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Most people adjusted to their presentation by sixteen. It was why classification sections on documents were optional until age twenty. But there would always be those early and late bloomers, and, unfortunately, Hitoshi fell in the former category.
He presented as a Little when he was nine.
It would’ve been an unprecedented case if his family didn’t have a history of early presentations. However, most of his family presented around thirteen. Coupled with his rare and powerful quirk, Hitoshi was quickly seen as an anomaly.
He couldn’t tell anyone his headspace as he, himself, wasn’t sure. He had a strong inkling that he’d fall somewhere in early toddlerhood, possibly a year to two. His mother, when she was around, would joke that he’d never outgrew his terrible twos.
Hitoshi spent years as the only presented student. While they’d never outright order him to, administration pressed for Hitoshi to wear scent patches, if not blockers, out of ‘concern’ for his classmates. He couldn’t afford blocker prescription, as it main one held an ingredient that he was allergic to, but scent patches, while itchy when one sweated too much, could be found right next to Present Mic-patterned bandages.
Nonetheless, when Hitoshi enrolled into UA, he had been so used to wearing scent patches, and accustomed to being the only one in the classroom with a classification, that he forgot to inform others he was Little.
He lived in a small town within his prefecture, and it was an area where everyone knew everyone great grandmother. Literally. The rumor and information mill would make any informant jealous at its’ speed and efficacy. Hitoshi had presented as Little in a neighborhood picnic where majority of the town was in attendance.
The rumor mill was Hitoshi’s best and worst enemy. His father disappeared when he was two and a half, and the town knew within a week. His older brother got arrested, and it took three days for the news to ripple through the town. His mother got a promotion? The neighborhood already started a party by the time Hitoshi got out of school.
When his quirk appeared, everyone knew within a day. When he presented, well—it took an hour, at best, for the news to spread. He wasn’t bullied as harshly—no one wanted to be known as the one harmed a Little, after all—but he did experience peer ostracization because of the nature of his quirk. The older generation didn’t act as warily toward him, thankfully, and Hitoshi spent many afternoons in their presence. They liked to butter Hitoshi up with sweets and would wink to not tell his mother.
(It wasn’t like she’d know, but he was amused, nonetheless.
And that was another thing everyone knew but strove to ignore for his sake (his bullies were another story): the fact that Hitoshi was, technically, raising himself. It wasn’t like his mother outright abandoned him, but she worked long, tiring hours to support them after his father dipped.)
Due to the expansive rumor mill, Hitoshi was accustomed to stepping anywhere in his town with the knowledge that he was Little burned in the forefront of everyone’s mind.
The rest of the world, he’d forgotten, wasn’t like this. UA had no idea of his classification—well, most of UA. Nezu was aware of Hitoshi’s Little status as he’d pulled him into a meeting before his transfer into the heroics course went through.
“I won’t disclose your presentation to the staff and faculty unless something proves dangerous to you,” Nezu had explained over tea, though he’d thoughtfully provided a sippy cup for Hitoshi. “But I would like for you to be aware of our anti-discrimination bylaws, and . . .”
Hitoshi hadn’t marked his classification down on the forms, but he wasn’t surprised Nezu knew. There was little one could hide from the person who had the only High Spec quirk in existence. But he had left the section blank mostly out of slight fear UA’s admissions council would deny his application like a classmate had taunted.
“They’ll take one look at your app, and throw it out,” they had said, grin wide and dipped in poison. “A Little with that nasty quirk? Please. They’ll laugh you out the exam.”
If Hitoshi weren’t so particular about his clean record, and terrified of that one teacher who’d always threaten to warm his bottom for his supposed delinquent behavior, he would’ve broken their nose.
Thus he was completely blindsided when Present Mic — or Yamada as he insisted he be called within UA — asked him what he thought his classification would be in the excited tone that belonged to a cheerful schoolgirl than a thirty-year-old pro hero. Hitoshi trained with Aizawa after school, both to catch up to the rest of the class and because he was going to be an underground pro, and Pre—Yamada would often crash their sessions, especially when they worked on Hitoshi’s quirk.
They were an hour and a half into the session when Aizawa called for a much-needed break, and Yamada had asked him the question.
Hitoshi blinked twice. “I—what?”
“It’s an exciting time, Hitoshi-kun~,” Yamada cheered. “I believe—what?—three of your classmates presented so far.”
Hitoshi had been so focused on his goals, on catching up, on making sure his mother didn’t overwork herself she ended up in the hospital again, that he hadn’t even noticed. “They . . . They have?”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “We’ll work on your observation skills,” the man said. . “But yes—Bakugo, Ashido, and Sero have presented as caregivers.”
“Oh,” said Hitoshi, mind whirling. “That’s – interesting.”
So. Half of his friend group were caregivers? Got it.
“It is,” Yamada agreed, and clapped his hands. “You know, if you look at the statistics . . . At least one of you in that little squad of yours is Little. Exciting!”
Yeah.
The Little was him.
