Chapter Text
“What do you have to say for yourself, sweetheart?”
Hitoshi sniffled, hot tears spilling onto his face, as Yamada patted his back in a soothing, gentle manner. That terrible spoon Hitoshi should curse to rot fell upon his upturned bottom again, accurately swatting at a sorer area. “I – I’m sor-sorry, Zashi.”
Honestly, Hitoshi wasn’t sure where things had gone wrong. For all that Aizawa’s pack grumbled and groused about Halloween, they never failed to host a pumpkin carving party every year. Hitoshi loved carving pumpkins, and creating scary expressions onto them, even though Aizawa was hesitant to give him a knife (you almost slice your palm open one time, and no one lets it go).
Nonetheless, Hitoshi had been excited, surrounded by people he thought of as family, and spurred on by that excitement was a mischievous side of him he never failed to coax to life. It was Halloween after all; the one time in the year aside from April Fool’s where tricks and pranks were as expected as candy and sugar crashes in the evening.
Hitoshi had thought it was a great plan—an amazing plan—that he thought of by himself. No one helped him. No one whispered the idea into his mind. It was all him. He had waited until Aizawa had gone to the store for more supplies, grumbling as he always did, as it happened every year, because his Caregiver kept a keen gaze on him whenever sharp objects were around (again: one time!), and Hitoshi didn’t want what he’d thought to be the greatest prank ever to be ruined before it even started.
When everyone had been occupied by their pumpkins and conversation, Hitoshi had spelled a pile of pumpkin guts to transform into small, wriggling little spiders. He had expected shrieking, of course, because it was spiders—but laughter, nonetheless, when he revealed they were fake.
He knew he had miscalculated when Uraraka screamed, high-pitched and terrified, and rose her knife to kill the (fake) spider that had crawled onto her lap. And when one knife embedded in the grass, thrown by a pack member who looked halfway to unconsciousness at the sight of the spiders.
(Maybe trying to scare people when they had knives in their hands . . . wasn’t the best idea Hitoshi ever had.)
Regardless, his prank had landed Hitoshi here: draped over Yamada’s lap as a wooden spoon unforgivingly painted his bottom red.
As Yamada had rough and sharp scales on his palm, he had always hesitated to correct Hitoshi, preferring to scold and dish out lines, timeouts, and naptimes, letting Aizawa handle any spankings they decided Hitoshi needed. It wasn’t until Aizawa purchased an enchanted set of implements (a wooden spoon, a wooden hairbrush, and a small wooden paddle)—which Hitoshi still screamed at (internally)—for Yamada to use. The implements were charmed to follow any orders from Yamada, but it had an auto setting where it would basically spank Hitoshi until his bottom was heated up enough.
It was awful.
“Z-Zashi . . .!” Hitoshi whined as the spoon fell thrice. Sobs creaked against his ribcage as he squirmed. He pressed his toes against the couch cushion, whimpering at the stinging heat. Sitting would be uncomfortable for the next day or two. “Z’shi, I’m sorry,” Hitoshi sniffled, hoping he sounded pitiful enough. “I didn’, I didn’ mean to-to scare a-anyone.” He sniffled again, hiccupping. He knew everyone else could hear, given their heightened hearing. “J-just wa-wanted th-them to laugh.”
“I understand, sweetheart,” Yamada said in a soothing manner. “But pranking people when they have knives in their hands was very naughty of you, baby. Someone could have gotten hurt.”
Hitoshi’s eyes burned. “Sorry.”
That stupid spoon heated his sit-spots and upper thighs with a few more well-placed swats. His legs would have kicked out had Yamada not had the foresight to clamp a leg over them, keeping him chained in place. Only able to squirm futilely. He almost didn’t realize the spanking had ended, the spoon drifting back to where its’ case was, until Yamada was shushing him gently, drawing him up to a comforting embrace.
“Shh, baby, shh, it’s alright,” Yamada murmured against the crown of his forehead. Hitoshi rested his head on the curve of Yamada’s neck, careful of the Mer’s gills and scales, and cried, soaking up all the comfort offered. “Everything’s forgiven now, okay?”
Hitoshi sniffled and hiccupped, closing his eyes as they burned from both the light and his tears. Yamada slowly rocked back and forth, creating a soothing stimuli that made it difficulted for his emotionally drained self to remain awake. Hitoshi found himself drifting in and out of slumber, barely dipping into the oasis that beckoned him, as he found himself surrounded by warmth.
Fingers gently scrubbed his scalp. Hitoshi knew that hand. “What happened?” asked Aizawa, wary of disrupting the way Hitoshi drifted. When Yamada explained, Aizawa snorted, muttering, “I leave for ten minutes.”
Yamada snickered, and then mockingly gasped. “Don’t curse around the baby!”
“Yeah,” Hitoshi echoed sleepily. “Don’ curse around the baby, Zawa.”
“Brat.” Aizawa pinched his nose. “I think a nap would do you good.”
Hitoshi hummed in agreement and hadn’t protested when Aizawa lifted him from Yamada’s lap. Hitoshi often wondered if he weighed the same as a leaf with how easily everyone, Caregiver or otherwise, lifted him.
“Have a good nap, sweetheart,” Yamada said, a softer version of himself now that they were finished with the discipline. “Have sweet dreams, okay?”
“M’kay.” Hitoshi practically became deadweight in Aizawa’s arms, but it wasn’t like that caused difficulty for the wolf-shifter. Aizawa’s arms barely moved. “Nigh’ nigh’.”
