Fear for Thought
It was cold. Ice sneaked its way across the pavement and frosted store windows. It was a wet sort of cold, as ice-like rain cut across the gray world below, the sort of wet-cold that made the boy damp from his pink fingers down to his numb toes in their rotten shoes. He pulled the moth-eaten hood over his disheveled head, tucking his arms into himself, hugging his own waist. Around him, people chatted, walked, went about their days, and completely ignored him. He was invisible, his value in this world less than the wet McDonald's napkin that was soaking and dissolving into the small puddle at his feet.
A few yards down the sidewalk, an old man sat on a patch of cardboard, a shopping cart covered in a tarp by his side. He coughed as he lit a cigarette, blowing smoke and heated breath into the air. The door to the Chinese restaurant that the boy hovelled in front of swung open, he could smell the delicious aroma of warm food waft out. An elderly woman emerged in an apron, holding a broom. She yelled in a language the boy didn't understand, waving her broom at him like some stray cat. The misfortunate shielded his head and scrambled away from the restaurant, running towards the old man on the ground before turning abruptly and hiding in the alleyway next door. He slid down the brick wall, the little bit of running had made the pain in his empty stomach flare up. He brought his knees to his chest and hugged himself agian, tired eyes closing.
The bustle of people along the road and sidewalks had thinned as the standard nine to five workday was well under way. The boy roused from his sleep when a shiny, black car pulled up to the curb in front of the chinese restaurant. Tired, hazy eyes watched as a group of black-suited men exited the establishment. Most of the men wore sunglasses even in the winter haze, except for one man. He had casually flung his suit jacket over his shoulder, his wine-colored undershirt was rolled up on the sleeves, displaying heavily tattooed forearms. He spoke with another person just inside the threshold of the restaurant.
The boy's eyes followed the man, with his dirty-blond hair, as he took a few more steps towards the car, his attention still on the person he talked to. One of the sunglasses-clad men around him opened the car door. For sure the man was someone very important. Someone completely opposite of himself. A shadow passed over the boy, he watched as the old homeless man he had seen earlier crossed the mouth of the alleyway towards the group of suited men. With a glint of steel, he saw a large, serrated knife peeking from the old man's hand, half tucked into the sleeve.
The boy looked from the stalking homeless man with his concealed weapon, to the important man with one foot inside his car. No one paid the scraggly decrepid a mind as he sneaked closer to the group. The pain in the boy's stomach twisted Well, the boy thought, I'm nothing anyways. Summoning as much energy as he could, he pushed up and away from the damped ground, one foot hurriedly splashing through the half-frozen puddles after another. "Stop there!" One of the suited men had noticed the boy advancing towards them, a hand inside his jacket lapel, obviously about to pull out a gun.
The old man's knife glinted off the orange-lighted sign above the restaurant as he held it in both hands, he had sneaked his way into the group of men and with one large thrust, he could bury that blade in the blond man. The boy's steps widened, he didn't hear the warning yells or the cockings of guns pointed at him, he only heard how the rain had picked up then, pattering off of the car and his hood.
"No!" The boy's throat burned, when was the last time he had spoken? Small, numbed fingers clamped around the knife that was mere inches from the man's side. The boy clenched his eyes closed, pain sprouting from his hands like the blood that instantly coated his knuckles. The group's attention finally noticed the sleuthed man.
"Move, bitch!" The old man screamed, yanking his arms and the knife, but the boy held on, being dragged several feet by the pursuer.
The boy kept his eyes closed, clenching his fingers even tighter around the blade. The sound of the rain faded in his ears as a loud, piercing shot echoed out. The old man paused, and the boy peeked his eyes open just in time to see his yellow eyes wide with shock. They both crumpled to the ground, the old man face down in a puddle by the car's tire. The boy looked down at his hands still clenched around the knife. He could see bits of his own flesh dangling as his own blood dripped and mixed with the old man's. At that moment, it was too much, and he had exhumed far more energy than he should've been capable of. His last thoughts as his head hit the concrete with a crack, his vision blurring and blackening, was how his mother would be proud that he didn't scream. Not even once.
Rain patted on the roof of the car and the shoulders of the men standing around the scene. "Clean this mess up," Bakugo, Katsuki scowled and entered the back seat of the car, his driver closing the door behind him. The man looked at the small form of the boy on the ground through tinted glass. The car started up and he rolled down his window. One of his men looked at him expectedly, "And bring that," he nodded to the boy just as the car pulled away from the curb.
Hi everyone, Nefasuru here! This is my first BNHA fic and I'm super excited for this! Yes, this is going to be an omegaverse, mafia, villain story! There is a pretty large age gap between Deku and Bakugo but Deku is of legal age so no worries. There will be instances of trauma and abuse (not by Bakugo) but I'll put warnings where appropriate. I love to write sex scenes (hehe) so you don't have to worry your little horny hearts about that either!
Going forward the chapters will be longer, just wanted to get this intro out!
Please comment and follow for chapter updates. Also I LOVE reading comments, they make me so happy!