Hitoshi, honestly, doesn’t even know how he ended up with what many called the Bakusquad. It probably had something to do with Kaminari dragging him to their lunch table once he transferred, babbling something about how cool and mysterious his quirk looked during the Sports Festival. The rest had been history when Hitoshi sassed Bakugo, who had said something insulting about his hair. Hitoshi didn’t know what he said, but it was hilarious enough to make the table erupt into boisterous laughter and for Bakugo to almost give him a pleased grin.
“Enough chitchat.” Aizawa rose to his feet and stretched lightly. “Hitoshi, we’ll work on your balance with the capture scarf for the rest of the session.”
“And then we’ll go to that manjuu place down the street,” Yamada offered. “I think it’s a perfect after-training dinner!”
And that was another thing—Aizawa and Yamada had positioned themselves in a sort of parental role for Hitoshi when school ended. Hitoshi wasn’t sure what sort of assumptions they made about his home life, but he knew they weren’t – the best. There were many days Hitoshi had gone to school with little in his stomach.
His mother paid the rent and bills, yes; but her days were mostly spent buried in hospital cases. Hitoshi lived and breathed prepackaged bentos he bought from the train station since he turned eight and his brother was no longer around to make sure he ate healthy.
And there was no way he’d grocery shop in his town. Everyone would know his mother really wasn’t taking care of him if they say that a Little was buying his own groceries.
It was a headache Hitoshi didn’t want to have. At all.
So. His teachers and friends (he had friends) made their assumptions, and Hitoshi wasn’t sure how to correct them. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He decided it was a case of be quiet and pray it disappears, though he knew it wouldn’t disperse quietly.
UA was a nosy bunch. Heroes meddle, after all.
Training wrapped up quickly, and Hitoshi seemed to be getting the hang of his capture scarf the support department designed for him. It didn’t take him long to shower and dress. He slapped on the scent patches he carried in his bag, and pursed his lips when he noticed he had one left.
Need to go to the store, he thought as he walked out of the locker rooms to where Aizawa and Yamada waited.
Yamada brightened as he came into view. “Daylight’s a wastin’, Hitoshi-kun,” he cried out, almost at the threshold to use his quirk. Even at the distance, it made Hitoshi’s ears ring a bit. “Let’s get some manjuu!”
“Hizashi,” Aizawa growled, eyes red. “You’re giving me a headache. Desist.”
Hitoshi swallowed a laugh at Yamada’s exaggerated pout. He ended up in-between the two adults as they exited campus and walked the familiar path to the mom-and-pop run restaurant.
Their conversation drifted. Yamada had a slew of topics he wanted to discuss, and he’d lovingly poke holes at the way Aizawa replied in short bursts. “Where’s the drama, baby?” Yamada cried. “The flare? The detail? Come on, Shouta, I’m dyin’ here!”
“Dig a grave, then.”
Hitoshi was quiet as he let their loving banter wash over him. There were moments when they directed questions at him, but neither of them forced him to speak. They understood that Hitoshi existed well in the quiet.
The manjuu staff knew them by name and let them choose their own seating. Hitoshi wasn’t bothered when Aizawa ordered for him, though a passing thought murmured isn’t that weird, isn’t that suspicious, your peers would’ve argued at that—
“—back to our discussion!” Yamada’s voice pulled him away from his thoughts. “What do you think you’ll present as?”
Hitoshi took a sip from his water. A part of him wanted it to be a bottle. His lips quirked in silent amusement. “Dunno.”
That was the joke: he did know.
Yamada pouted, and then it curled into a fond smile. “You’re just like Shouta, Hitoshi-kun,” he said; the fondness burned the tips of Hitoshi’s ears. “Always a no-nonsense way with words.”
“I don’t see the point in extravagance,” Aizawa said in a flat tone.
Hitoshi raised an amused eyebrow. But you married a guy whose hair is designed like a cockatoo?
As if he knew Hitoshi’s thoughts, Aizawa narrowed his eyes in a mock glare. “Watch the sass, kid.”
Hitoshi raises his palms. “I’m innocent.”
“Yeah, Shouta, he’s innocent,” Yamada agreed, and laughter that made heads turn in curious manners floated from his mouth. “Don’t worry, Hitoshi-kun, I’ll protect you from Sir Grumpiness over here.”
Hitoshi laughed before he covered his amusement with his hand. Too many people had told him his laugh was chilling and reminiscent of those pre-quirk villains. “S-Sorry,” he whispered through his fingers.
Aizawa’s even stare almost made Hitoshi shrink under the table. “For what?” He questioned; eyebrows pinched in slight concern and befuddlement. “You didn’t do anything.”
Yamada made a soft, wounded noise when Hitoshi said, “My – I laughed.” At their mirrored perplexed expressions, he clarified, “My laugh sounds unnerving. So. Um. Sorry. I – I didn’t . . ..” He swallowed and stared at the perspiration trickled down the glass, his voice low as a whisper amid the dinner crowd. “I didn’t mean to.”
Over the years, Hitoshi developed a quiet chuckle that was high and lilted enough it could be recognized as amusement instead of ill-intent, but he’d always be nervous whenever he let it slip through.
UA had been so kind to him. Hitoshi didn’t want to do anything to mess that up.
