border. He didn't climb in right away, respecting the instinctual boundaries of the nest until Katsuki pulled on his fabric. 

"Brought the ginger porridge just like the clinic nurse said. How's the nausea?" Katsuki let out an irritated, exhausted huff, shifting slowly onto his back. One scarred hand rested protectively over the curve of his stomach, his fingers splayed wide over the life quietly growing beneath the heavy fabric. His scarlet eyes cracked open, sharp even through the haze of morning fatigue, catching Kirishima’s gaze.

"Tastes like dirt if you don't salt it right," Katsuki grunted, though he reached out and tugged hard on Kirishima's wrist, dragging the broad-shouldered Alpha straight into the center of the blankets. "Get in here. The draft is freezing."

Kirishima let out a low, breathless laugh, willingly tumbling into the nest. He curled his massive, scarred frame around Katsuki’s back, pulling the blond flush against his chest. His large, calloused palm slid gently over Katsuki's hand where it rested on his belly, his thumb stroking across the soft swell with reverent, trembling care.

The moment their scents locked together, cedar wrapping around sweet, buttery sugar, Katsuki let out a long, shuddering exhale, his entire posture going limp against Kirishima’s chest. The fierce, untouchable warrior who could bring the top two heroes to their knees simply melted into the safety of his mate’s arms.

"Seven days," Katsuki murmured, his blunt fingers tangling between Kirishima’s scarred knuckles over their unborn child. "Your agency is gonna lose their damn minds without you."

Kirishima pressed his face into the warm crook of Katsuki's neck, breathing in the scent of his skin just above the cool metal of the torc, his voice deep, unyielding, and totally at peace.

"The country has Deku and Shouto to hold the line," Kirishima murmured against his skin. "My job for the next week is keeping this room warm, feeding my mate, and making sure the two of you don't lift a single finger."

Katsuki clicked his tongue, muttering something about an overbearing idiot, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he tilted his head back, letting his cheek rest against Kirishima’s shoulder, his fingers tightening over Kirishima’s hand as the mountain wind whispered quietly against the timber walls outside.

[Class A Disaster Protocol (20)]

Red Riot:

hey guys

you got a minute?

Pinky:

👀👀👀

EIJIROU????

Aren't you supposed to be completely off-grid this week?! Your agency PR literally told the media you were on "emergency family leave"!!

Chargebolt:

bro if you’re texting us does that mean the mountain boss let you have your phone back lmao

did he make you chop the whole winter woodpile already??

Cellophane:

Let the man speak, he never opens with "you got a minute" unless a bridge collapsed or someone broke an agency window

Deku:

Eijirou-kun, is everything alright at the villa?!

If you need any logistics run from the central ward or medical supplies brought up on the local line, I have a clearance window after 4 PM!

Red Riot:

nah everything’s good

better than good honestly

i just wanted to show you guys this first

[image_attachment_01.jpg]

The image was a clean, black-and-white printout, lying on the dark cedar grain of the low bedroom table. In the center of the grainy, curved gray field was a tiny, unmistakable pale peanut of a shape, with a faint digital crosshair marking a minuscule, fluttering flicker right in the middle. At the top of the slip, beneath the prefecture clinic's stamped seal, was the handwritten gestation marker: 8w 3d.

[Class A Disaster Protocol (20)]

Pinky: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

WAIT

WAIT WAIT WAIT

IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW

Chargebolt:

BRO 

WHAT

IS THAT AN ULTRASOUND

SHUT UP SHUT UP NO WAY

THE NUMBER 3 HERO IS GONNA BE A DAD?!

Cellophane:

YOOOOOOOOOOO 🎉🎉🎉

Bro!! An actual baby bean!! Holy crap!!

That kid is going to inherit the sharpest tongue on earth and an iron skull, Japan isn't ready

Deku:

😭😭😭😭

Eijirou-kun!! An ultrasound!!

The gestational sac looks so healthy! How is Katsuki-kun feeling?! Is that why you took the week off?! How is his morning sickness?! Does he need anything brought up from the city clinic archives?!

Uravity:

CONGRATULATIONS EIJIROU-KUN!! 🌸✨🎉

A BABY ON THE MOUNTAIN!!

That’s why he was drinking that special roasted herbal broth on the porch when I was up there!!

I am bringing up a whole flat of sweet peaches from the market next week, do not try to stop me!

Shouto:

Congratulations, Kirishima. I recognize that printout from Fuyumi’s records. I will dispatch an emergency delivery of high-iron winter root vegetables.

Chargebolt:

todoroki please do not send fifty pounds of dirt to a pregnant man with an explosive temper he will literally throw the potatoes at your head

Shouto:

They are washed and organic.

Red Riot:

haha thanks guys ❤️

yeah, eight weeks! we heard the heartbeat this morning at the rural clinic down the valley

he acted like he was completely annoyed by the cold gel on his stomach the whole time, but when the audio monitor kicked on, he squeezed my hand so hard he almost cracked through the knuckles lol

Pinky:

I AM CRYING REAL TEARS IN MY AGENCY OFFICE RIGHT NOW 😭💖

The fiery mountain menace getting emotional over a heartbeat!!

How is he doing right now?! Is he resting?!

Red Riot:

passed out cold in the nest

the morning nausea has been kicking his butt the last four days, so he dragged every single flannel shirt and fleece hoodie I own into the bedroom and built a fortress around the futon

if I leave the room for more than three minutes to boil water he starts grumbling in his sleep, so I'm officially on porch and kitchen duty for the next seven days

Cellophane:

Man is locked in the house as a human heating pad and couldn't be happier about it

Chargebolt:

bro imagine that kid with his attitude and your quirk... the playground won't survive

Red Riot:

haha wouldn't trade it for anything man

alright, he’s shifting around, gotta go get the warm ginger tea ready before he wakes up and demands food

keep this between us for now, okay? the media doesn't need to be buzzing around the ridge

Deku:

Strict agency secrecy, Eijirou-kun! Take care of him and the little one!

Pinky:

My lips are sealed!! But I am already picking out yarn for a baby blanket and neither of you can stop me!! 💖👶✨

The polished glass-and-steel atrium of the central Tokyo hero dispatch hub buzzed with the usual morning hum of logistics teams, support engineers, and early-patrol sidekicks.

When the heavy revolving doors swept open, Japan’s Number Three Pro Hero stepped across the threshold, and the entire ground floor seemed to tilt toward him.

Kirishima had always been the sunniest presence on the Billboard charts, warm, booming, and relentlessly generous. But as he walked in, fresh off his sudden seven-day sabbatical, there was an incandescent, almost blinding aura radiating from him that had the front-desk receptionists completely freezing mid-keystroke.

He was in full uniform, the heavy crimson gear gleaming from maintenance, but his step was practically buoyant. His crimson hair was gelled into its familiar, jagged style, yet his eyes were crinkling with a private, bottomless delight so profound it looked like he’d swallowed a miniature star.

"Morning, everyone!" Kirishima called out, his deep voice carrying across the concourse like a warm brass horn. He didn't just give his usual polite nod. He flashed a brilliant, ear-to-ear, jagged-toothed grin at the three junior sidekicks crossing the lobby, scooped up an armful of intake clipboards that an intern had nearly dropped, and set them neatly back on the counter with a booming chuckle.

"Careful with those corner binders, Suzuki! Great catch on the grid updates yesterday, by the way, keep that focus up!"

The poor rookie stood paralyzed, staring as the Number Three Hero practically floated past the security gates without touching the floor.

Over by the main tactical monitors, Sero was leaning against the railing, nursing a paper cup of black coffee. He watched Kirishima strut across the briefing hallshoulders thrown back, humming a cheerful, tuneless melody under his breath, pausing to enthusiastically greet a passing patrol captain and slowly pulled his coffee cup away from his face.

"Look at him," Sero murmured dryly as Mina slid up beside him, clutching an energy drink and vibrating on the balls of her sneakers. "The man is literally glowing. He’s one step away from sprouting angel wings and handing out fresh fruit."

"He’s in full proud-papa mode!" Mina squealed in a delighted, conspiratorial whisper, clutching Sero’s sleeve with silver-tipped fingers. "Look at his tactical belt! Look at the pocket!"

Sero squinted. Tucked securely inside the reinforced mesh pouch on Kirishima’s left hip, right where he normally kept emergency chalk or radio batteries—was a small, carefully folded slip of stiff, glossy paper, the top edge of a thermal medical printout peeking out just enough to catch the light. Every time Kirishima adjusted his stance, his scarred thumb unconsciously drifted down, tapping against that specific pouch with reverent, protective care.

"Red Riot!" a senior tactical coordinator called from the dispatch ring, stepping forward with the morning transit clearance reports. "We have the reinforced perimeter assignments for the Shinjuku seismic repairs. If your stamina is still recovering from your personal leave, we can reassign–"

"I’ll take the southern sector, the heavy pylon anchors, and the secondary perimeter!" Kirishima boomed cheerfully, clapping the coordinator on both shoulders with enough enthusiastic Alpha energy to rattle the man’s teeth. "Never felt better in my life, Takahashi! Give me the heavy shifts! In fact, double the structural checks–I’ve got energy to burn all the way to dusk!"

Takahashi blinked through his glasses, thoroughly bewildered. "Ah... Understood, sir. Glad to see... Your family matters were resolved smoothly?"

"Smoother than silk, bro!" Kirishima beamed, practically vibrating with pride as his cheeks flushed a healthy, joyful pink. He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck with a wide, fond grin that threatened to split his face in two. "Best week of my life. Seriously. Best thing that's ever happened."

He caught Mina and Sero staring at him from across the terminal. Mina clamped both hands over her mouth, muffling an enormous, squealing laugh as she pointed emphatically at her own stomach. 

Kirishima caught the gesture instantly. His eyes widened in hilarious, frantic panic, his broad hands shooting up to make frantic, crossed cut-it-out motions in the air, his face turning the exact shade of his hair. But even as he mouthed 'stop it!' across the crowded room, he couldn't wipe the utterly smitten, incandescent joy off his mouth to save his life.

The deep winter frost had settled hard over the northern ridges, blanketing the cedar compound in two feet of pristine, untouched snow.

Inside the villa, the wood-burning stove radiated steady, dry heat, but Katsuki was currently radiating enough sheer, furious body temperature to melt an entire glacier.

He was propped against an obscene mountain of goose-down pillows on the living room tatami, wearing one of Kirishima’s thickest, charcoal-grey waffle-knit henleys. The shirt was built for a six-foot-tall, slab-muscled Number Three Pro Hero, yet across Katsuki’s front, the heavy thermal cotton was stretched so impossibly taut the buttons strained against their threads.

His belly wasn't just rounded; it was enormous.

At seven months, Katsuki looked like he was smuggling a reinforced boulder under his ribs. The baby had clearly inherited Kirishima’s broad, unyielding frame, claiming every available millimeter of Katsuki’s lean torso. The massive, high-sitting swell forced Katsuki to sit with his knees parted, one swollen foot propped on a folded wool blanket, his breathing coming slow, heavy, and perpetually annoyed.

"I am going to shave all of your stupid red hair off while you sleep," Katsuki snarled at the ceiling, his raspy voice tight with exhaustion as the sheer weight pressed up against his lungs.

In the open kitchen five feet away, Kirishima froze mid-stir, the wooden ladle dripping aromatic dashi back into the iron pot. He was barefoot, wearing flannel lounge pants and an apron with a cartoon bear that Mina had mailed him, looking like the definition of a domestic, thoroughly terrified husband.

"Babe," Kirishima ventured cautiously, keeping his voice soft, gentle, and utterly non-threatening. "Is the back pain kicking up again? I can grab the warm cedar oil–"

"No, what’s kicking is this giant, thick-skulled brat of yours!" Katsuki snapped, though the venom lacked teeth, smothered under pure, breathless fatigue.

Right on cue, beneath the stretched fabric of the charcoal shirt, the side of Katsuki's belly violently distorted, a solid, sharp ridge pushing outward with enough force to visibly ripple the cloth.

Katsuki let out a sharp, ragged gasp, his blunt fingers instantly locking into the armrest of the sofa frame, knuckles turning white as his teeth clicked together. "Fucking hell... That is a foot. That is literally a size-eleven boot inside my ribs. You gave me a brick wall, Eijirou. A whole damn foundation."

Kirishima immediately dropped the ladle, turning down the flame with practiced instinct. He crossed the mats in three silent strides, sinking to his knees right beside the nest of pillows.

"Hey, easy, easy," Kirishima murmured, his crimson eyes swimming with bottomless, reverent tenderness. He didn't hover; he knew the drill. He reached out, his broad, heavily calloused hands sliding gently under the heavy hem of the henley, resting directly against the hot, taut skin of Katsuki's stomach.

The contrast was staggering, Kirishima’s massive, scarred hands, usually capable of stopping runaway freight trains, splayed wide over the immense dome of Katsuki’s belly.

The moment Kirishima’s thick, grounding Alpha cedar scent washed over the room, the violent shifting under the skin slowed. The tiny, stubborn rebel inside seemed to recognize the heavy warmth of his father’s palms, settling back down into a low, rhythmic thrum.

Katsuki slumped backward into the pillows with a long, shuddering exhale, his forehead dropping heavily against Kirishima’s shoulder. His damp, spiky ash-blond hair brushed Kirishima’s jaw, smelling of sweet burnt sugar, browned butter and sweat.

"I can't even see my damn toes," Katsuki grumbled into the crook of Kirishima's neck, his voice muffled, one hand coming up to weakly swat at the Alpha's chest before curling helplessly into the fabric of his apron. 

"I tried to bend over to pick up the herb shears this morning and nearly tipped over like a turtle." Kirishima let out a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound vibrating right through his chest and into Katsuki’s temple. With agonizing gentleness, Kirishima leaned down, pressing a lingering, reverent kiss directly to the crown of Katsuki’s swollen belly through the stretched cotton.

"You're doing amazing, Kats," Kirishima whispered, his voice thick with unadulterated awe. "Our little rock is just taking after his old man, that's all. Sturdy bones."

"If he inherits your shoulder width, I'm biting your throat out on the clinic table," Katsuki muttered, though his eyelids were already fluttering shut under the soothing, circular strokes of Kirishima’s thumbs across his skin. He didn't move away. He just let the heavy weight of his body sink into Kirishima’s immovable frame, finally finding a pocket of relief while the winter wind howled safely outside the glass.

The heavy timber entrance gates groaned under the weight of the mountain frost as four pairs of snow boots crunched up the stone path.

Izuku, Mina, Denki, and Sero had bundled themselves in heavy parkas, arms laden with insulated bags of market-fresh winter produce, dried kelp, and a ridiculous mountain of soft fleece baby clothes Mina had smuggled past the station kiosks.

"I'm telling you, keep your voices down," Sero muttered, blowing into his cupped gloves as they reached the engawa. "If we wake him up from a nap, we're shoveling this entire courtyard before tea."

"He's not gonna kill us, he loves us," Denki whispered, though he still stepped onto the polished wooden veranda with extreme, exaggerated caution.

The inner shoji screen stood cracked a few inches to let the cool cedar air temper the sweltering heat of the wood-burning stove. Izuku raised a gloved hand to slide it open, and stopped dead in his tracks.

He threw an arm back, halting Mina and the others with wide, startled eyes. The four heroes stood frozen at the threshold, peering quietly through the parted screens into the sunlit tatami room.

Katsuki was standing near the wide window overlooking the snowy valley, his back turned slightly toward the door. He was wrapped in one of Kirishima’s thickest, oversized crimson cardigans, but the fabric was pulled completely open at the front, exposing the sheer, jaw-dropping magnitude of his stomach beneath a soft white undershirt. 

At seven months, carrying Kirishima’s child, Katsuki was carrying an impossible, heavy swell that pitched his lean spine into a steep, agonizing arch. His hands were propped wearily on the low timber windowsill, his knuckles white, head hung low as a sharp, ragged exhale rattled through his teeth.

"Can't breathe," Katsuki muttered, his raspy voice raw with back-breaking exhaustion. "The damn thing is sitting right on my ribs." Standing directly behind him was Kirishima.

The Number Three Hero was barefoot, stripped down to a simple grey tank top, his towering, slab-muscled frame wrapped entirely around Katsuki’s smaller silhouette. Without hesitation, Kirishima slid his massive, scarred arms around Katsuki’s waist, gathering the enormous, taut dome of Katsuki’s belly into his broad, calloused palms.

With slow, practiced ease, Kirishima braced his stance and lifted. He took the full, crushing weight of the baby upward, cradling the heavy swell with his own strength to completely pull the immense pressure off Katsuki’s strained lower back and compressed diaphragm.

The relief was instant and staggering. Katsuki let out a long, shuddering gasp that sounded like he had just broken the surface of deep water. His knees visibly shook, his entire upper body collapsing backward to rest flush against Kirishima’s solid, unyielding chest. His head fell back onto Kirishima’s shoulder, spiky ash-blond hair brushing Kirishima’s jaw, his sharp eyes fluttering shut as his hands came down to rest weakly over Kirishima’s wrists.

"Fuck..." Katsuki breathed, a faint, trembling shudder rolling through his frame. "God... Don't let go."

"I’ve got you," Kirishima rumbled, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure Alpha comfort that seeped right into Katsuki’s bones. He didn't flinch under the weight, holding the heavy belly effortlessly, his crimson eyes closed as he pressed a slow, reverent kiss into the warm crook of Katsuki’s neck, right against the slate-titanium torc. "Take deep breaths, baby. I'm taking all of it. Just lean into me."

Katsuki didn't argue. He didn't snap, curse, or try to reclaim his lethal, untouchable pride. He simply went limp in Kirishima’s grip, letting the man who held up collapsing buildings hold him together when the burden was too great to bear alone.

Out on the engawa, Mina pressed both mittens over her mouth, tears instantly welling in her eyes as she let out a silent, trembling squeak. Denki stared with his jaw practically touching his collar, completely awed by the raw, domestic reverence in the room, while Izuku smiled softly, pulling the screen closed another fraction of an inch to let the mountain keep its quiet for just a few minutes longer.

The deep mountain winter had finally given way to the first thaw of early spring, meltwater dripping steadily from the cedar eaves of the villa.

Inside the compound’s innermost room, the quiet broke just past three in the morning. Katsuki woke not with a sharp cry, but with a sudden, violent hitch in his chest. His hands flew instantly to the massive, stone-hard dome of his belly as a searing, low-cresting wave gripped his pelvis, dragging a low, guttural snarl from the back of his throat.

Beside him, Kirishima’s crimson eyes snapped open before Katsuki could even draw another breath. An Alpha tuned entirely to his mate, Kirishima rolled upright, his broad, scarred hand already warm and steady against the small of Katsuki’s trembling back.

"Contraction?" Kirishima murmured, his voice rough with sleep but brimming with instant, razor-sharp focus.

"Water broke," Katsuki ground out through clenched teeth, his blunt nails digging savagely into the nest walls, spiky ash-blond hair damp and clinging to his flushed forehead. "The damn thing... Decided he’s done waiting. Call the valley clinic. Now, Eijirou."

Fourteen grueling hours later, the clinic’s private delivery suite smelled of sweat, sterile linen, and the suffocating, molten-sugar haze of Katsuki’s scent, backed by the deep, unyielding anchor of Kirishima’s cedar.

Katsuki was propped against Kirishima’s chest on the wide birthing mat, completely stripped of his usual defensive bite. He was pale, trembling violently from pure physical exhaustion, his breath rattling like dry leaves. His head lolled against Kirishima’s collarbone, sweat dripping from the pointed tips of his ears down to the slate-titanium torc at his throat. 

One of Katsuki’s hands was locked into Kirishima’s forearm, gripping with enough frantic, terrifying force that Kirishima had to actively keep his quirk soft, letting the blunt nails score deep, bloody crescents into his skin just to give Katsuki an anchor.

"You're almost there, Kats," Kirishima whispered, unbothered by the blood dripping down his arm, pressing his lips against Katsuki’s burning temple over and over. "One more big push, baby. You've got this. The head is crowning."

"I am... Going to kill you," Katsuki choked out, a raw, ragged sob breaking in his throat as the final, colossal contraction seized his entire body. "I swear to fucking God... You built a goddamn mountain inside of meeee–!!"

With a vicious, guttural cry that rattled the IV stands, Katsuki curled forward, pouring every last shred of his legendary, unbreakable willpower into the push.

A sharp, breathless silence hung in the room for one terrifying second before a loud, booming, indignant wail shattered the air.

The clinic doctor let out a breathless, half-stunned laugh as she lifted the squalling, squirming newborn into a warm fleece towel, wiping down a thick mop of bright, spiky red tufts.

"Well," the doctor chuckled, visibly straining as she passed the wrapped bundle over, "We usually weigh them in kilograms, but I think we might need the industrial freight scale for this one." Kirishima, tears already streaming freely down his face, helped guide the baby onto Katsuki’s bare, heaving chest.

The baby was colossal. Broad-shouldered, impossibly thick-limbed, with chubby, solid fists and Kirishima’s heavy jawline, the boy looked less like a fragile newborn and more like a three-month-old toddler ready to enter a wrestling tournament.

Katsuki stared down at the sheer bulk resting over his ribs, his scarlet eyes glassy with tears of sheer relief. A faint, exhausted scoff hitched in his throat, his trembling fingers lightly touching the baby's impossibly thick wrist.

"Look at this," Katsuki rasped, letting his head drop back against Kirishima’s shoulder with a breathless, disbelieving wheeze. "You didn't give me a baby, rock-head. You made me push out a whole cinder block. The kid's already big enough to start paying rent."

Kirishima choked out a wet, booming laugh, wrapping his massive arms around both of them, kissing the top of Katsuki's sweaty blond head as the baby let out another defiant, remarkably deep-chested squall.

"A cinder block with your lungs," Kirishima beamed through his tears, totally undone. "He's perfect."

The sliding screens of the inner courtyard were propped open, letting in the cool, sweet air of blooming mountain plum blossoms.

On the wide living room tatami, Katsuki sat propped against a fortress of linen cushions, dressed in a loose black yukata. He was still pale around the eyes from forty-eight hours of post-labour recovery, his spiky ash-blond hair messy and soft. Resting in the crook of his arm, wrapped tightly in a thick crimson fleece swaddle, was the sleeping infant.

At two days old, the boy was undeniably massive, his chubby cheeks flushed pink, a thick brush of red hair already crowning his rounded skull.

The timber engawa creaked as six pairs of socks padded into the room with comical, exaggerated caution.

Izuku led the pack, holding his breath as if the mountain itself might collapse if he stepped too hard. Behind him, Mina was practically biting her own fist to suppress a shriek of joy, flanked by Denki, Sero, Ochaco, and Shouto, who carried a large wooden box wrapped in furoshiki cloth.

"If you wake him up with your loud-ass breathing," Katsuki warned without looking up, his voice a low, raspy rumble that held all of its usual sharp edge, "I'm kicking you all back down the ridge."

"Katsuki-kun," Izuku whispered, tears instantly spilling over his freckled cheeks as he sank to his knees at the edge of the mat. "He's... He's incredible."

"Look at the size of him!" Denki hissed in an awed stage-whisper, leaning over Izuku’s shoulder with wide golden eyes. "Bro, Eijirou wasn't kidding, he really is a whole cinder block! His wrists are thicker than mine were in middle school!"

"He is extraordinarily sturdy," Shoto observed solemnly, kneeling with pristine posture and carefully setting down his gift. "I brought high-calcium bone broths for Katsuki's recovery, and a miniature wooden training bokken for when the child begins walking next week."

"He was born two days ago, half-n-half, he's not swinging a sword next week!" Katsuki snapped in an irritated whisper, though the faint twitch of a smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

From the kitchen hallway, Kirishima stepped in carrying a wide wooden tray loaded with cups of barley tea and sliced fruit. He wore soft grey sweatpants, his dark crimson hair tied back in an untidy tuft, the deep, fresh nail-crescents along his forearms and biceps healing into faint pink tracks. 

He set the tray down on the low table and immediately settled on the floor right behind Katsuki, his broad chest pressing flush against his mate's back, his large arms coming around to bracket both Katsuki and the baby in a protective, immovable shield.

"Hey, guys," Kirishima beamed, his jagged-toothed smile bright enough to rival the morning sun. He reached down with a calloused thumb, gently smoothing the baby's tiny, furrowed brow. "Meet the boss of the mountain. Daiki."

"Daiki..." Ochaco gasped softly, pressing both hands to her cheeks, her eyes shining with warmth. "'Great radiance'. Oh, Eijirou-kun, it fits him so well."

"Can I hold him?!" Mina whimpered, practically vibrating on her knees, her yellow horns dipping as she pleaded with wide, dark eyes. "Please, please, please! I washed my hands three times at the well, I swear on my hero license!"

Katsuki clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes with theatrical reluctance, but his hands were gentle and endlessly careful as he shifted the heavy bundle. "Don't drop him, raccoon eyes. His head's heavier than a shot put."

Mina received the baby with trembling, reverent care, gathering Daiki against her chest. The moment the infant felt the shift, a tiny, impossibly solid fist broke free of the swaddle, waving indignantly in the air before a small, remarkably deep grumble vibrated in his chest.

"Oh my gosh, his little grip!" Mina squealed in a hushed, breathless sob, offering her index finger. Daiki’s chubby fingers snapped shut around it with surprising, bone-deep strength, refusing to let go. "He’s got Eijirou’s iron hands and your glare! He’s already scowling at me!"

"Smart kid," Katsuki grunted, leaning his head back against Kirishima’s shoulder with an exhausted, quiet sigh.

Sero chuckled, crossing his arms and shaking his head with deep, affectionate amusement. "Between the two of you, that kid’s never going to lose an argument in his entire life. The playground is doomed."

"He won't need to argue," Kirishima rumbled proudly, resting his chin on the crown of Katsuki’s spiky blond hair, his scarlet eyes sweeping over the circle of their closest friends with bottomless peace. 

"He's got the strongest shield in Japan behind him, and the sharpest mind in the country teaching him how to stand his ground."

Katsuki didn't argue. He just let his eyes slip shut against the warmth of Kirishima’s chest, the quiet laughter of their friends filling the mountain home with a brightness that no press camera would ever be allowed to touch.

The mid-morning sun filtered softly through the cedar lattice, warming the quiet bedroom. Katsuki was sitting propped up against a mountain of pillows, his dark yukata unfastened just enough at the collar to reveal the gleam of the titanium torc. 

In the crook of his arm, Daiki was fast asleep, swaddled tightly in crimson fleece, a tiny milk bubble perched on his bottom lip.

Kirishima sat cross-legged at the edge of the futon, his large, scarred thumbs methodically rolling a wooden acupressure peg between his palms. He kept glancing down at the sleeping baby, then up at Katsuki, his crimson eyes brimming with that restless, bright energy he only got when he was bursting with something he couldn't quite contain.

Katsuki didn't even look up from the baby's tufts of red fuzz. "Spit it out, rock-head. You've been fidgeting on the tatami for twenty minutes like you're sitting on hot coals."

Kirishima paused, his fingers stilling against the wood. A faint, bashful flush crept up the back of his neck, warming his ears. He set the roller aside on the low cedar stand and leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees.

"The agency press pool called this morning," Kirishima began, his voice dropping into a low, careful rumble so as not to startle the nursery quiet. "My extended leave officially cleared through the Hero Public Safety Commission. They’re running a standard PR bulletin at noon just saying Red Riot is on personal leave for family matters."

Katsuki lifted an eyebrow, his sharp scarlet gaze finally cutting across the room. "And?"

"And..." Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at his broad, calloused hands before meeting Katsuki’s eyes with utter sincerity. "I don't care about the cameras, Kats. You know that. I'll never give them a name, or a photo, or bring a microphone within ten miles of this ridge."

He took a slow breath, his chest rising under his worn flannel shirt. "But... I want to tell them. Just... That he’s here. That my mate brought our son into the world, and that you're both safe, healthy, and the most incredible thing that's ever happened to me."

Kirishima’s voice softened, laced with a raw, humble pride that made his broad shoulders seem both massive and remarkably gentle.

"The public spent nine months respecting the boundary because I asked them to. They backed off the train stations, they silenced the tabloids, and they left the mountain alone. I just... I want to put out a single agency statement. No faces, no interviews, no press conference. Just letting them know the shield has a son now, and that the person who built him is the bravest, strongest person alive."

He paused, leaning in closer, his crimson eyes searching Katsuki's face with quiet deference. "Only if you're okay with it, though. If you say no, the agency shuts it down. Absolute silence. Your call, Kats. Always."

Katsuki looked at him for a long moment. The silence stretched between them, thick with the scent of dried herbs, sweet milk, and cedar. 

Katsuki’s thumb slowly brushed over the baby’s impossibly thick little wrist, watching the tiny fingers twitch in a dream. A sharp, raspy breath hitched in his throat, and a faint, dry smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, not bitter, but fond, caustic, and undeniably him.

"You're an idiot," Katsuki murmured, his voice husky with post-labor fatigue. "You’re practically shaking because you want to brag to eighty million people."

"I am," Kirishima admitted with an unabashed, jagged-toothed grin, his eyes crinkling. "I really, really am." Katsuki rolled his eyes, shifting the heavy bundle slightly higher against his chest before letting his head fall back against the pillows with a soft exhale.

"Tell your little agency lackeys whatever you want," Katsuki muttered, his scarlet eyes gleaming with quiet, fierce contentment under his pale lashes. "Just tell them the kid took fourteen hours to knock the Number Three Hero's ego out, and that if any reporter flies a drone over the tree line, I'm throwing a stone through their lens."

Kirishima let out a low, breathless laugh that trembled with pure joy. He leaned across the edge of the nest, cupping the side of Katsuki's face in his massive, scarred palm, pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to his forehead. "Understood, boss," Kirishima whispered against his skin. "Zero drones. Maximum bragging."

The press plaza outside the Hero Public Safety Commission headquarters was packed deep with broadcast networks, camera rigs, and independent correspondents.

Kirishima stood at the podium in a sharply tailored crimson vest and dark dress slacks, having just stepped off the stage following the annual hero demographic surveys. His hair was styled in its iconic crimson spikes, but the easy, sunny confidence radiating from him was utterly unbothered by the sea of flashing strobes.

A senior correspondent from Tokyo Style Dispatch raised her microphone first, grinning widely. "Red Riot! For the sixth consecutive year, the national lifestyle and hero demographics poll has officially crowned you Japan's Hottest Hero with an overwhelming ninety-four percent majority! How does it feel to maintain that absolute monopoly over the country's hearts?"

A light ripple of laughter bounced through the front row of the press pool. Kirishima laughed, a booming, good-natured sound that instantly put the whole crowd at ease. He rubbed the back of his neck with one massive, calloused hand, his sharp teeth flashing in an easy, boyish grin.

"Man, you guys are relentless with that list every single year," Kirishima chuckled, shaking his head. "Look, I’m honoured, seriously, thank you to everyone who voted. It’s always flattering. But you know, there are plenty of other heroes out there on the charts! Shouto’s got the whole brooding prince thing down to T, Deku’s got that pure, heroic charisma that makes people want to run through walls, and Chargebolt is out there trying his absolute best on magazine covers every month."

He leaned a hand casually on the wooden rostrum, his crimson eyes crinkling. "Spread the love around a little, you know? Japan's got plenty of handsome protectors."

A younger, sharp-eyed reporter from Central Broadcast leaned forward over the blue velvet partition rope, adjusting his glasses with a sly smile. "That modesty is charming as always, Red Riot," the reporter chimed in. "Though we all know your domestic life remains fiercely guarded up north. If the rest of Japan considers you the ultimate catch for six years running... What does your mate think about the title? Does he agree with the public verdict, or does he keep your ego in check?"

A quiet, expectant murmur swept through the journalists, all of them leaning in to catch whatever rare, humorous anecdote the Number Three Hero might offer about his famously private mountain recluse.

Kirishima didn't laugh this time. Instead, a slow, radiantly incandescent smile spread across his face, a look so soft, so completely drenched in reverent, unadulterated joy that the entire front line of camera operators visibly hesitated on their zoom controls.

He didn't deflect. He didn't offer a self-deprecating joke. "He doesn't care much for magazine polls," Kirishima said, his deep voice dropping into a warm, resonant gravel that carried effortlessly over the whirring shutter drives. "To him, I'm just the guy who chops the firewood, burns the toast sometimes, and holds the hot water compress when his back aches."

The reporters blinked, the plaza going remarkably still under the mid-morning sun. Kirishima lifted his chin, his crimson eyes glowing with an unmistakable, boundless pride that filled the entire plaza.

"And honestly? The 'Hottest Hero' title is great and all," Kirishima murmured, his sharp teeth showing in a smile that looked ready to split his face clean in two. "But none of that holds a candle to the title he gave me three days ago."

He paused, letting the words settle into the crisp Tokyo air.

"My mate brought our son into the world Tuesday morning," Kirishima declared, every syllable clear, steady, and brimming with uncontainable triumph. "Four-point-three kilo's of pure, stubborn, healthy perfection. Both of them are resting safely back at home, and I am... Officially... A father."

The press plaza froze for two full seconds.

Microphones dropped by an inch. Jaws went slack. Then, like a dam bursting over the stage, the flashbulbs detonated into a blinding, continuous roar of white light, the reporters erupting into pure, thunderous, breathless pandemonium.

The emergency floodlights of the Shinjuku disaster zone cast stark, glaring beams across the fractured concrete of the mall.

An underground gas main rupture had triggered a catastrophic sub-level collapse during the evening rush hour, dropping two city blocks of transit tunnels into a shifting sinkhole. 

Kirishima had anchored the structural fault line with his hardened body for two straight hours while specialized rescue teams evacuated over four hundred commuters, finally stepping out from beneath the hydraulic braces covered in pulverized drywall, hydraulic fluid, and soot.

Standing beside the emergency command vehicle with an agency medic wrapping an ice pack over his right forearm, Kirishima wiped a streak of gray dust from his brow.

The press pool, kept respectfully behind the double police tape, surged forward as soon as the all-clear was sounded. Microphones bristled over the barricades, but unlike the chaotic ambushes of the past, the tone was laced with high-stakes urgency and genuine awe.

"Red Riot! An unprecedented zero-casualty extraction from sub-level three!" an anchor from Metropolitan 24 called out. "The civil engineering corps reported you absorbed forty tonnes of overhead load to keep the express terminal intact!"

"The engineering corps had the shoring wedges in faster than scheduled," Kirishima answered, his voice a little hoarse from the dust, though his crimson eyes held their steady, sunny warmth. 

"The first responders and logistics teams did the heavy lifting. Everyone made it out to the street triage, and that's the only metric that matters tonight."

A senior correspondent from Heroic Standard stepped closer to the ribbon, his microphone held at a measured angle. He gave a respectful nod to the Number Three Hero, acknowledging the successful operation before pivoting to the topic that had gripped the nation's headlines all week.

"Red Riot, following the news of your son’s birth three days ago, the public outpouring has been staggering," The reporter began, the rest of the media pack leaning in with intense, focused silence. "You broke your own policy of absolute silence by sharing that milestone with the country. Now that you've officially shared the existence of your son, will this lead to a formal public introduction of your mate? Is this the moment you finally step onto the public stage together as a family?"

The camera operators held their frames dead-center on Kirishima’s soot-streaked face. Kirishima didn't flinch. He didn't look annoyed or defensive. He simply let the medic finish securing the bandage, lowered his arm, and looked the veteran reporter dead in the eye with a calm, impenetrable resolve.

"No," Kirishima said, the syllable soft, smooth, and absolute. The press line remained hushed, waiting. "Telling you all that our son was born wasn't the start of a press rollout," Kirishima explained, resting his broad, scarred hands against his utility belt. "It wasn't an invitation to peek over the fence. It was me sharing my joy as a man who loves his family more than his own life, and acknowledging the respect the public has shown our privacy over the last year."

He took a slow, deep breath, shaking his head with a faint, fond smile that carried zero compromise. "My boy has his mother’s fierce heart and a lifetime ahead of him to decide who he wants to be. And the one who brought him into the world gave everything he had to the front lines long before any of us were sitting on the Billboard charts. He earned the right to exist without a camera lens dissecting his life. He isn't a trophy, an accessory to my hero rank, or an unanswered question for the press to solve."

Kirishima adjusted the strap of his torn tactical rig, his crimson eyes gleaming with unyielding, protective pride under the emergency floodlights. "My shield belongs to the public out here in the dirt. But my sanctuary stays behind the timber gates on that mountain, exactly where it belongs. The answer was 'no' before my son was born, and it’s 'no' now."

He offered the reporters a brief, respectful two-fingered salute, his jagged-toothed grin cutting clean through the soot on his face.

"Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve got forty tonnes of dust to wash off and a late train to catch. Someone very small is waiting to spit up on my clean shirt."

Five years later and the summer afternoon air above the northern ridge was thick with the scent of sun-warmed pine needles and split cedar.

Denki sat cross-legged on the polished boards of the villa’s engawa, wearing an oversized graphic tee, his agency smartphone propped neatly against a chilled can of green tea. The camera framed only his expressive, sunny face and the tranquil bamboo grove behind the porch, keeping the inner rooms entirely out of sight.

"What's up, chat!" Denki grinned into the lens, giving a casual two-fingered salute. "Chargebolt coming to you live on an officially sanctioned rest weekend. The northern air is pristine, my batteries are fully recharged, and nobody has threatened to throw a garden rake at my head yet today."

The viewer counter exploded within ninety seconds, rocketing past seven hundred thousand.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •719K Viewers

@bolt_archive: CHARGEBOLT AT THE VILLA AGAIN?!

@kiri_fan_central: You survived the woodshed duties this time?! 😂

@hero_tracker_hq: The mountain streams are always the best!

@denki_spark_club: How are the hosts doing?!

"I did my chores early, thank you very much," Denki laughed, leaning closer to the phone to squint at the scrolling comments. "Stacking kindling is basically high-intensity forearm conditioning. You guys don't appreciate the struggle–"

A tiny, determined pitter-patter of bare feet slapped rapidly across the timber planks behind him.

Denki paused mid-sentence. Before he could turn his head, a pair of small, impossibly sturdy hands grabbed the back of his collar, giving it an affectionate, iron-tight yank that nearly pulled the hero backward off his seat.

A bright, high-pitched, remarkably raspy little voice piped up right by his ear; "Uncle Sparky! Who are you talking to? Is it the little screen people again?!"

The chat hitched for a microsecond before detonating into frantic question marks.

Denki instantly clapped a hand over the camera lens, covering the upper portion to keep the shot strictly on his own flustered face. "Whoa, whoa, hold on, kiddo! Careful with the grip, you're gonna choke your favorite uncle!"

He looked down at the tiny boy clinging to his shoulder. "Daiki, buddy, I'm streaming live right now. Lots of people are watching."

Five-year-old Daiki tilted his chin, his round cheeks puffed out in a stubborn, remarkably familiar pout. He was dressed in a miniature dark red tank top and denim shorts, his knees sporting grass stains from chasing mountain beetles all morning.

"Can I be on the little screen?" Daiki demanded, his sharp, bright crimson eyes wide with pure curiosity. "I wanna show them the big shiny stag beetle I caught by the spring! It’s got huge pincers, look!"

Denki chuckled, reaching up to tap the boy’s nose with a knuckle. "Whoa, hold your horses, little boss. You know the house rule. You gotta get clearance from the supreme leader and your old man first. Go ask them. If they say yes, you can say hi."

"Okay!" Daiki chirped, pivoting on his heels and dashing toward the kitchen hallway like a miniature freight train. "Mama! Papa! Can I show Uncle Sparky's phone people my beetle?!"

Denki let out a breathless, amused wheeze, uncovering the camera and raising an eyebrow at the screen, which was now moving in a blind, incoherent blur of caps lock.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •866K Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: DAIKI?!

@allure_magazine_stan: DID HE JUST SAY UNCLE SPARKY 😭😭😭

@shinjuku_sleuth: IS THAT RED RIOT'S SON?!

@omega_rights_jp: HE CAUGHT A BEETLE OH MY GOD PLEASE LET US SEE

@tokyo_daily_tea: DENKI DON'T TEASE US LIKE THIS

In the background, the low, deep rumble of Kirishima’s voice drifted out from the kitchen pantry: "Babe, did you hear that? Daiki wants to say hi on Denki's stream."

A second later, Katsuki’s unmistakable, dry rasp cut cleanly across the living room, sharp, unbothered, and laced with fond exasperation:  "The brat’s practically a carbon copy of you anyway, rock-head. What the hell are they gonna see? As long as he keeps that gross-ass bug away from my cutting board, I don't give a damn. Go watch him so he doesn't break the idiot's phone."

A booming, jagged-toothed laugh echoed from Kirishima: "Hear that, kiddo? Mama says yes! Go show 'em!"

Denki beamed, looking into the lens with a triumphant, wicked smirk. "You guys are in luck. Special permission granted by the mountain lords themselves."

The screen was suddenly jostled as Daiki scrambled up onto the wooden bench right next to Denki, thrusting his face directly into the camera frame with zero hesitation.

The chat went completely, utterly silent for a split second before losing its collective mind. 

Daiki was the spitting image of his father. He had Kirishima’s unmistakable, vibrant crimson eyes that crinkled into bright crescents of unfiltered joy, his sturdy, rounded jawline, and the exact same jagged little baby teeth peeking through a wide, beaming smile. His hair was wild and spiky, but instead of being pale like his mother’s, it was a striking, fiery red with just the faintest pale-blond tips catching the afternoon sun. He looked like an exact miniature replica of the Number Three Hero, bursting with boundless, sunny energy.

"Hi, screen people!" Daiki announced proudly, leaning so close to the phone his nose almost touched the lens.

With both hands, he held up a clear plastic collection jar containing an enormous, glossy black stag beetle perched on a piece of cedar bark.

"Look at this! I dug it out of the old mossy stump all by myself! Papa said it's super manly because its shell is totally unbreakable!" A heavy, scarred arm reached down from outside the top edge of the camera, a broad, familiar hand resting gently on top of Daiki’s spiky red hair, affectionately mussing the locks. 

Kirishima was standing just off-camera, wearing his flannel lounge pants, his deep voice carrying a wave of endless, bottomless pride: "Sure is, little rock. Just don't let it pinch Uncle Denki’s fingers."

"I won't!" Daiki giggled, flashing that incandescent, jagged-toothed grin up at his fathers face as the live stream comments melted into a sea of millions of red hearts.

Later on the late afternoon breeze swept through the veranda, rustling the bamboo wind chimes hanging from the cedar eaves.

Denki was sitting on the wooden deck steps, his phone propped on a low lacquer tray. He had a glass of cold barley tea sweating beside him, his blond fringe blowing lightly in the mountain wind as he laughed at a comment scrolling across the screen.

"Yeah, we're doing an early dinner tonight," Denki grinned into the camera, waving a lazy hand. "Kirishima’s down by the lower shed splitting the last of the cedar logs, so I have officially been granted sanctuary on the porch."

The viewer count, as always whenever Denki streamed from the northern prefecture, was well past nine hundred thousand. The chat was buzzing with the usual rapid-fire questions about training regimens and hero rankings, but a soft thump of bare feet on the polished timber behind Denki immediately caught the microphone’s sensitivity.

Denki glanced over his shoulder, his eyes softening into an easy, fond smile. He angled the phone slightly upward toward the wide, open sliding doors of the inner living room.

Framed in the warm, diffused amber light of the doorway stood Katsuki. The camera's crop was immaculate, deliberate and perfectly positioned. 

From the bridge of his nose up, Katsuki was completely out of frame. The phone lens caught only the lean, graceful cut of his throat, the familiar dark slate-titanium courting torc resting snug against his pale collarbones, and the sharp, expressive contour of his mouth.

Cradled high against his chest, fast asleep and heavy with pure, five-year-old exhaustion, was Daiki. The boy was completely conked out after his afternoon of hunting beetles in the woods. 

His bright crimson-and-blond spikes were smashed messily against Katsuki’s shoulder, one chubby, sturdy arm hooked loosely over Katsuki’s neck, his face buried deep into the soft cotton of a dark grey henley that smelled of woodsmoke and sweet burnt sugar.

Katsuki carried the solid, heavy child effortlessly on his hip, one pale, corded forearm wrapped securely under Daiki’s legs, his thumb lazily tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over the boy's leg to keep him settled.

The chat froze dead before scrolling into an absolute frenzy of breathless caps lock.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •917K Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: HE'S HOLDING HIM.

@kiri_fan_central: LOOK AT DAIKI SLEEPING ON HIM OH MY GOD 😭😭😭

@mystery_omega_daily: THE SLATE TORC. THE COLLARBONE.

@allure_magazine_stan: The lips! The jawline! He looks so soft with his baby!

@tokyo_daily_tea: Denki don't breathe too loud he's gonna wake up!!

@shinjuku_sleuth: The way he holds him so easily... He really is an incredible parent.

On the screen, Katsuki’s sharp jaw tilted slightly as he looked toward the veranda. His lips, pale, cleanly sculpted, and usually drawn into a razor-thin sneer or a fierce battle-ready grin, softened by an unmistakable fraction. The corner of his mouth curved into a faint, dry, fond smirk as he watched Denki rambling to his phone.

With his free hand, Katsuki reached up, his blunt fingers gently tucking a stray red lock of Daiki’s hair behind the boy's ear. He pressed a quiet, lingering kiss to the very top of Daiki’s sleeping forehead, his lips resting against the boy's spiky red hair for a long, tender second.

When he pulled back, his mouth twitched, parting slightly as a low, raspy murmur carried effortlessly across the quiet boards to the phone's microphone.

"Tell your little fan club to keep the volume down, Sparky," Katsuki’s lips moved with dry, effortless warmth, a faint huff of amusement curving his mouth. "Brat walked three miles up the ridge and passed out before I could wash the dirt off his shins. If your chatter wakes him, you're the one carrying him back to bed."

"Understood, boss! Whispering from now on, I swear!" Denki hissed back with a theatrical salute, a wide, genuine grin spreading across his face.

The lips on the screen curved into another subtle, private smirk, unbothered, untouchable, and utterly at peace, before Katsuki turned on his heel, his quiet steps fading deeper into the shaded warmth of the home.

Denki had barely finished whispering his theatrical promise to the quiet doorway when the live feed’s text stream effectively shattered under the weight of one point four million viewers suddenly realizing what they were looking at.

The comments weren't just squealing over the domestic warmth, they were doing frantic, side-by-side visual calculations.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •1.46M Viewers

@smash_analyst: WAIT. PAUSE. LOOK AT THE SCALE.

@hero_tracker_hq: Is it just me or is Daiki ENORMOUS for five years old?!?!

@tokyo_daily_tea: He’s literally half his mama's torso height already??!

@kiri_fan_central: That’s not a five-year-old that’s a middle school defensive lineman 😭

@allure_magazine_stan: The mother’s waist and shoulders are so lean and slender, but the kid’s back is already broad as a barn door!

@shinjuku_sleuth: The contrast between his pale, slender neck and that absolute tank of a child... Red Riot’s genetics are UNSTOPPABLE.

@bolt_archive: DENKI IS DAIKI WEIGHING 30 KILOS ALREADY WHAT ARE THEY FEEDING HIM UP THERE

Denki read the comments, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from barking out a laugh that would violate the noise curfew. He glanced back toward the hallway where Katsuki had vanished, then leaned close to the phone, speaking in a conspiratorial stage-whisper.

"Look, you guys aren't crazy," Denki grinned, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. "Every time I visit, I swear the kid has grown another three inches. He’s five, but he has the bone density of a reinforced bunker. The other day he tackled Sero into the laundry baskets and Sero literally lay there groaning for five minutes like he took a hit from an actual villain."

He shook his head, his golden eyes sparkling with fond amusement. "And you see how compact his mama is, right? Lean frame, sharp angles, crazy agile, built like a blade. But Eijirou is literally a walking mountain of muscle, and Daiki took all of that broad-shouldered, brick-wall DNA. When he was born, the clinic thought the scales were broken. Half the reason his mama is carrying him around on one hip like that is just sheer, stubborn spite because he refuses to admit the kid is getting too heavy to haul around."

Right on cue, from deep inside the timber corridors of the villa, a distant, muffled thud rattled the cedar floorboards, followed by Kirishima’s booming, cheerful laugh and Katsuki’s dry, raspy voice echoing back: "Set him on the futon, rock-head, my arm’s gone numb! He’s turning into a boulder just like you!"

Denki looked back into the lens, flashing an enormous, victorious smirk. "See? Cinder block genetics. Japan’s future is going to be guarded by a kid who can probably bench-press a compact car by third grade."

[Class A Disaster Protocol (20)]

Red Riot:

hey guys...

so, like

round two is a go...

[image_attachment_02.jpg]

The image was taken on the sunny timber floorboards of the villa’s living room. Resting side-by-side were two pairs of worn, heavy hiking boots, Kirishima’s massive maroon-red ones, Katsuki’s dark gray ones, and between them, a tiny pair of sturdy mud-spattered sneakers with bright red laces.

Directly in front of the little sneakers sat a brand-new, miniature pair of soft knit booties in pale cream, topped by a fresh clinic ultrasound printout with the unmistakable marker: 9w 1d.

[Class A Disaster Protocol (20)]

Pinky:

NO WAY.

NO FREAKING WAY.

ANOTHER ONE?!?!?!?!?!

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

ANOTHER MOUNTAIN BABY IS COMING?!?!?!

Chargebolt:

BRO.

HOLD THE PHONE.

DID YOU NOT LEARN YOUR LESSON FROM THE FIRST CINDER BLOCK?!?!

DAIKI IS ALREADY TACKLING ADULTS INTO WALLS AND YOU GUYS ARE SPAWNING REINFORCEMENT?!?!?

Cellophane:

YOOOOOOOOOOO 🎉🎉🎉

Kirishima Eijirou, the most productive man in Japan!

That clinic doctor must have fainted when you walked back into the office lmao

Deku:

😭😭😭😭

Eijirou-kun!! Another baby!!

Congratulations to both of you!! That is incredible news! How is Katsuki-kun feeling?! Is the nausea worse this time or about the same as with Daiki?! Does he need the private clinic dietary supplements from the prefecture storehouse?!

Uravity:

CONGRATULATIONS TO THE WHOLE FAMILY!! 🌸✨🎉

Daiki is going to be a big brother!!

Oh my gosh, has he realized what it means yet?!

Red Riot:

haha thanks guys! ❤️

Daiki thinks the baby is coming tomorrow and tried to feed an entire grilled sweet potato to Katsuki's stomach this morning so his "little sidekick wouldn't starve" lol

Shouto:

I will double the harvest shipment of winter squash and calcium broths. The previous batch yielded adequate bone density.

Chargebolt:

todoroki talks like he’s running an agricultural breeding experiment

i cannot take this man seriously

Red Riot:

Katsuki’s already building the nest again

he's stolen every single one of my tactical hoodies and half my winter jackets

he’s lying in the middle of a mountain of flannel right now eating sour plums and glaring at me because he says if this one is as broad as Daiki was, he’s making me sleep in the woodshed for three months

Pinky:

HE IS NESTING AGAIN MY HEART CANNOT TAKE THIS

Tell him I am already buying tiny baby beanies and he cannot ban me from the mountain!! 💖👶✨

Cellophane:

God help the northern prefecture when two of those gremlins are running loose in the woods

Red Riot:

haha they’ll be unstoppable man

gonna go check on him before he wakes up and realizes his tea is cold

keep it quiet like always, okay?

Deku:

Maximum security, Eijirou-kun! Sending all our love up the mountain!

The crisp autumn mountain air was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of slow-roasting river trout, charred scallions, and sweet glazed sweet potatoes crackling over the open stone pit in the courtyard.

Paper lanterns swayed gently from the timber eaves, casting a warm, golden glow across the wide engawa. Class A had completely taken over the lower terrace to celebrate Kirishima and Katsuki’s anniversary, with Sero and Denki wrestling Daiki on a woven reed mat while Mina and Ochaco set out platters of pickled seasonal radishes and Shouto tended the coals with precise, measured blasts of controlled heat.

Up on the porch, leaning heavily against a nest of oversized floor cushions, sat Katsuki. At seven months along, his belly was already an immense, jutting dome, stretching the dark ribbed fabric of Kirishima’s oversized henley impossibly tight. 

Just like with Daiki, the baby had inherited Kirishima’s massive, heavy-boned frame, sitting high and heavy against Katsuki’s lean ribs. Katsuki sat with his knees parted, one hand resting flat over the solid, unyielding curve of his stomach, his spiky ash-blond hair messy and glowing in the lantern light as he watched the yard with tired, sharp crimson eyes.

"Mama, look! Look what Uncle Hanta taught me!" Five-year-old Daiki yelled, his sturdy little legs barreling across the wooden floorboards like a miniature freight train. He scrambled onto the cushions, nearly slamming into the side of the nest before a massive, scarred hand gently intercepted him by the back of his collar.

"Whoa there, little rock," Kirishima rumbled warmly, settling onto the tatami right behind Katsuki. Kirishima looked sun-warmed and relaxed in a sleeveless charcoal tunic, his broad shoulders easily bracketing his mate. 

With practiced, tender ease, Kirishima reached around Katsuki's sides, sliding his large, calloused palms beneath the heavy swell of Katsuki’s belly and lifting the weight upward just enough to pull the crushing strain off his spine.

Katsuki let out a long, ragged exhale of pure relief, his entire posture softening as his head fell back against Kirishima’s shoulder. His blunt fingers came down over Kirishima’s wrists, resting against the familiar pulse points, the slate-titanium torc gleaming at his pale throat.

"You're teaching him bad habits, tape-face," Katsuki muttered toward the yard, though his raspy voice was thick with fond exhaustion. "Next time he tackles a door frame, you're paying for the timber."

"Hey, he asked for combat basics!" Sero laughed, wiping soot from his forehead as he joined the porch steps. Mina practically skipped up the wooden steps, holding a frosted cake decorated with crimson sugar crystals and pale gold sparks. "Happy anniversary, you two! Look at you guys, ten years of Eijirou looking at you like you hung the moon, and now you're baking another whole cinder block!"

"Look at the size of that bump, bro," Denki whistled, dropping down next to Ochaco with a skewer of grilled peppers. "I swear it took nine months for Daiki to look that huge, and you're already rivaling a boulder with two months to go. Kirishima's genetics are straight-up industrial strength."

"Don't remind me, dunce face," Katsuki grunted, a faint, wry smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as the baby inside gave a heavy, rolling kick that visibly shifted the dark cotton of his shirt. "Feels like this one’s practicing suplexes on my bladder."

Kirishima let out a low, booming chuckle, pressing a lingering, devoted kiss to the side of Katsuki's sweaty temple, completely unbothered by the chorus of fond groans and coos from their friends.

"Sturdy and strong, just like their papa," Kirishima murmured against the spiky blond hair, his crimson eyes glowing with absolute, incandescent peace as Daiki curled up against their knees. "Happy anniversary, Kats."

Katsuki clicked his tongue, muttering something unintelligible about sappy idiots, but his fingers never loosened their grip on Kirishima's hand, holding fast to the quiet sanctuary they had built together on the ridge.

The mountain frost had cracked like glass under an early spring gale, rattling the heavy pine shutters of the master suite.

Inside, the low-lit bedroom was sweltering, thick with the scent of boiled ginger, sweat, and Katsuki’s unmistakable, burnt-caramel distress. 

Katsuki was on his knees against the tatami, his upper body collapsed over a towering fortress of rolled futons and Kirishima’s heaviest winter coats. His dark sleep yukata was drenched, sticking to the lean line of his back, while beneath him, his belly hung low, monstrously round and stone-hard, trembling with the violent crest of each contraction.

"I... Am going to break your jaw," Katsuki wheezed into the wool, his knuckles bone-white where they twisted into the fabric. His spiky ash-blond hair was soaked through, plastered to his flushed brow. "I swear to fucking God, Eijirou... If this one is heavier than Daiki was, you're sleeping in the dirt until it walks."

Behind him, Kirishima was stripped to a dark grey tank top, his forehead beaded with sweat as his massive, scarred hands worked the base of Katsuki’s spine. Every time the wave hit, Kirishima leaned his full weight into the counter-pressure, his deep voice a steady, grounding anchor against Katsuki’s raspy snarls.

"I've got the dirt bed ready if you want it, Kats," Kirishima rumbled softly, pressing a kiss between Katsuki’s shaking shoulder blades. "You're doing it, baby. We're almost there. Head's dropped all the way. Just breathe with me."

Three hours later, the clinic midwife wiped down an infant that looked like she had bypassed the newborn stage entirely.

Broad-chested, thick-limbed, with chubby fists clenched tight and a fierce, spiky tuft of fiery crimson hair already dusting her scalp, the baby let out a booming, indignant screech that rivaled her brother’s entrance five years earlier.

Katsuki slumped back against Kirishima’s chest on the clean birthing quilt, completely spent, his pale skin glowing faintly in the dawn light. The midwife gently laid the heavy bundle across his heaving ribs.

Katsuki looked down at the tiny, furious red-headed tank squirming against his skin, let out a dry, exhausted puff of air, and tapped the baby's impossibly thick wrist with a blunt fingernail.

"Look at her," Katsuki rasped, letting his head roll sideways into the crook of Kirishima's neck with a tired, disbelieving smirk. "A girl, and you still managed to build an entire reinforced concrete slab. She’s already wide enough to break a floorboard."

Kirishima choked out a wet laugh, tears cutting clean tracks through the sweat on his face as he wrapped both arms around them, pressing a reverent kiss right against Katsuki’s slate torc. "A little rock, Kats. She’s gorgeous."

Two days later, the rain poured in sheets over the coastal industrial flats outside Kawasaki.

A series of underground fuel tank detonations at a chemical transit refinery had collapsed an entire three-story storage facility, trapping nearly two hundred night-shift workers beneath twisted iron and burning slag. 

Red Riot had spent seven uninterrupted hours in the inferno, anchoring the main superstructure with his hardened skin while tactical extraction teams pulled every last civilian out alive.

Standing beneath the awning of the forward command trailer, Kirishima was covered in black soot, chemical foam, and gravel, his crimson hair flattened by the torrential rain. Agency medics were spraying a sterile burn wash over his scarred shoulders, but his stance was solid as iron.

The press pool, kept behind the primary emergency perimeter, surged forward the second the site commander declared the operation a complete success.

"Red Riot! An extraordinary outcome, one hundred and ninety-four civilians extracted with zero fatalities!" an anchor from National News Network called over the roar of rain. "The disaster corps said you held a fracturing support pylon solo for three hours straight to keep the east wing from flattening the shelter tunnels!"

"The structural teams placed the hydraulic jacks perfectly," Kirishima answered, his voice gravelly and worn from smoke, though his crimson eyes held their steady, sunny resolve. "The fire brigades beat back the chemical line, and the field medics worked miracles. It’s an honour to hold the line with people like that."

A senior correspondent from Heroic Standard stepped to the edge of the police barrier, lowering her umbrella slightly as she caught the unmistakable, glowing energy radiating beneath the hero's exhausted exterior.

"Red Riot, your agency announced that this operation will be your only deployment before entering another unannounced mandatory leave," The reporter noted, the media pack leaning in close. "Given the fierce privacy you maintain for your family, the public naturally wonders, is this another step toward stepping back, or is something new happening behind those mountain gates?"

Kirishima wiped a streak of oily soot from his cheek with a wet rag given to him by one of the intern sidekicks. He didn't deflect. A slow, breathtaking smile broke across his face, wide, brilliant, and completely unstoppable, his sharp teeth flashing against the dark rain and flashing emergency strobes.

He reached into the front zipper pouch of his tactical rig, gently touching a folded, clean slip of medical printout tucked safely against his chest.

"I’m taking leave," Kirishima said, his deep voice carrying clear and steady through the downpour, "Because my mate just gave me another miracle on Thursday morning."

The press pool gasped, a collective wave of shock rippling through the cameras. "A baby girl," Kirishima announced, every syllable vibrating with pure, uncontainable pride. "Four-point-seven kilo's, healthy, beautiful, and possessing every bit of her mother’s fierce, unbreakable spirit. Both of them are safe at home by the fire, and Daiki is already trying to teach his little sister how to wrestle."

The flashbulbs detonated into a frantic, blinding white wall against the gray rain, reporters shouting over one another in a wave of breathless congratulations.

Kirishima raised one hand, giving the cameras a bright, two-fingered salute, his crimson eyes gleaming with fierce devotion through the storm. "My shield is always here for Japan when the ground shakes," he rumbled, turning toward the transport bay with an eager, buoyant step. "But right now, my family needs their old man home to carry the firewood. Have a safe night, everyone."

Another few years later and the warm mountain breeze carried the faint, sweet hum of cicadas through the cedar grove as late afternoon settled over the villa’s courtyard.

Mina was lounging comfortably on the wide engawa, legs dangling over the edge, wearing a bright pink athletic crop-top and matching wristbands. Her smartphone was mounted securely on a flexible mini-tripod set on the outer railing, facing away from the sliding shoji screens to frame only the lush green bamboo and the sun-dappled yard.

"What's up, my loves!" Mina squealed cheerfully into the lens, flashing peace signs with both hands as her golden eyes sparkled. "Pinky here, reporting live from my favorite secret northern getaway! Today's mission: maximum hydration, mountain berry popsicles, and avoiding all physical labour whatsoever!"

The live chat counter rocketed past one point five million viewers in a matter of seconds.

PinkyTheAlienQueen •LIVE •1.59M Viewers

@alien_queen_stan: MINA IS AT THE SANCTUARY AGAIN!!

@hero_tracker_hq: The mountain villa streams are always elite 😭💖

@pinky_patrol: Look at that view! So gorgeous!!

@tokyo_daily_tea: Is the family around?! How are the kids?!

"The boys are out back," Mina giggled, leaning an elbow on her knee. "Eijirou took Daiki down to the river to catch sweetfish, which basically means they're just throwing flat stones into the water and yelling about who has the manlier throw–"

A tiny, remarkably heavy set of footsteps came pattering across the polished timber behind her, moving with the unmistakable, stomping momentum of a pint-sized freight train.

Before Mina could turn around, two small, chubby, iron-solid hands planted themselves squarely on her hip, giving her waist an affectionate, surprisingly powerful shove.

A bright, loud, delightfully raspy little voice piped up, demanding instant attention: "Auntie Mina! Who are you yelling at?! Are those the phone people again?!"

Mina’s eyes widened in sheer, delighted panic. She instantly snapped her palm over the camera lens, covering the upper portion to keep the view strictly cropped to her own grinning, flushed face.

"Whoa, easy on the tackle, princess!" Mina laughed, glancing down at the five-year-old standing proudly at her side.

The little girl was dressed in oversized black overalls over a bright crimson tee, her knees dusted with dry potting soil from helping in the vegetable patch.

"Auntie Mina," she puffed, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her chin with an attitude that had clearly been forged in the center of the mountain. "Daiki said the phone people got to see his ugly beetle when he was little. I wanna show them my drawing! It's a dragon with red fire!"

Mina pressed a hand over her heart, melting into an audible squeak, but she shook her head firmly. "You know the golden rule, little red. We don't step into the frame without a clearance stamp from your parents. Go check with your mama. If he gives the thumbs-up, then you can say hi."

"Okay!" the girl chirped, spinning on her heels and marching straight toward the shaded central corridor like a tiny drill sergeant. "Mama! Auntie Mina's phone people are here! Can I show them my dragon?!"

The chat on Mina's phone went into a blind, incoherent frenzy under her fingertips.

PinkyTheAlienQueen •LIVE •1.90M Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: AUNTIE MINA WHO IS THAT

@allure_magazine_stan: THE LITTLE RASPY VOICE OH MY GOD

@omega_rights_jp: IS THAT THE BABY GIRL?!?! FIVE YEARS ALREADY?!

@kiri_fan_central: SHE SOUNDS JUST LIKE THE MOUNTAIN BOSS 😭😭😭

@shinjuku_sleuth: MINA PLEASE ASK FOR PERMISSION WE ARE BEGGING YOU

From the shadowed kitchen just off the hallway, the unmistakable, gravelly drawl of Katsuki's voice drifted out through the timber screens, deep, dry, and thoroughly unbothered. "Brat’s got her old man's hair and my temper. As long as that phone doesn't point past the doorframe, let her show the damn drawing so she stops stomping on the tatami."

Mina’s jaw dropped in victory. She threw her hands in the air, grinning wildly at the phone screen. "Clearance approved by the chef himself! Chat, prepare your hearts!"

Mina reached down, scooping the little girl effortlessly up onto the wooden bench beside her and lifting her hand from the lens.

The internet practically collapsed. The five-year-old was an absolute, breathtaking combination of both her parents. She had Kirishima’s bright, vibrant crimson hair, styled into a wild, spiky burst of curls that stuck out in every direction, along with his sturdy, broad-shouldered build and jawline. 

But her eyes weren't his red, they were sharp, piercing scarlet, framed by Katsuki’s unmistakably lethal pale lashes, and her mouth was set in the exact same fierce, confident pout that could bring top-ranked heroes to a dead halt.

"Hi, phone people!" she announced, her raspy little voice booming right into the microphone with zero stage fright.

She thrust a crumpled sheet of thick drawing paper directly into the camera lens. Crayon scribbles filled the page, depicting an enormous crimson dragon with comically large muscles breathing bright gold fire over a small, spiky blond figure wearing an iron apron.

"This is my papa!" she stated proudly, pointing a sturdy little finger at the dragon. "He's super unbreakable! And this is my mama! He makes the best spicy noodles in the whole world and said if you guys leave bad comments, he's gonna throw an iron pot at Auntie Mina's head!"

Mina choked on an enormous, breathless bark of laughter, clapping both hands over her mouth as tears formed in her eyes.

From just outside the top edge of the camera, a pale, lean arm reached down into frame. The hand was scarred, corded with agile muscle, with the dark slate-titanium torc gleaming at the base of Katsuki’s throat just out of view. His blunt fingers gently plucked the crumpled drawing from the girl’s grip, smoothing down the edges with effortless, quiet care.

A dry, raspy huff echoed just above the microphone: "Quit threatening the chat, brat. Go wash the dirt off your hands before dinner."

"Okay, mama!" she chirped cheerfully, turning and scrambling off the bench without missing a beat.

Mina looked back into the lens, wiping tears of pure joy from her cheeks as the live view count broke all-time streaming records.

"And that, my loves," Mina laughed, waving happily to the screen, "Is the official boss-in-training of the northern ridge."

The soft rustle of autumn leaves swept across the villa’s courtyard, carrying the scent of drying herbs and woodsmoke from the outdoor hearth.

Izuku sat cross-legged on the edge of the engawa in a thick emerald-green knit sweater, his agency smartphone resting securely on a low cedar stand. His curly green hair was ruffled by the cool breeze, a mug of steaming green tea resting near his knee as he offered the lens his trademark, warm smile.

"Good afternoon, everyone," Izuku greeted, his freckled cheeks creasing into an easy, sunny expression. "Taking a short recovery window between the national logistics summits. The northern air is always so grounding, and I’m really grateful to be visiting some dear friends today."

The viewer count, bearing the Number One Hero's verified crest, shot past two million within forty seconds.

Deku.Official •LIVE •2.37M Viewers

@deku_updates_daily: DEKU STREAMING FROM THE MOUNTAINS?!

@one_for_all_archive: He looks so relaxed and happy 😭✨

@heroic_tokyo: Is that the Red Riot sanctuary engawa in the background?!

@allure_magazine_stan: The autumn foliage is stunning Deku-kun!

"The maples just turned this week," Izuku nodded, his eyes scanning the rolling comments with genuine warmth. "We’ve been helping split kindling and prep the root cellar for the winter freeze. It's really peaceful out–"

A loud, solid thud echoed from the gravel yard down by the training post, followed immediately by a sharp, raspy scold that made Izuku’s lips twitch with fond amusement: "Square your shoulders, brat! You’re dropping your left elbow on the turn. You hit like that in real sparring and you’re eating the dirt."

Izuku blinked, looking over his screen toward the clearing, then glance back at the screen with an apologetic, sheepish chuckle.

"Ah, the afternoon drills just started," Izuku murmured, reaching out to gently lift the phone from its stand. "Hold on, I got permission earlier to show the yard as long as we keep the boundary rules clear."

Izuku slowly panned the camera around, tilting it toward the clearing by the stone retaining wall. Standing in the center of the raked gravel was Katsuki, viewed from the side and shoulders down, keeping his face cropped strictly above the nose just beneath the edge of the frame. He wore a dark, sleeveless compression top and black training pants, the slate-titanium torc gleaming at his pale, corded throat, his lean, muscular arms crossed over his chest.

Standing directly in front of him, dripping with sweat and breathing hard, was ten-year-old Daiki.

The live stream chat went completely, utterly silent for three seconds. Then, the text feed practically vaporized into pure, panicked chaos.

Deku.Official •LIVE •3.6M Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: WAIT.

@smash_analyst: LOOK AT THE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE.

@tokyo_daily_tea: IS THAT DAIKI?! HE'S TEN YEARS OLD?!

@kiri_fan_central: HE REACHES HIS MAMA’S CHEST.

@allure_magazine_stan: HE IS ALREADY AT HIS CHEST LEVEL?!?!

@shinjuku_sleuth: The mother is a fully grown adult hero and a ten-year-old child is up to his sternum??!

@mountain_sleuth: The kid has the shoulder span of a high school linebacker oh my god

@omega_rights_jp: RED RIOT’S GENETICS ARE UNSTOPPABLE HE’S A GIANT

Ten-year-old Daiki was a towering, broad-shouldered wall of a boy. His fiery crimson-blond spikes stuck out wildly from his head, soaked with sweat. He was dressed in a dark tank top just like his mother’s, but his back was ridiculously wide, his forearms thick and heavy-boned, his stance planted with the immovable, rooted density of a fortress. 

Standing squarely toe-to-toe with Katsuki, Daiki’s chin easily leveled with the bottom of Katsuki’s chest, his broad shoulders already rivaling the slender, lethal frame of the former warrior facing him down.

On screen, Katsuki uncrossed his arms, reaching out with a calloused hand to deliver a swift, rough, affectionate ruffle to the back of Daiki’s spiky red head.

"Reset your footing," Katsuki’s low, raspy voice cut clearly through the phone's microphone, dry and commanding. "You're built like a damn bridge, Daiki. Act like it."

Daiki grinned, a wide, brilliant, jagged-toothed smile that was so painfully, unmistakably Kirishima it stopped the breath in people's throats.

"I was saving my energy!" Daiki shot back, bouncing lightly on his heels, his voice carrying that booming, sunny rumble that could rattle floorboards. "Dad said if I knock you off balance once, he’ll take me all the way up the west ridge tomorrow!"

From somewhere past the edge of the woodshed, Kirishima’s booming, jagged-toothed laugh echoed across the courtyard: "I said IF, kiddo! Your mama hasn't lost his footing since the second year of high school! Don't make promises you can't cash!"

Katsuki’s jaw tilted in the frame, his pale lips curving into a sharp, wicked smirk. "Hear that?" Katsuki muttered, raising both hands into a relaxed, lethal guard. "Come on then, cinder block. Show me what you’ve got."

Izuku quickly swung the phone back toward his own face, his green eyes crinkling with endless, affectionate amusement as the chat scrolled past three million frantic viewers.

"As you can see," Izuku laughed softly, "Training on the mountain is... A little different than the rest of the country."

Izuku was about to set the phone back onto its wooden stand when a loud, rapid scuff of sneakers rattled the stone steps leading up from the lower vegetable terraces.

He paused, glancing over the top of the device with an easy, fond smile, keeping the lens carefully angled toward the wide courtyard doorframe.

"Mama! Look what I found by the compost bin!"

Five-year-old Akari came barreling across the gravel like a miniature crimson cannonball. She completely bypassed Daiki and the sparring ring, making a beeline straight for the center of the yard.

Katsuki dropped his fighting stance instantly, turning just in time as she launched herself forward.

Instead of bracing like he did with Daiki, Katsuki’s hands moved with practiced, instinctual gentleness, catching her beneath the arms to absorb her momentum. But rather than being lifted up, Akari threw both of her sturdy, chubby arms firmly around his waist, burying her face straight into his stomach with an iron-tight squeeze.

The camera frame caught the entire silhouette from the collarbones down.

The live chat froze, and then the comment counter practically imploded.

Deku.Official •LIVE •4.1M Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: WAIT WAIT WAIT LOOK AT HER HEIGHT

@tokyo_daily_tea: SHE'S FIVE YEARS OLD?!

@kiri_fan_central: SHE REACHES HIS BELLY BUTTON ALREADY?!?!

@smash_analyst: The top of her head is literally just over his belly button??!

@omega_rights_jp: WHAT ARE THEY FEEDING THESE CHILDREN ON THAT RIDGE 😭

@allure_magazine_stan: Five years old and she’s already over his belly button... Red Riot gave them both industrial construction genetics

@shinjuku_sleuth: The contrast between the mother’s lean waist and these two giant toddler tanks... I am losing my mind.

Standing flat on the gravel in her dirt-smudged overalls, Akari's thick, spiky mop of crimson hair pressed flat against Katsuki's stomach. Her shoulders were already broad and solid, her posture planted with the immovable, sturdy density of her father, completely dwarfing what any normal five-year-old child was supposed to look like.

Against her sheer, rapid growth, Katsuki looked impossibly lean, yet he held her anchored against his hips with zero effort. The slate-titanium torc at his throat caught the afternoon light as Katsuki tilted his chin down. His pale, scarred hand came up, resting flat against the back of her head, his blunt fingers gently threading through her wild red spikes to ruffle them affectionately.

"Told you to wash your hands before coming up to the porch, grease monkey," Katsuki's raspy voice drifted into the phone's microphone, low and completely devoid of any real bite. His thumb brushed a streak of garden dirt off her cheekbone. "What’d you drag up from the dirt now?"

"A giant, shiny beetle!" Akari announced proudly into his ribcage, her muffled, raspy voice echoing with that familiar stubborn rasp as she looked up. "It’s bigger than Daiki’s! I'm putting it on Papa's pillow!"

From over by the outdoor woodpile, Kirishima let out a booming, horrified yelp: "Akari, no bugs on the pillows! We talked about this, little rock!"

A faint, dry smirk curved Katsuki's mouth in the frame. He gave the back of her overalls a light, guiding pat toward the engawa steps. "Put it in a jar by the shed, brat, or your old man’s gonna cry. Go on, inside."

"Okay!" Akari chirped, letting go of his waist and stomping up the timber stairs with heavy, earthquake-solid steps that rattled the porch boards right past Izuku's knee.

Izuku turned the phone back to his own face, rubbing the back of his neck with a wide, helpless grin as the stream's live reactions scrolled in an unreadable, breathless blur.

"Yeah," Izuku laughed softly into the camera, his green eyes crinkling. "Sturdy bones run very deep on this mountain."

The midsummer sun poured over the villa’s courtyard, baking the cedar deck boards until the air smelled richly of warm resin, river moss, and woodsmoke.

Katsuki stood at the edge of the kitchen engawa in a black linen haori and dark track pants, a wooden tray of ice-cold barley tea balanced lightly on one forearm. The dark slate-titanium torc at his pale throat still caught the daylight with an unyielding gleam, but the sheer domestic landscape around him had expanded to an absurd scale.

Down on the raked gravel, the afternoon sparring drill was shaking the retaining wall. Fifteen-year-old Daiki came off a low pivot with the sheer momentum of an avalanche.

At fifteen, Daiki was a towering, slab-chested force of nature. His wild, spiky locks of fiery crimson hair with pale-blond tips fluttered in the draft of his own punches, his heavy jawline and jagged smile an unmistakable, carbon-copy reflection of his father. He easily cleared five-foot-eleven, his shoulders broad as an iron gate, every line of his heavy-boned frame thick with the immovable density of the Red Riot bloodline.

Behind him, ten-year-old Akari ducked under his sweeping block with a sharp, raspy snarl that carried their mother's lethal precision. She was already a formidable, solid wall herself. Her fiery red spikes stood out wildly around her face, her sharp, piercing scarlet eyes narrowed in razor focus. At just ten years old, she had blown past every standard growth chart in Japan, standing squarely at an absurd five-foot-four, broad-shouldered, sturdy, and built like a reinforced bunker in her dark athletic shorts and tank.

With a coordinated shout, both kids lunged forward to flank the man standing between them. Kirishima caught them effortlessly. The Number Three Hero stood over six feet of scarred, unyielding tanned muscle, laughing heartily as his hardened forearms intercepted Daiki’s heavy palm strike with his left hand and Akari’s sweeping roundhouse kick with his right. The sheer kinetic shock rattled the gravel under their soles.

"Great read on the recovery, Akari!" Kirishima boomed, his sharp teeth flashing in the sun as he absorbed the double blow without moving an inch. "Daiki, keep that hip locked! You're leaking power on the pivot, son!"

"I almost took your balance, old man!" Daiki roared back, his deep, booming voice cracking into an eager, jagged grin.

"You took nothing, you giant rock!" Katsuki’s dry, raspy voice cut across the porch like a whip. All three froze mid-spar, turning their heads toward the timber veranda.

Katsuki set the tea tray down on the low bench, resting his hands on his hips as he looked down at his children.

The visual contrast was utterly ridiculous. Katsuki, lean, wiry, and built with the compact, razor-sharp grace of a lethal blade, stood at an even five-foot-nine.

When Daiki and Akari jogged up the timber steps to grab their tea, they completely flanked him, and Katsuki was thoroughly, visibly dwarfed by his own offspring.

Daiki bounded onto the porch, standing a full two inches taller than his mother. His massive, heavy shoulders made Katsuki’s slender frame look practically delicate by comparison, his arm slung casually toward Katsuki’s shoulder like an oversized, affectionate bear cub.

Right beside him, ten-year-old Akari stepped up, wiping sweat from her brow. Her head easily leveling right under his collarbones, her dense, broad chest promising that by twelve, she’d be looking him dead in the eye.

Yet when Kirishima, who had strolled up behind them, had stepped within arm's reach of them, the hierarchy was instantly restored. Kirishima towered over all three of them, the mountain that sheltered the ridge, his massive frame easily casting a shadow over both teenagers and his mate.

"What are you two staring at?" Katsuki muttered, his scarlet eyes narrowing with a sharp, fond glare as he looked up, actually had to tilt his chin upward, to meet Daiki’s grin. "Think because you got your old man’s oversized ape bones that you're too big to get swept into the koi pond?" Daiki chuckled, a deep, sunny rumble that shook his heavy chest, leaning down just enough to playfully bump his broad shoulder against Katsuki’s arm. "You'd have to jump to clip my ear, Mama."

Katsuki’s hand moved like lightning. With lethal, zero-second speed, his fingers snapped out, twisting the fabric of Daiki's collar and dragging the fifteen-year-old giant down a full foot until their noses nearly touched.

"Try me, cinder block," Katsuki rasped, his pale lips curving into a wicked, untouchable smirk that could have brought villains to their knees. "I built you. I know where the stress fractures are." Daiki threw his hands up in theatrical surrender, laughing out loud, while Akari snickered behind a glass of barley tea. "Told you he'd get you, idiot."

"You're next if you track that mud into the hall, red," Katsuki added smoothly without looking at her. Akari froze, sheepishly toeing off her dirt-caked sneakers at the edge of the boards.

From behind them, Kirishima stepped onto the engawa, his massive, scarred arms casually wrapping around Katsuki from behind. He rested his chin right on top of Katsuki’s spiky blond hair, his broad hands settling with effortless, protective ease on Katsuki’s hips.

"They're getting sturdy, Kats," Kirishima rumbled, his deep voice vibrating with endless, reverent pride as he looked over the two broad-shouldered kids raiding the iced tea tray. "Almost got my height, but they'll never match your fire."

Katsuki leaned back against Kirishima’s solid chest, his breath coming in a quiet, contented huff. His blunt fingers came up, resting lightly over the heavy, scarred wrist braced around his waist, watching their children bicker over the last sweet bun on the porch of the sanctuary they had defended together for fifteen years.

The evening wind hummed through the tall pines surrounding the villa, carrying the crisp chill of the northern autumn into the quiet courtyard.

Kirishima sat alone on the wide engawa, the amber glow of the porch lanterns illuminating his broad shoulders. He was dressed in a thick, charcoal fleece zip-up, his spiky crimson hair grown out just a little longer around his ears, showing the faint, dignified silver threads at his temples. His smartphone was mounted to a heavy timber brace on the deck post, streaming on Red Riot’s verified global agency channel.

The counter in the corner was spiraling out of control, easily passing four million viewers.

Red_Riot_Rock •LIVE •4.28M Viewers

@riot_patrol: RED RIOT IS LIVE?! HE ALMOST NEVER STREAMS SOLO!

@hero_tracker_hq: The Number Three Hero on his personal porch?!

@tokyo_daily_tea: What’s happening?! Is there a dispatch announcement?!

@shinjuku_sleuth: The mountain sanctuary at dusk... It looks so peaceful.

Kirishima looked into the lens, his sharp, jagged teeth flashing in that familiar, incandescent grin that had anchored Japan through over twenty years of front-line disasters.

"Hey, everyone," Kirishima greeted, his deep voice carrying that comforting, gravelly warmth that felt like a hand on the shoulder. "Sorry to drop in unannounced. No agency emergency, no villain alerts. Just wanted to sit out here for a few minutes while the kids are inside clearing the dinner dishes."

He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on his knees, his crimson eyes softening with a steady, thoughtful sincerity.

"Look, you guys have watched me stand on podiums, hold up falling bridges, and talk around the perimeter of my personal life for fifteen years," Kirishima began, his fingers lightly tapping against the wooden planks. "From the day I took a courting oath to the morning Daiki was born, and through Akari's birth... Japan gave my family a gift that most heroes never get." He paused, glancing back toward the soft, warm light spilling through the paper shoji screens behind him.

"You gave us space. You respected the tree line. When I asked the press pool to put their cameras down and leave my mate to recover in peace, the country listened. You let my children grow up climbing cedar stumps and chasing beetles instead of dodging telephoto lenses at the train stations. For an Alpha... For a father... I can never fully put into words what that kind of honor means to me."

The live chat slowed slightly, the chaotic scrolling settling into a wave of quiet, respectful comments and steady strings of red hearts.

Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck, a bashful, utterly smitten flush rising up past the collar of his fleece.

"Daiki's fifteen now," Kirishima said, a low, fond chuckle rumbling in his chest. "He’s almost as tall as I am, shoulders broad as an iron gate, and Akari’s already five-foot-four and running drills like she owns the valley. They don't need a shield hovering over them every second anymore. They know who they are."

He took a slow, deep breath, looking dead into the phone's camera with an expression of bottomless, unyielding devotion.

"And the person who built them... The mate who gave them that fire, who retired his work so this home could have an anchor while I took the heavy shifts down south... He's been talking to me about the future."

The chat hitched, a collective gasp freezing the comment stream.

Kirishima’s mouth curved into a quiet, breathtaking smile, proud, private, and endlessly tender. "Next month is the twenty-year anniversary of our graduation from U.A. The hero gala in Tokyo invited both of us," Kirishima murmured, his crimson eyes gleaming with fierce pride. 

"I’ve spent over half my life keeping him behind the timber gates to protect his peace. But he doesn't need protecting. He never did. He just wanted our children raised in the quiet before the world started screaming his name."

He leaned in closer to the lens, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial, warm rumble. "He hasn't fully committed yet. He still says the Tokyo crowd is too loud and the press makes him want to blow up a microphone. But... He tried on his formal clothes yesterday. And he didn't tell me 'no' when I asked him to walk the carpet at my side."

Kirishima let out a quiet, joyful laugh that made his broad shoulders shake. "So... Keep your eyes on the anniversary gala next month. If you see me on the red carpet with the fiercest, most beautiful person in the world on my arm, don't blind him with the strobes. He’s spent fifteen years sharpening his temper in the mountains, and I can promise you, he still has the deadliest right hook in Japan."

For three straight weeks leading up to the U.A. Twentieth Anniversary Gala, Japanese media operated in a state of sheer, foaming-at-the-mouth hysteria.

Tabloid kiosks across Shinjuku and Shibuya were plastered with bold, screaming headlines: 'WHO TAMED THE UNBREAKABLE SHIELD?' and 'THE SANCTUARY MATE: RED RIOT’S FIFTEEN-YEAR SECRET REVEALED TONIGHT?'

Morning broadcast panels dissected the faint glimpses from past streams, the sharp line of his jaw, the flash of a dark slate-titanium torc, the terrifyingly sturdy children who carried his lethal gaze. Betting pools ran on every major hero forum. Fashion critics speculated wildly on what kind of quiet, cloistered recluse could possibly keep Japan’s Number Three Hero grounded for over two decades.

Outside the Roppongi Grand Exhibition Hall, the red carpet was a war zone. Over five hundred credentialed photographers were packed deep against the heavy brass stanchions. The noise was an ear-splitting roar of shouted names, flashing strobes, and the booming chatter of live-broadcast commentators as high-ranking heroes made their arrivals.

Then, a matte-black agency sedan with heavily tinted, blast-proof glass pulled smoothly up to the drop-off curb.

The security detail snapped to attention. Kirishima stepped out first. He was in an immaculate, double-breasted crimson tuxedo that clung to his massive, slab-muscled shoulders, his crimson hair swept back with polished, effortless confidence. The crowd detonated into deafening cheers, strobes flashing like a synchronized lightning storm.

Kirishima didn't immediately face the cameras. Instead, he turned his back on the entire global press corps, took a deliberate step back, and offered his broad, calloused palm to the interior shadows with agonizing, reverent gentleness.

A pale, lean hand, scarred knuckles adorned with a single heavy band of dark titanium, slid smoothly into his grip.

A polished black leather boot, sharp and uncompromising, stepped down onto the crimson velvet.

And the entire red carpet simply stopped breathing. The shouting, the shutter motors, the frantic jostling of the camera crews, it all died in a single, stunned second of absolute, dead silence.

Katsuki stepped into the white glare of the floodlights. He wasn't soft. He wasn't hidden. He was, without question, the most breathtaking, lethal vision to ever walk a public carpet.

At thirty-seven, Katsuki possessed a fierce, sharp-edged maturity that made every single breath catch in the throat. His ash-blond hair was styled back from his forehead, jagged and wild, framing a face cut with high, razor-clean cheekbones and pale, untouchable skin. His scarlet eyes burned with the cold, arrogant brilliance of a sleeping predator, rimmed by pale lashes that swept over the frozen media pack like a king surveying dust.

He wore a midnight black slacks and a button-up blouse made of silk and structured wool, tailored to perfection, the top few buttons, unbuttoned. The jacket was cut sharp at the waist, accentuating the lean, lethal frame that had carried two massive children and yet retained the agile, terrifying grace of a master warrior. 

The silk lapels parted slightly to reveal the gleaming, slate-titanium courting torc fully visible at his pale, corded throat, an unyielding declaration of who he was, and who held his back.

A photographer in the front row audibly dropped his spare lens cap onto the pavement with a soft 'clack'.

Nobody moved. Nobody yelled for a pose. For ten agonizing seconds, the press corps stood completely paralyzed, utterly overwhelmed by the sheer, unearthly beauty and savage poise of the Omega standing before them.

Katsuki’s sharp jaw tilted slightly. His pale lips parted, curving into a slow, razor-thin smirk that dripped with effortless, dangerous amusement. He didn't shrink from the staring eyes. He casually curled his fingers tighter around Kirishima’s massive hand, stepping up until his shoulder brushed the heavy warmth of his Alpha’s arm.

"What's wrong with them, rock-head?" Katsuki muttered, his low, raspy drawl cutting clean through the stunned quiet of the plaza. "They look like they've never seen a damn person before."

Kirishima let out a low, breathless rumble of a laugh that shook his chest. His crimson eyes glowed with an uncontainable, incandescent pride, looking down at his mate with a devotion so bottomless it practically radiated off the carpet.

"They're just looking at the most beautiful person in the world, Kats," Kirishima whispered, loud enough for the boom mics to catch every tender syllable.

Katsuki clicked his tongue, a faint, fond flush touching the high points of his cheekbones, but his chin stayed held impossibly high as the flashbulbs finally detonated back to life in a blinding, deafening roar of reverence.

The Grand Hall of the Roppongi Grand Exhibition Hall was a sprawling expanse of crystal chandeliers, floating ice sculptures, and the muffled hum of high-ranking pro heroes mingling in bespoke formalwear.

Over by the champagne terrace, Denki leaned back against a polished marble pillar. He had loosened the collar of his black dress shirt, gold lightning-bolt cufflinks catching the overhead light as he balanced a high-end gimbal with his agency smartphone mounted dead-center.

"Alright, chat, we survived the press line outside!" Denki grinned into the front-facing camera, keeping his voice to a smooth, party-appropriate murmur. "Official U.A. Twentieth Class Reunion live stream is a go. Everyone’s here. Sero already spilled tonic water on his sleeve, and Mina’s currently trying to get Todoroki to do a synchronized dance for a short video."

The stream was operating on an unprecedented, server-straining overload. Over three million viewers were already locked into the feed, the comment section moving so fast the text blurred into a solid white column.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •3.76M Viewers

@bolt_archive: DENKI TURN THE CAMERA AROUND

@tokyo_daily_tea: WE SAW THE RED CARPET PHOTOS THE INTERNET BROKE

@kiri_fan_central: IS HE IN THERE WITH YOU GUYS RIGHT NOW

@hero_tracker_hq: PLEASE WE NEED A CLOSE-UP OF THE MOUNTAIN BOSS

@shinjuku_sleuth: The still photos from outside don't feel real. Show us the banquet table!

"Yeah, yeah, I saw the headlines on the transit screens on the way in," Denki laughed, shaking his head with an affectionate, knowing smirk. "The press plaza lost its collective mind, didn’t it? I warned you guys. You spent fifteen years thinking Eijirou was hiding some delicate porcelain doll in the mountain woods, and then he steps out with a lethal weapon."

Denki casually swiveled the camera around, switching to the rear lens with smooth, cinematic clarity. "Look who finally decided to join society for one night."

The camera swept past a cluster of laughing alumni, focusing directly on the private lounge area near the panoramic glass overlooking the Tokyo skyline.

Standing against the low railing, Katsuki held the entire room in his gravity. Seen through the unedited, crystal-clear mobile lens, the sheer, arresting reality of him hit ten times harder than the polished press stills.

He was holding a flute of sparkling water in one scarred hand, looking lean, sharp, and impossibly elegant in the tailored midnight-black suit. The silk framed his chest, the heavy slate-titanium torc gleaming like polished gunmetal against his pale collarbones. His ash-blond hair was perfectly tousled, catching the chandelier light, and his sharp scarlet eyes surveyed the room with the cool, effortless superiority of someone who knew exactly who he was and answered to nobody.

Standing right beside him, towering over him with broad, heavy-boned grandeur, was Kirishima. The Number Three Hero was completely in his element, looking devastatingly handsome in his crimson jacket. But his entire physical attention was magnetically anchored to his mate. One of Kirishima’s massive, scarred hands rested openly, possessively, against the small of Katsuki’s back, his broad thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle against the tailored suit, a quiet, private anchor amidst the glitz and glamour of the ballroom.

The live stream chat went completely, utterly berserk.

ChargeyChargebolt •LIVE •6.21M Viewers

@hero_tracker_hq: HE IS REAL.

@allure_magazine_stan: OH MY GOD HE’S GORGEOUS.

@tokyo_daily_tea: THE WAY RED RIOT LOOKS AT HIM 😭😭😭

@kiri_fan_central: That’s Katsuki!! The mountain boss!!

@omega_rights_jp: He looks so dangerous and so soft with Kirishima at the same time I'm sobbing

@mountain_sleuth: Look at his hand on his back... That's the look of an Alpha in-love.

"Hey, boss!" Denki called out, stepping closer with the camera held high. Katsuki’s sharp jaw tilted. His scarlet gaze cut directly across the marble floor, locking straight into Denki’s phone lens

For the first time in fifteen years, the mysterious recluse of the northern sanctuary looked straight into a live camera, full-face, uncensored, and undeniable.

His pale, cleanly sculpted lips curved into that familiar, dry, razor-sharp smirk, brilliant, and untouchable. He didn't blink or look away. He casually lifted his glass toward the lens in a slow, mocking salute.

"Still talking to that little plastic box, dunce face?" Katsuki’s low, raspy drawl drifted clearly into the microphone, dripping with effortless, lethal charisma. "Get over here before your battery dies, or I'm telling your agency to cut your clearance."

Kirishima let out a low, booming laugh that vibrated with pure joy. He pulled Katsuki half an inch closer against his side, his jagged teeth flashing in a radiant grin as he waved a massive hand at Denki’s stream.

"Tell 'em to be nice in the comments, Denki!" Kirishima beamed, resting his chin fondly against the top of Katsuki's blond spikes for one brilliant, unashamed second. "He doesn't bite unless I tell him to!"

"I'll bite you right now, rock-head," Katsuki muttered without an ounce of heat, leaning back into Kirishima's immovable chest as the stream's viewer count shattered the national broadcast record.

The forum was registered on an ancient, blocky HTML server the night after the Kamino Ward raid hit the national evening broadcast.

The original domain, red-shield-archive.net, was started by a high school transit clerk from Shizuoka named Koga Ren. In the beginning, there were only twelve visitors, most of them dissecting pixelated footage of an ambulance bay in the rain.

[POST #001 — Oct 14]

Did anyone else catch the trainee from Fat Gum’s office? The red-haired kid with the jagged teeth. He took the blade hits meant for the little girl with the horn. His skin didn't just harden; he stayed standing when his armor was literally splintering into red powder. Remember this name: Kirishima Eijirou. That isn't just a hero. That’s an immovable wall.

Over the next few years, Ren’s archive evolved from a niche fan directory into the most meticulously sourced civilian rescue repository in Japan.

Every entry avoided the tabloid gossip. Instead, Ren tracked the structural physics of Red Riot’s frontline deployments: the day Kirishima held an eight-car commuter train steady on a buckled bridge over the Tama River until the hydro-clamps engaged; the highway pileup in Nagano where he braced a collapsed tunnel bulkhead solo for four hours so paramedics could reach trapped infants; the annual demographic polls where Kirishima took the "Hottest Hero" title six, consecutive times, always laughing it off with that sunny, jagged-toothed humility

By year seven, the archive had over two million subscribers. When Kirishima went on extended, radio-silent leave to a remote, snowbound ridge in the northern mountains, Ren was the moderator who drafted the community decree: 

We do not fly drones over the tree line. The man who holds up the country’s weight deserves a roof that never leaks.

The deep winter of a following year, a single agency bulletin shattered the internet.

Outside the national press plaza, fresh off his sixth consecutive poll victory, a reporter had asked Kirishima if his famously guarded mate agreed with the public’s thirst over his title. Kirishima had simply smiled, a slow, radiant, bottomless look.

"He doesn't care much for polls," Kirishima had announced, his voice carrying over millions of screens. "To him, I'm just the guy who chops the firewood, burns the toast, and holds the hot water compress when his back aches. And none of that holds a candle to the title he gave me three days ago... My mate brought our son into the world Tuesday morning. Healthy, stubborn, and seven pounds of pure perfection. I'm officially a father."

When the press asked after a subsequent tunnel collapse if the birth meant his mate would finally step onto the public stage, Kirishima’s answer was absolute: "My shield belongs out here in the dirt. My sanctuary stays behind the timber gates."

[ARCHIVE ENTRY #412 — The Northern Boundary]

Red Riot won’t sell his family to the camera flashes. Good. The man carries thirty tonnes of collapsed iron on his shoulders every week; the least Japan can do is let his mate recover in the mountain air without a telephoto lens poking through the shoji screens.

Behind those screens, the reality of that first pregnancy had been an agonizing, beautiful test of endurance.

Carrying Kirishima’s child had meant carrying an unyielding, heavy-boned force of nature. At seven months, Katsuki had looked like he was smuggling a solid boulder under his ribs, propped against a fortress of goose-down pillows on the tatami, snarling breathless curses through his teeth while Kirishima knelt beside him, broad, calloused hands gently cradling the immense, high-sitting swell to pull the crushing weight off his compressed spine.

When Class A had visited the snowed-in villa, Izuku and Mina had frozen in the doorway, watching in reverent awe as Kirishima stood behind his mate, lifting the massive dome of Katsuki’s belly so the exhausted Omega could finally draw a full breath.

Fourteen hours of brutal labour later, the clinic scales had nearly groaned under the newborn. A wide-shouldered, thick-limbed boy with a mop of red fuzz, his little fists clenched tight like miniature iron mallets.

"Look at this," Katsuki had wheezed against Kirishima's sweat-stained shoulder, his scarlet eyes glassy with sheer relief. "You didn't give me a baby, rock-head. You made me push out a whole cinder block. The kid's already big enough to start paying rent.

They named him Daiki. And as the years rolled on, the public caught only fleeting, authorized glimpses through Denki’s sporadic porch livestreams.

When Daiki was five, he had begged to show Denki's phone people the giant stag beetle he’d caught by the spring. With Katsuki’s dry, raspy permission echoing from the kitchen corridor, "Brat’s a carbon copy of you anyway, rock-head, what's new that they're gonna see?", Daiki had bounded into frame. He was Kirishima, made small: bright crimson eyes, jagged baby teeth, and an iron grip that had the comment section melting.

Later that day, another stream had caught Katsuki carrying the sleeping five-year-old on his hip, cropped strictly from the throat down. The internet lost its collective mind over the scale, the lean, pale frame of the mother, the gleaming slate-titanium torc at his collarbones, and the sheer, absurd bulk of a five-year-old child whose dense frame reached halfway down his torso.

Then came the second pregnancy announcement on the old class board: tiny cream booties beside a fresh sonogram, Kirishima laughing as Daiki tried to feed sweet potatoes to his mama's swollen stomach so the "little sidekick wouldn't starve."

By the autumn anniversary gathering, Katsuki had been enormous again, leaning against Kirishima on the engawa as Mina brought out frosted cake and Denki marveled that Kirishima’s construction-grade genetics were brewing another heavyweight.

Days after their daughter was born, four-point-seven kilo's of solid, red-headed fury who squalled loud enough to rattle the ward, Kirishima had stepped out from a seven-hour chemical plant rescue in Kawasaki, rain washing the soot from his grin as he proudly told the press: "A baby girl. Healthy, beautiful, and possessing every bit of her mother's fierce, unbreakable spirit."

Five years after that, little Akari had stomped into Mina's livestream to show off her crayon drawing of a crimson dragon and a blond warrior with an iron apron. 

[ARCHIVE ENTRY #899 — Sturdy Bones]

Growth metrics on the Red Riot heirs are defying modern pediatric averages. The daughter has the broad stance of an armoured bunker at age five. Red Riot didn't just pass on a Quirk; he passed on tectonic plate density. And whoever his mate is, the man has the spine of a god to carry those two.

Ten years later, the compound’s gravel courtyard bore the scars of full-contact family sparring. At fifteen, Daiki was a towering, broad-shouldered wall who cleared five-foot-eleven, sporting his father’s crimson hair with the slightest blond, and an immovable center of gravity. Ten-year-old Akari was five-foot-four, built like a brick fortress with her mother’s piercing, scarlet-orange glare.

When they flanked Katsuki on the porch after drills, the visual was comedic perfection: Katsuki, lean, razor-sharp, and five-foot-nine, was visibly dwarfed by his own children. Daiki looked down at him with a cocky grin; Akari reached right under his collarbones. Yet the moment Kirishima stepped onto the deck, over six feet of muscle, he effortlessly eclipsed them all, wrapping his mate from behind while Katsuki snapped Daiki down by the collar to remind him who taught him how to breathe.

Then came the twentieth anniversary of U.A.’s graduation. Kirishima had gone live alone on his porch at dusk, the mountains turning purple behind him. He spoke of over twenty years of frontline service, the honor of Japan respecting his sanctuary, and how his mate, the warrior who had raised those two giant kids in the quiet, had finally tried on formal clothes and hadn't said no to walking the carpet.

The internet spent three weeks in an absolute feeding frenzy. Ren’s archive server crashed twice from traffic spikes. The speculation was rabid.

Outside the Roppongi Grand Exhibition Hall, five hundred photographers stood behind the brass ropes when the matte-black agency sedan pulled up. Kirishima stepped out in his crimson tuxedo, took a step back, and offered his hand out. A pale, scarred hand took his. A polished leather boot met the carpet. 

And the entire plaza stopped breathing. Katsuki stepped into the white glare of the floodlights.

He was thirty-seven, lethal, and devastatingly, impossibly beautiful. His ash-blond hair was artfully tousled , framing a face of razor-clean bone structure and pale, porcelain skin. His scarlet eyes burned with the arrogant, unearthly brilliance of an apex predator. 

He wore bespoke, midnight-black clothes that emphasized an agile, lethal silhouette that defied the fact he had carried two massive children. At his throat, gleaming like polished gunmetal against his pale collarbones, sat the slate-titanium courting torc.

Cameras literally fell silent. Jaws dropped across the ropes. Katsuki’s jaw tilted. His pale lips curved into a slow, razor-thin smirk that dripped with dangerous amusement. He squeezed Kirishima’s massive hand, brushing his shoulder against his Alpha’s arm.

"What's wrong with them, rock-head?" Katsuki’s low, raspy drawl cut through the paralyzed plaza. "They look like they've never seen a damn person before."

"They're just looking at the most beautiful person in the world, Kats," Kirishima rumbled back, loud enough for every live boom mic in the country to catch.

Later that night, inside the crystal-lit ballroom, Denki swiveled his phone stream away from the dance floor to where Katsuki stood by the panoramic glass. Seen through the unedited, crystal-clear mobile feed, with Kirishima’s massive, scarred hand resting openly, possessively against the small of his back, Katsuki lifted a champagne flute toward the camera in a lazy, mocking salute.

"Still talking to that little plastic box, dunce face?" Katsuki drawled, his fierce, untouchable charisma holding four million viewers hostage. "Get over here before your battery dies."

Kirishima had laughed, that booming, jagged-toothed sound vibrating right through the speakers as he leaned down, resting his chin fondly against Katsuki's blond spikes for one brilliant, unashamed second.

Late that evening, as national broadcast networks ran twenty-four-hour retrospectives linking the reclusive mountain mate to the gorgeous Omega Mate standing by Red Riot's side, Ren sat alone in his Shizuoka apartment, looking at the glowing terminal of red-shield-archive.net.

The visitor count had surpassed fifteen million. Ren smiled softly, clicked the editor tab, and pinned the final entry to the very top of the board:

[ARCHIVE ENTRY #1000 — The Shield and The Fire]

For fifteen years, we wondered what kind of sanctuary could possibly keep Japan’s greatest shield whole. We wondered who was strong enough to hold up the man who holds up the world.

Turns out, it was never a delicate flower behind those cedar gates. It was the only person alive whose fire burned hot enough to forge iron.

The shield is unbreakable. And the sanctuary has a master.

The dawn following the gala broke crisp and white over the northern ridge, dusting the cedar branches in early frost.

​Inside the quiet master room, the heavy black silk clothes lay neatly draped over the wooden armoire, completely forgotten. Katsuki was already back in his oversized, soft charcoal flannel and flannel lounge pants, sitting cross-legged in the center of the deep futon with a steaming mug of roasted tea cradled between his scarred hands.

​The front entrance rattled open with a familiar, earthquake-like thud.

​"We're back from the station!" Daiki’s deep, booming voice echoed down the hall, rattling the paper screens, followed immediately by ten-year-old Akari stomping onto the floorboards of the genkan in heavy hiking boots.

​"Mama! Look what Uncle Denki gave us at the hotel breakfast!" Akari shouted, bursting into the doorway with two enormous boxes of high-grade Tokyo pastries clutched in her sturdy hands, now in house slippers. "He said the internet is broken because of your suit!"

​Daiki leaned against the doorframe right behind her, ducking his head to clear the timber lintel. At fifteen, his wide shoulders practically filled the space, his sharp crimson eyes crinkling into a lazy, fond grin. "People are calling you the 'Lethal Sovereign of the North' on the transit screens. Uncle Hanta almost choked on his juice laughing."

​Katsuki clicked his tongue, though the tips of his ears turned faintly pink. "Tell your idiot uncles to stop feeding you sugar before noon. Put the boxes in the pantry."

​From behind the teenagers, Kirishima stepped into the hallway, his crimson hair down, barefoot, and wearing a fleece zip-up that smelled of woodsmoke. He caught Katsuki’s gaze across the room, his sharp teeth flashing in that familiar, radiant, bottomless smile.

​He walked past the kids, stepping onto the tatami and sinking down right behind Katsuki, wrapping his massive arms around his mate’s waist and tucking his chin over the dark slate torc at Katsuki's throat.

​"Told you they wouldn't stop staring," Kirishima rumbled softly, pressing a kiss to Katsuki's temple.

​Katsuki leaned back against the broad, immovable chest, his blunt fingers wrapping over Kirishima’s scarred wrist.

​"Let them stare," Katsuki murmured, his red eyes soft as he watched their children raid the tea kettle on the porch. "We're home."