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The war left indelible marks on each of them. It wasn’t just about the ruined cities, the destroyed streets, and the empty seats in the classrooms. It was about what they carried inside themselves. Some wounds were visible at first glance. They were etched into their skin as deep, jagged scars that would never fade. Others were hidden deep inside—in restless dreams, in trembling hands at the sound of falling dishes, and in sudden bouts of panic.
Bakugou carried both from the battlefield. His body had been through hell. It had been torn apart, burned, and stitched back together. He had miraculously survived, but his quirk had coped with that immense onslaught of power and the ensuing trauma in its own way. The doctors called it “post-traumatic quirk instability.” Bakugou kept it a secret from everyone and awkwardly handed the doctor’s note to Aizawa and Recovery Girl so they could work with his new diagnosis. He felt humiliated. Aizawa tried to talk to him about it, but Bakugou would always just turn his head away angrily. He didn’t want to hear anything about what it might mean. “He’ll figure it out on his own someday, Shoto,” Recovery Girl told him with a smile. She looked at the papers in her hands. “It’s nothing that could endanger him. On the contrary, it might help him understand his emotions a little better. Even his friends will appreciate it.”
Aizawa had no idea what that meant until he saw it for himself. Three weeks later, at the Gamma Training Ground, as his students were trying to get back into shape after the war that had ravaged their childish bodies and forced them to grow up too soon—during a break when everyone was taking sips from their water bottles—Kaminari told his friends a joke. It was awkward and awful. No one found it funny. Perhaps because of its sheer absurdity or his own peculiar sense of humor, it was Bakugou who laughed at the punchline. No—he didn’t smirk, nor did he curl his lip arrogantly. He laughed. A throaty, deep, loud laugh. He tilted his head back and let himself go.
And in that moment, it happened. Tiny, golden sparks flashed around his shoulders, neck, and in his light hair. They weren’t explosions. There was no smoke, no deafening bang, and no acrid smell of burning. It was a pure, warm light that crackled like little sparklers.
Everyone around him fell silent, surprised by what they were seeing. Bakugou himself didn’t realize it until a moment later, when he opened his eyes and saw the sparks slowly fading from his field of vision. “Dude, you’re glowing,” Sero laughed at his friend’s expense. At that moment, the sparks all vanished, and Bakugou aggressively lunged at Sero to fight him. Sero defended himself with a laugh, and Aizawa, instead of intervening, simply turned away and smiled. This was what Recovery Girl had been able to deduce from the doctor’s findings. Sparks that had begun to emanate from his entire body, not just his palms.
It was harmless—to everyone else. Bakugou didn’t see it that way. He suddenly felt like an open book. Sparks would appear whenever he felt strong emotions, and each one was slightly different. All it took was a little focus and attention, and soon everyone could read his emotions.
When he was angry—which happened often, especially during training or when reporters pestered him and wouldn’t even let him walk to his dorm—the sparks were sharp and had a bloody tinge. They crackled aggressively, shooting off in all directions like tiny shrapnel. They were the only ones that actually burned. They left behind a faint stinging sensation on the skin, like when a hot ember flies off a campfire.
When he experienced pure, unadulterated joy or laughed heartily, the air around him filled with a radiant golden light. The little sparks resembled tiny Christmas sparklers, dancing merrily and carefree, mostly in his light hair and on his shoulders. They were accompanied by a soft, rhythmic crackling, sounding almost like quiet laughter. They were warm and gave off a pleasant heat that could warm the air in his immediate vicinity.
Whenever he was analyzing a battle strategy in his head, reading a complex report, or simply sitting quietly and thinking deeply about the future, his quirk would switch to a sort of power-saving mode. At those moments, the sparks were the color of dark amber. They didn’t appear randomly, but lazily and hypnotically swirled exclusively around his fingertips, as if he were unconsciously stirring the air with them. They emitted only an occasional, drawn-out hiss and, to the eye, looked like liquid light pulsing precisely in time with his calm breath.
The hardest thing for those around him to bear was the sight of the sparks of sorrow and heaviness. They appeared most often at night on the balcony, after a visit to the cemetery, or when the shadows of those who had fallen in the war settled upon Bakugou. They were a dull orange color fading into ashen gray, just like dying embers at the very end of a fire. They didn’t float. They fell heavily to the ground, where they quietly died out. They made no sound, just like dust hitting concrete. Instead of warmth, they radiated a strange chill that sucked the energy out of the surrounding air and left behind a heavy scent of heavy rain and wet ash. Bakugou tried to extinguish them in his cigarettes, which had become his companions during long, sleepless nights. He kept it a secret, but everyone around him could smell the smoke. No one said anything about it.
The feeling Bakugou hated most of all—vulnerability, nervousness, and uncertainty—was betrayed by tiny flashes ranging from pale yellow to periwinkle green. They appeared when he felt cornered—not in battle, but in a social situation he didn’t know how to handle. These sparks were chaotic, extremely fast, and flitted in all directions without any pattern, accompanied by a sharp buzzing sound reminiscent of short-circuiting high-voltage wires. At such moments, the air around him filled with strong static electricity, and anyone standing too close would feel the hairs on their body stand on end amid the sharp smell of ozone.
Moments of genuine, sincere appreciation were a truly unique and exceptionally rare sight. Bakugou couldn’t stand the superficial praise from journalists, which he would brush off with a growl, but when he received respect from the people he looked up to—when Best Jeanist adjusted his collar with an appreciative nod, when Edgeshot paid him a compliment, or when Aizawa or All Might placed a hand on his shoulder—something extraordinary happened. The sparks took on the color of pure, silvery gold, almost white. They didn’t explode, but formed into a gentle, stable aura around his back and neck, accompanied by a quiet, harmonious hum. It was a tangible aura of pride, respect, and the feeling that he was finally good enough. The light was so pure and bright that, in that moment, it illuminated even the darkest shadows in the room.
His classmates, and especially his friends, began to love this little “bad habit.” They found it fascinating and, at times, quite cute. It drove Bakugou crazy, which only made him scatter even more sparks around him. It was a vicious cycle.
But there were still other sparks that appeared only behind the closed door of his room. In private, when he didn’t have to think about being the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight or The Bakugou. He was just Katsuki.
And only Kirishima knew about those sparks.
They were sparks of pure, searing excitement. They had the rich, dark orange color of molten magma finally bursting to the surface after long-held pressure. They didn’t shoot out with a loud crackle as if in rage, nor did they lazily circle around his fingers. These sparks were literally flying from Bakugou’s skin. They hissed softly, pulsing in perfect rhythm with his racing heart, and enveloped his entire body in a hot, shimmering veil that illuminated the darkness of the room more reliably than the brightest lamp.
Outside, a summer storm was raging, and heavy raindrops were drumming against the windows. But Kirishima was aware only of the incredible heat radiating from the man straddling his lap. He lay on his back, buried in the crumpled sheets, and above him, straddling his hips, Bakugou knelt. His entire body glistened with a fine film of sweat, and those liquid, orange sparks rose from every pore of his pale skin. He looked like a fire god—beautiful, wild, and completely lost in the moment.
Bakugou placed his palms on Kirishima’s firm chest. As soon as his fingers touched his skin, another wave of sparks burst from his fingertips, running down Kirishima’s muscles with a quiet, delightful hiss. Bakugou tilted his head slightly; his light hair fell into his eyes, forming a glowing halo around them. He moved slowly. He lifted his hips and then, with a quiet, deep sigh, lowered himself down, pressing himself fully onto Kirishima.
A quiet, hoarse moan escaped his throat, and a wave of heat so intense surged through his entire body that sparks around his shoulders flew wildly in all directions. He began to move up and down, up and down. He soon found a rhythm that pleased them both, settling down and rising again with regularity, as if he were riding his favorite steed. He clamped his knees around Kirishima’s thighs, arched his back, and, with absolute control, dictated the pace of their shared sin.
Kirishima could only stare. He watched as Bakugou’s well-defined abdominal muscles contracted spasmodically with every thrust. He saw how those menacing war scars crisscrossing his hips and chest turned red and came to life under the influence of that orange glow. Bakugou’s mouth was slightly parted, his lips moist and glossy, and it seemed as though tiny glowing embers were escaping with every hot breath he exhaled. He was the embodiment of pure, ferocious passion. Kirishima lay beneath him as if paralyzed, speechless, completely absorbed by that visual symphony of light and movement.
Bakugou slowed for a second, braced his palms on the bed next to Kirishima’s head, and looked him straight in the eyes. His crimson pupils were wide, dark, and reflected that wild inner light. He was breathing heavily, and a deep growl was rising from his throat.
Kirishima reached out, placed his hand on his dewy cheek, and gently traced his lip with his thumb. “Katsuki… God, you’re so incredibly beautiful,” he breathed sincerely, his voice overflowing with boundless admiration.
Bakugou gasped sharply at the unexpected praise. Those words struck his most vulnerable spot. At that moment, something happened that Kirishima had never seen before. The rich, dark orange color of magma that had been radiating from Bakugou until then collided, in the space of a single heartbeat, with a deep sense of inner recognition and pride.
Sparks burst forth around Bakugou’s neck, shoulders, and back in a completely new, unprecedented shade. It was a radiant, fluid shade of rose gold. That hot, passionate light mingled with the purest white aura of praise, creating a dazzling, shimmering aura. These new sparks made no sound—they were perfectly silent—but they radiated such intense heat that Kirishima got goosebumps.
Bakugou blushed all the way to his ears. The beautiful, rose-gold veil around him pulsed in a wild, chaotic rhythm. “Shut up, Eijirou,” he growled harshly when he noticed his partner opening his mouth as if to say something. There was not a trace of anger in his eyes. There was only absolute, raw vulnerability and desire.
He moved again, this time much faster and harder. With every subsequent impact of his hips against Kirishima’s, that new, rose-gold glow splattered into every corner of the room. Sparks were now falling all around them, catching in Kirishima’s eyelashes, wandering across his hardened skin, and burning them both with the sweetest pain imaginable. Bakugou threw his head back, a loud, genuine moan tearing from his throat, and a final, blinding cascade of that rare, radiant light gushed from his body, transforming their private space into an absolute, glowing universe in which only the two of them existed.
Kirishima immediately pulled him close. Instinctively, he used his quirk to protect his exposed skin and began thrusting deeply into him. “Perfect, amazing, so beautiful,” he whispered words of praise into his ear. Bakugou trembled in his arms, speechless, still consumed by the powerful orgasm that had struck him and clouded his mind, even as everything around him continued to shimmer.
Kirishima continued until he himself felt the hot surge of arousal, then quickly slid out of him to finish what they’d started with a few expert strokes. He came on his back, his cum spurting all the way up to his shoulder blades. He relaxed, lowered his hips back onto the bed, and finally let Bakugou’s full weight settle on him.
Sparks were still fluttering around them, warming their scorching skin.