His brother would tell him to “ignore the jealous fuckers,” whenever a classmate or someone Hitoshi considered a friend teased him over his laugh, but it was difficult. Especially when some liked to scream that Hitoshi was plotting their murder if he laughed around them. It almost grew unbearable by the time Hitoshi was in the second grade as Hitoshi’s pitiful support system disappeared overnight, his brother having been carted off to a detention facility.
Their waitress set their bowls down with a chirped, “Enjoy your meal!” and snapped Hitoshi out of his thoughts.
His vision blurred. His breath hitched. Thoughts about his brother were always dangerous when he wasn’t alone. No. You are not going to cry in public.
Hitoshi would be utterly humiliated to be seen so vulnerable by his mentors, by the heroes Hitoshi idolized for most of his life—but scent blockers for Littles were prone to fail when experiencing heightened emotions.
It had something to do with a defense mechanism, but the medical jargon had confused Hitoshi whenever he tried to learn more about it.
“Hitoshi-kun?” Yamada gave him a kind smile, but Hitoshi picked out the worry in his gaze. “There’s nothing wrong with your laugh. It’s a lovely sound, listener!”
Hitoshi bit his bottom lip and didn’t respond. His hometown said otherwise plenty of times.
The grill sizzled with heat and spices as Aizawa carefully poured their food onto it. He made sure to keep their food separated—Yamada had a texture problem where his food couldn’t touch others’—and that it was cooked fully.
Hitoshi accepted his bowl of food when Aizawa finished cooking it, though he didn’t eat until they had their food in front of them. Hitoshi knew how it felt to be surrounded by people with food when you had none, and thus grew uncomfortable when it was vice versa.
Light conversation floated between them, but Hitoshi sensed an underlying tension from the adults. He didn’t poke and prod at it, though; who knew what he’d reveal?
There was a brief squabble between Aizawa and Yamada as they argued over who’d pay the bill. Yamada won when he stunned Aizawa with a brief peck on the cheek and pulled out his card faster than Aizawa could recover from the affection.
It made a part of Hitoshi want to laugh at the way Aizawa looked like a startled cat. He settled for that low chuckle of his.
Despite the fact that they lived nowhere near the train—and didn’t need to use it—Aizawa and Yamada always walked him to the station. Hitoshi had protested various times in the beginning that it was unnecessary, but after a stern rebuff from Aizawa of “I don’t care what you say, I’m not allowing a fifteen-year-old walk around so late by themselves,” Hitoshi had accepted the inevitable.
They bypassed a corner store, and Hitoshi paused. The last scent patch weighed heavy on his back. “Um,” he said to their questioned looks. “I need to pick something up really quick.”
“Alright,” Yamada agreed with his typical enthusiasm while Aizawa nodded. “I love quick store runs.”
Aizawa snorted and muttered something low in response, a teasing insult that made Yamada erupt into a playful whine. Hitoshi hid a smile in the collar of his uniform as he stepped through the automatic doors.
He had passed two aisles before he realized they’d followed him inside. Slight anxiety burrowed in the pit of his stomach as he made his way toward the medicine area. You don’t need to be afraid, he told himself firmly and recited UA’s anti-discrimination policies as his eyes scanned for his favored box of scent patches.
He spotted them quickly. Always next to the Present Mic Band-Aids. Whoever stocked them clearly knew their target audience (read: Hitoshi). “Huh,” he said after a moment. “A sale. . ..” Two for one, yes please.
He grabbed two of the boxes. They were drenched in bright colors—because of course, if one were Little then they were obviously drawn to obnoxious pastels—and declared, loudly, that the brand was a Little’s Number One!! Then a packet of formula from the Little/baby section caught his gaze.
I do need more . . .
He had taken a box of his favorite two flavors before he noticed he moved. After he double-checked that he had enough money for the items and a train ticket, he turned to his teachers. “Okay, I’m . . . d-done . . .,” his voice dispersed in the air when he soaked in their expressions.
He almost dropped the boxes. They looked pissed. Aizawa was better had handling it than Yamada, but Hitoshi knew what to look for. Displeasure mingled with their scent, and Hitoshi struggled to not shrink back when it floated in the air.
Deep breaths, Hitoshi chanted. Deep breaths. Deep. Fucking. Breaths.
The patch itched.
“S-Sensei. . .?” Hitoshi tried, and it was enough to snap them out of their thoughts.
Yamada gave him a warm smile and a finger gun. Hitoshi was perceptive to see it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry about that, Hitoshi-chan~,” — He didn’t miss the switch of –kun to –chan — “I didn’t know you were Little?”
Hitoshi fixed his grip on his items. “Yeah. For – For a while, uh. I’ve been one.”
Aizawa spoke when they were halfway to the cashier; his expression less – foreboding. Hitoshi’s anxiety was relieved at the change. “How long?”
Hitoshi blinked. “Hmm?”
“Those patches,” Aizawa said in a nonchalant tone, but Hitoshi knew there was nothing nonchalant about it. “How long have you been using them?”
“Since I was nine,” Hitoshi replied as he stepped in line. “I presented really early.”
Aizawa hummed. Yamada’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.
Conversation stilted for a moment as Hitoshi waited for his turn. He eyed the candy offered at the front with a bitten lip but restrained himself. He didn’t have enough money on hand—and the last thing he needed was to give himself a sugar rush so late at night.
The cashier scanned his items with a slightly judgmental expression. “That’ll be 1700 yen,” they said, popped their gum and added, lowly, “You in a safe place, kid?”
Hitoshi handed over the yen with a tight smile. What would you do, if I wasn’t? “Uh huh.”
Aizawa wanted had something to pay for, so Hitoshi let Yamada herd him out of the store with little complaint. It didn’t take long for Aizawa to purchase his items, and soon the train station rose into view. Hitoshi crinkled his nose a bit at the thought of the nearly hour-long train ride he had to take.
When he turned in the direction of a self-serving station for a ticket, Aizawa touched his elbow for attention. “Hitoshi.”
“Yes, sensei?” Hitoshi gave Aizawa his full attention. Please don’t ask about the patches. Please don’t—
“Here.” Aizawa pressed something red and gold in Hitoshi’s hands. He stared at the aluminum wrapping. It was—
“. . . Candy?” He murmured. Specifically, the candy he had eyed back at the store. “Sensei—?”
A mechanical voice crackled overhead. Hitoshi’s train would approach in less than five minutes. Before his anxiety could shriek about ticket processing times, Yamada appeared with a familiar slip of paper.
“Your ticket, Hitoshi-chan~!”
“I—.” Hitoshi stopped, and stared. Something hot pressed against his chest. Do not cry. Do not cry. “Wh-What?”
Aizawa rested a hand on Hitoshi’s head. He soaked in the warmth and gentleness of the gesture, and a part of him hoped it’d never end. “Take care of yourself, kid,” Aizawa instructed in a soft tone; softer than Hitoshi had ever heard the man speak. “You have our numbers if you need anything, okay?”
Hitoshi nodded with a tight throat. There were many things he could’ve said; misunderstandings that Hitoshi could’ve cleared in that fleeting moment beneath the sunset, but the load roar of an approaching train cut through the air.
“I — thank you, Sensei,” Hitoshi called as he scrambled for the entrance. “See – See you tomorrow.”
“Safe travels, little listener,” Yamada called, his voice almost smothered Aizawa’s drawled, “See you.”
Hitoshi scanned his ID with a fluttery heart. He paused for a brief moment to wave goodbye to his teachers who watched him still and whirled around to catch his train before it left him behind. No one waited for him—his mother was on call for surgeries, and it was easier if she stayed onsite—so he could afford to be late, if needed, but he hated walking around when it was too late.
Yamada’s hiss floated to his ears. “Shouta . . . Hitoshi-chan is wearing scent patches. Why the fuck is he wearing scent pa—?” The train drowned the rest of his words, but Hitoshi got guess the gist of the conversation.
The chocolate bar was bittersweet in his mouth.
Ah.
Hitoshi had forgotten—briefly, trapped in the small-town bubble of his hometown—of the stigma involved in scent blockers for Littles.
Internships dawned their ugly heads. The memory of Aizawa and Yamada’s reactions to his scent patches slipped from his mind—he did that a lot, if one couldn’t tell—and he went on with his life as normally as he could.
“Shinsou~.” Kaminari half-sprawled on his desk. “Who’d you choose to intern with, again?”
Sero rested an arm on the blond’s head. “I’m going to miss your idiocy. Don’t have too much chaos without me.”
Kaminari jabbed Sero’s side, sputtering, “Just for that, I’m gonna get into so much chaos.”
Jirou snorted. Hitoshi hid his behind his fingers and ignored the feeling of being watched.
“To answer your question,” he responded once he felt like he could answer without that rising bubble of laughter. “Um. I’m interning with Aizawa-sensei.” The three stared at him until he arched an eyebrow and murmured a wary, “What?”
Kaminari clasped his hands together in a praying motion. “Rest in pieces.”
Sero bowed his head next. “Thy will be missed, ever so dearly.”
Jirou looked at the ceiling. “Why am I here.”
Hitoshi could ask the same question.
Afternoon training had been cancelled, but Hitoshi wouldn’t be leaving campus to go home. He’d be settling into Aizawa and Yamada’s apartment for the week-long internship. While it didn’t officially start until Monday, they wanted to give him the weekend to adjust.
“It might be for a week,” Yamada had explained, “but you’ll be living in a space with two caregivers, honey! That’s a big change, ya hear?”
Aizawa had updated Hitoshi’s file with his permission, changing his classification section from blank to Little. Because of that change, and because he’d be interning (and temporarily living) with two caregivers, Hitoshi had to fill out a packet of paperwork that was essentially a temporary contract.
A lot of the questions were easy to answer—his favorite food textures and known allergies, his favorite color, if he had readily available Little supplies, if he need pull-ups or diapers, if he needed a nightlight when he slept—and then Hitoshi reached the section that made him think his face would be permanently red.
He knew, conceptually, that discipline and rules would be included, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t surprised when he flipped to that page.
Instead of yes/no checkboxes beside a question, the section had a description of instructions and two columns of checkboxes of common discipline measures. The instructed stated to ‘check the disciplinary actions you/your caregiver are comfortable with Aizawa Shouta (Eraserhead) and Yamada Hizashi (Present Mic) implementing on the chance of rule-breaking’.
Simple enough.
Hitoshi was supposed to go over this with his mother, who was considered his primary caregiver until he graduated high school, but it was difficult when his mother wasn’t home when he slept and was dead to the world when he woke.
He didn’t want to interrupt her sleep. She barely received enough as it was. While he had messaged her about it, her assurance that she’d help him with the paperwork fell as flat as all her promises did. Too many cases piled up, like they always did, so Hitoshi filled it out while he watched reruns of pre-quirk anime.
There were a lot of checkboxes Hitoshi ignored. He either didn’t know what it was, or he did and found it too daunting. While, sure, he’d been given a few warning taps before and was used to timeouts, it didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to get caned by his teacher.
He sent pictures to his mother of the completed pages and waited for her thumbs-up emoji before he signed it and turned it in to Midnight, as she was the internship coordinator for first year students. He had then met with Aizawa and Yamada a day or so later, a meeting Midnight facilitated, to go over the paperwork and address any confusion for the rules and expectations of both the household and the internship.
“—shi. Hitoshi.”
He jolted out of his thoughts at the sharp voice. The sun cast a warm glow in the classroom; he was the only one there aside from the two concerned teachers before him. “S-Sorry,” Hitoshi rubbed the back of his neck. “I was lost in thought.”
“Those were some thoughts,” Yamada wondered before he clapped his hands and smiled. “Anyway – are you ready, Hitoshi-chan~?”
“Mhm!” Hitoshi slung his bag over his shoulders and reached for his duffel bag, but Aizawa picked it up before he could. “Uh. What’s the plan?”
“Well,” Yamada pressed his fingertips together as they walked out of the classroom. “It’s my turn to make dinner, so while I do that, you can settle in and do any homework you might have.”
Hitoshi nodded and then glanced at Aizawa. They crossed through the front gate. “Okay.” He licked his lips. “What, uh, is on the menu?”
Yamada winked. “That, my dear listener, is a surprise!”
“It’s pork belly ramen,” said Aizawa after a few stilted seconds passed between them. Hitoshi laughed into the palm of his hand while Yamada crossed his arms over his chest and dramatically moaned about betrayal and honor.
“My own husband,” Yamada cried out, and then gave Hitoshi an exaggerated glance. “Can you believe that, Hitoshi-chan?”
Hitoshi’s giggle floated through the crevices of his fingers. His eyes crinkled with mirth. He ignored the shared glance between his teachers at the way he quieted his laughter. Some things were best ignored unless someone else dragged it out. A part of him wanted his teachers to ask, to pry deeper into Hitoshi’s situation. Another part of him wanted them to do what all other teachers had done: ignored the problem and, therefore, ignored Hitoshi.
He wasn’t sure which one was worse, though.
Aizawa and Yamada lived in a high-rise apartment building that overlooked most of downtown Musutafu. They needed to get buzzed inside by the front desk, manned by a dimpled Neutral who gave Hitoshi a cheerful wave, and took an elevator that had a – well, Hitoshi wasn’t sure what they were called, but a man in a similar uniform to the front desk lady pressed the buttons for them.
“Have a great day, Matsukawa-san,” Yamada said as he stepped out of the elevator. They lived on the sixth floor. Aizawa echoed Yamada’s statement in a low murmur.
Hitoshi gave the man an anxious nod, and said, “Th-Thank you, uh, M-Matsukawa-san.”
Matsukawa smiled warmly at Hitoshi. Yamada, for some odd reason, cooed at Hitoshi.
“We’re nearly homebound, Hitoshi-chan,” Yamada said; his excited tone made Hitoshi excited. Secondhand excitement, he thought in amusement. “We’re right at the end of the hall, isn’t that nice?”
“Sure,” Hitoshi responded. He hadn’t lived in a place as fancy and expensive as they did, so he supposed it was nice that they were at the end of the hall. He eyed Yamada curiously as a sudden thought drifted in his mind. “. . . Do you get noise complaints?”
Aizawa barked out a sharp laugh as he fished his keys out of his pocket. Yamada sputtered into a whine. “Our landlord would constantly threaten to kick us out in our old building,” Aizawa explained despite Yamada’s insistence otherwise, and unlocked the door. “When we had to move—the building was getting torn down—we made sure to choose a place with soundproof walls and ceilings.”
“I can scream as much as I can,” Yamada said.
Aizawa rolled his eyes. “No, you can’t.”
“Shouta! Always ruining my fun.”
“Get inside,” Aizawa sighed as he opened the door. He glanced back at Hitoshi, who hovered nervously by the doorway. “Nothing in here will eat you, Hitoshi,” Aizawa informed him, a slight tilt to his lips, but he was patient as Hitoshi took hesitant steps inside. “Shoes go there.”
He slipped off his shoes and placed them where Aizawa pointed. Yamada whirled ahead and disappeared into what Hitoshi assumed was the kitchen. Music soon followed as did the sound of clanging pots and cupboard doors.
Hitoshi peered around the living room with a curious eye. “. . . Do you have cats?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t.” Aizawa shook his head with a rueful smile. “Hizashi and I are too busy to take care of an animal right now.”
“Ah.” For a brief moment, Hitoshi stood in the middle of the hallway, hands clenched around the straps of his bookbag. “Um.”
Aizawa sensed the problem and motioned for him to follow. “Let me give you a tour.”
It was . . . a very spacious and modern apartment. Hitoshi was a little afraid of touching anything. Not in the sense that everything was expensive (though it kind of was), but in the sense that warmth and loved seeped from every crevice. He didn’t want to taint that with his grubby little fingers. There were two bedrooms, one that was Aizawa and Yamada’s, and the other that was Hitoshi’s.
The tour paused for a moment as Hitoshi dumped his belongings there. It was a nice room; decorated in clean blues and grays.
Across from the guest room was the bathroom. “We only have one,” Aizawa explained, “so you’ll have to fight with Hizashi over who gets it first unless you want to wait three hours for him to blow dry his hair.”
There was a shout of Yamada’s offense from the kitchen.
Hitoshi snickered into his knuckles.
Aizawa gave him an even expression before he explained how to use the shower, and then looped the tour back into the living room area. The kitchen held a round table with four chairs. Hitoshi’s stomach growled quietly as the scent of Yamada’s cooking rose in the air.
“Any questions?”
Hitoshi thought for a moment before he shook his head. “Not right now.”
Aizawa nodded. “Might be good to get some homework in before Hizashi gets too loud.”
“Oi!”
Hitoshi bit back his laughs and agreed. As he grabbed his materials, the itch on his neck reminded him that it was time to remove the scent patch. His scent floated in the air a moment later; someone had once remarked that it reminded them of strawberry fields at sunrise. Aizawa gave him a surprised blink and sniffed the air when he reappeared from the guest room.
“. . . You took off the patch?” He asked in a careful tone.
Hitoshi nodded. “Yeah—I only wear it . . . in school.”
Aizawa hummed. Yamada, curiously, hadn’t spoken.
He made himself comfortable by the living room coffee table and drowned in the numbing motions of math problem sets. Homework wasn’t as vigorous as normal, given they were doing internships for a week, but math had never been Hitoshi’s strongest subject. Aizawa sat beside him and graded a stack of essays, reading glasses perched on his nose.
It was oddly domestic. It made the pit of Hitoshi’s stomach twist with a sudden wave of I want something like this. Why can’t I have something like this?
“DINNER TIME!”
Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to kill that man.”
Yamada chuckled and blew a kiss. “You love~ me too much to commit lovercide.”
“Lovercide isn’t a word,” Aizawa said as he rose to his feet and stretched. A few muscles in his back popped at the movement. “Killing your husband is called matricide.”
Yamada held a spoon in front of him as if it were a shield. “I’m afraid that you know that word, Shouta. Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Hizashi, if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it when you were a gangly little nerd in the back of the classroom.”
“Rude,” Yamada gasped. “I was not gangly!”
“I can break out the photo albums if you want—?”
“You will do no such thing!”
Dinner was a boisterous and warm affair as it always was; the only difference being they were in a private setting, thus Yamada and Aizawa were more liberal with their affection of one another. They were more affectionate with Hitoshi, too—reaching to ruffle his hair, or pat his back, or absentmindedly wiped his mouth when he’d get too messy with the ramen.
A part of him loved it.
Another ached with thoughts of a family he had lost before he even knew what family meant.
Hitoshi helped Aizawa clean the remnants of dinner as Yamada puttered about in the bathroom. While he waited for a turn in the bathroom, he completed most of his homework. The last of the items to be completed were simple assignments he knew he could breeze through whenever. All while he worked through his assignments, Aizawa remained a warm presence, available if Hitoshi needed him.
Once he showered and dressed in warm pajamas (kitten-patterned, of course) and fuzzy socks, Yamada proposed they watched TV until Hitoshi’s curfew. They’d agreed on a 10 P.M. curfew for Hitoshi on the nights he didn’t go on patrol with Aizawa. Hitoshi didn’t mind; it was the time he normally went to bed, regardless.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Aizawa said as Yamada reached for the remote, damp hair in a long plait. “He just wanted an excuse to watch his cooking shows.”
Hitoshi smiled when Yamada’s response was to press his toes into Aizawa’s upper thigh. His mentors’ response to that was a teasing, “Oh? Was that supposed to hurt?”
They watched around four episodes of the cooking channel—Aizawa provided hilarious commentary, much to Yamada’s fond exasperation—before it neared time for Hitoshi to slip into bed. He wasn’t used to being fussed over, especially not by a caregiver as his mother was strictly Neutral, but he found that he didn’t mind it as Yamada ushered him inside the bathroom to brush his teeth and then disappeared with a low mutter . . . about vanilla?
When he slipped beneath the covers of what would be his bed for the next week, Aizawa appeared at the doorway. “Settled in?” He asked quietly and waited for Hitoshi’s nod before he continued. “Need any more blankets? Pillows?”
Yamada’s voice floated down the hall. “I have teddies if you want them, Hitoshi-chan!”
Aizawa pressed a hand against his ear. “What he said.”
“I’m – I’m okay,” Hitoshi assured them as he plugged in his phone to charge, briefly checking his morning alarm was on. Routine was important for Littles, and Hitoshi wasn’t an exception to the rule. “Um. N-Night.”
Aizawa’s smile softened his features. “Night, kiddo.”
“Hold the door!” Footsteps padded toward them. “I’ve got some goodies~.”
Quiet drifted into the room five minutes later. Murmurs of life from the adults drifted in the air, but it was a serene background noise that Hitoshi never had with just he and his mother. He heard the muffled rattle of the shower curtain as Aizawa turned on the showerhead, the last to use the bathroom for the night. Yamada’s light singing from the kitchen floated in the air.
Hitoshi stared at the ceiling of the guest bedroom as the night dwindled. There was a bottle of warm formula—one of Hitoshi’s favorite flavors, Yamada had checked—and a lilac-colored pacifier on the bedside table. A star-shaped nightlight shined by the door, which was opened slightly. Hitoshi hated being in complete darkness. He hated closed doors.
He hadn’t asked for any of those items, though. Aizawa and Yamada had given it to him without hesitation, without thought.
Hitoshi reached over and grabbed the bottle. It wouldn’t be polite if he let it spoil—and it was one of Hitoshi’s favorite flavors. Contentment soaked his scent as he nursed the bottle; partly coherent to the rest of the world. He had one foot in dreamland.
He drifted to sleep to the stray thought that Aizawa and Yamada’s apartment felt more like home than his actual home—but he did his best not to dwell on them.
Those were dangerous thoughts for a Little to have.
Patrol was every other day.
Monday and Wednesday, there were no villains or dire situations, but that didn’t mean patrols had been boring. Hitoshi soaked in the knowledge and advice Aizawa dished out as he helped pass out packaged meals and the like for the homeless, helped lost children reunite with parents, and, at one point, found a lost cat for the local orphanage. Non-patrol days were spent training and learning how underground heroes navigated hero agencies.
The third day of patrol, however, was another story.
Before they’d left the apartment, Aizawa had sat Hitoshi down to review the rules of the patrol. That was one thing Hitoshi expected and didn’t expect at the same time. He knew Aizawa was strict as a homeroom teacher—but he wasn’t prepared for how deep that strictness ran when it came to himself. As majority of Hitoshi’s internship would be training and overseeing how patrols ran, he wasn’t allowed to engage in combat unless a.) Aizawa explicitly allowed it (“Which I won’t—not until you have that provisional license under your name”) or b.) Hitoshi was about to get murdered by a villain (“I won’t let it get that far, but the thought still stands”).
“While you are under my roof, you are my responsibility and charge,” Aizawa had said in a firm and no-nonsense manner. “And I take my responsibilities very seriously. I expect nothing less than wholehearted obedience when we’re on the street, understand? If I give you instructions, I expect you to abide them—especially if there’s a villain in the area.”
When Hitoshi had asked, quietly, about what would happen if he behaved in a manner that went against the rules, Aizawa assured him of the procedure. “I don’t believe in punishment for punishments’ sake—you won’t learn anything from it if you don’t understand why it’s happening,” he had explained. “If you have any sort of infraction while we’re out in the field, we’ll discuss how to deal with it when we’re back in the apartment and make sure you’re aware of your actions—and that you’re comfortable with the consequence. However.” At the stressed word and stern expression, Hitoshi had tensed. “If, and only if, we are on patrol, and you disobey a direct order in the presence of a villain, you’re getting a spanking. No exceptions.”
Hitoshi didn’t mind the restrictions—in fact, he expected it—but he’d forgotten, like he always did, that things don’t always go the way you want them to.
The patrol started like normal. They’d passed out bentos and the like to the local homeless population, and Aizawa taught him how to safely jump and land on rooftop to rooftop (which – Hitoshi hadn’t known how fun parkour was) when, nearing eleven at night, a bang echoed from an alleyway. The sound froze Hitoshi’s muscles, but Aizawa shuffled forward.
“. . . Not a gunshot,” Aizawa said, and Hitoshi breathed a quiet breath of relief. He didn’t know what he’d do if he came into contact with someone that could – well – kill him at a distant. Another bang echoed. “Alright, kid, let’s move.”
Hitoshi followed Aizawa on eager, silent feet. His mentor had impressed upon him the importance of stealth while on patrol. Surprise was your biggest ally in underground heroics. Luckily, Hitoshi already knew how to move quietly. It saved him from the more overzealous of bullies.
Aizawa’s hand shot out and pushed Hitoshi back. Hitoshi bit back the soft noise at the action, knowing that it’d do more harm than good. He managed to peer around Aizawa’s shoulder to see the sharp outline of a man stumbling below them. He was throwing and kicking garbage cans. A bottle skid on the floor as the moonlight glowed, highlighting some of the mans’ features.
Hitoshi assumed the man was just drunk—until, of course, he saw the bright tattoo spiraling up the mans’ arm. Hitoshi knew that mark. It was the mark that sent his brother to prison before Hitoshi could barely comprehend who he was as a person.
This wasn’t a drunkard. It was Yakuza.
“Shit,” Aizawa growled low in his throat. He’d spotted the tattoo, most likely. “He’s on Trigger.”
Hitoshi blinked in confusion and squinted down at the man. Trigger? What’s—? He startled when the thug picked up another trash can and threw it, the sound ricocheting through the area. Trash littered the ground. A few bottles shattered.
“Stay here, Hitoshi,” Aizawa ordered brusquely as he pulled on his goggles. “Understand?”
“Y-Yes, sir,” Hitoshi nodded, a bit jolted at the stern protectiveness of Aizawa’s voice. He watched in relative safety as Aizawa jumped into the foray and almost squealed at the knowledge that he was able to watch his favorite hero in action.
It was too dark, and Aizawa too fast, for Hitoshi to see more than blurred outlines of silhouettes. Despite his speed and strength, the villain seemed to prove a challenge for Aizawa. Hitoshi watched with bated breath that turned into a sharp exhale a few minutes into the fight.
A glint of silver. The echo of a perilous smile. Hitoshi’s anxiety flared.
—That was a knife.
Going right for Aizawa’s unprotected back.
He moved before he realized. He had the dawning realization that Aizawa would be pleased by his actions—but Hitoshi would rather have Aizawa angry at him, would rather lose the opportunity for more patrols, than have to deal with his mentor bleed to death in his arms. He made it down the fire escape on light feet.
He skidded to a halt a few spaces behind the man. Probably not the best idea—but, oh well. Too late. “Hey!”
The villain lunged in his direction before Hitoshi could do more than breathe, but he heard a muttered curse before Aizawa’s capture scarf wrapped around Hitoshi’s waist and yanked him back right as the villain crashed into where Hitoshi had stood.
There was barely enough time for Hitoshi to detangle himself before the villain whirled around with a snarl, white bubbles frothing around his mouth, and lunged again. Most of Hitoshi’s internal organs felt as though they melted out of his skin. He wasn’t even sure he had a heartbeat anymore.
Aizawa restrained the man with his capture weapon and slammed him to the ground in a fluid movement that made Hitoshi wonder just how strong his teacher was. He winced at the painful thud; that definitely had to hurt.
“Hitoshi?” Aizawa looked him sharply, red eyes haunting in the dark of the night. His knee dug into the villains’ back, but he seemed unbothered by the villain squirming beneath him. “Are you hurt?
Hitoshi shook his head. Aizawa had reached him before anything could happen.
“Call the police,” Aizawa ordered in strained anger, and Hitoshi fumbled with the internal emergency button Hatsume placed into his costume.
“Hi! This is 1-1-9, what is your emergency?”
Hitoshi explained the situation, and the worker assured them the police were on the way. Hitoshi informed Aizawa as much and swallowed as his mentor did nothing more than hum. His heart fluttered in his ribcage, and anxiety whispered of how much trouble he was in.
(Hitoshi miscalculated, and he was very, very bad at math.)
It didn’t take long for the police to find them. Hitoshi blinked at the bright, swirling lights. He felt as though they were shining a spotlight on him.
“Busy night, Eraserhead?” One of them asked. He wasn’t dressed in a police uniform but, rather, a suit. He gave Hitoshi a curious glance. “Ah! Your intern?”
“Yes.” Aizawa was curt and clearly eager to get Hitoshi alone, much to Hitoshi’s dismay. “Is that all, Tsukauchi?”
Tsukauchi raised an eyebrow, but accepted Aizawa’s behavior as normal. “Yes,” he said and, once he responded to something someone said in his walkie-talkie (Hitoshi didn’t know what else it could be called), added, “You can come into the station to fill out the paperwork when you’re free.”
Aizawa grunted in response. Hitoshi almost asked Tsukauchi to stay as the anger in the line of Aizawa’s shoulders shifted to a protective rage. Hitoshi wondered how far he could get if he started running—but then remembered that Aizawa could match Ingenium in terms of speed if he wanted, and knew he’d get as far as three feet, if that.
When the police cleared with the villain, Aizawa whirled on Hitoshi. Hitoshi could do no more than flinch in surprise as Aizawa grabbed his forearm and pulled him closer. His grip on Hitoshi’s forearm was tight and ironclad, but it wasn’t harsh enough that it caused Hitoshi pain.
“I thought I told you,” Aizawa started in a tone that made Hitoshi’s stomach go through a meat grinder. Repeatedly. “To stay. Put. Did I not?”
“You – You did,” Hitoshi heard himself reply. A wave rushed to his ears, and anxiety nestled deep in the shallows of his mouth. The backs of his eyes burned hot. “I—.”
“So why. Did you. Not. Do that?” Aizawa’s gaze seared through Hitoshi; a mixture of anger, and protectiveness, and — fear?
Why was he—?
A gasp ripped from Hitoshi’s mouth as Aizawa landed a warning swat on the seat of his pants at his lack of response. His costume barely smothered the heat of the sting. