The very worst he can do to me is accidentally kill me. So I don't think when I tell him to fuck off.
"You'll have to kill me, Bakugo. If you want me to stop."
For a moment, all is quiet. Perhaps he's contemplating it. Perhaps he's always contempla...
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Hello, all! I'm very excited to have this opportunity to share my first MHA fanfic! If you have any suggestions or just want to say hi, be sure to comment (:
UPDATE: This chapter has been rewritten.
The story will be shared on Ao3 in the near future! Will post a link later!
Ⅰ. ✢°The Train°✢
The impending dread of death is a fear everyone faces, even in a world filled with superheroes. No one knows the exact time or day, and no number-one hero nor their ability can stop the inevitably of it. I don't know much about death except this. However, on the day I met Katsuki Bakugo, it's entirely possible that the instinct to dodge him was the same as I would my own demise—perhaps more.
He wasn't anything particularly brilliant or shiny, especially compared to the rest of the group he had blended into,and it took me several times rescanning faces to notice him at all.
"I'll kill the next one of you who touches me."
His mood was almost as shitty as my foul mouth, but I didn't dare share the info.
Instead, I attempted to keep my nose in my book three seats to the left of him, but every now and again I'd peek back up, just to gather a sense of my situation: A packed subway in the middle of transit. Among the Japanese businessmen and women restless to get home, the group of not-so-obvious friends stood out like a sore thumb in their hero uniforms.
But still, they didn't stand out quite as much as I, the strange American girl with two large suitcases and a head full of what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here's. I'd received enough side glances to know that much.
"Chill, Bakugo. We're all crowded, but we'll be there soon." It was a bright redhead holding a railing above the heated blonde who risked trying to calm him down. He reached out a hand, and pressed it to his friend's shoulder in what I assumed was reassurance. It didn't stay long enough to be of any help to either party, though-- the blonde quickly made sure of that.
I jumped at the small explosion of pops from the blondie's quirk, ignited and directed at the redhead who just as quickly pulled away. The two men in front of me (or whom I assumed were men, but I couldn't rightly tell because one's face was that of a crocodile and the other completely invisible aside from their suit) startled at the sound as well, but continued their conversation as if an exploding boy on the subway was the most normal thing in the world.
Only yesterday, I had traded my small community of Wickenburg, Arizona for this international buzzspot. I didn't know much about Musutafu, nor the bizarre country in which it was located, other than its reputation for being the leading training-ground for heroes. I imagined Japan to be full of these hero oddities; having a super quirk in the United States wasn't much of an accomplishment, especially in my 6,000-person hometown where nothing but a few petty thefts occurred every blue moon. Those with powers still lived and worked like anyone else, and even those who actively fought crime were rarely given the title "hero."
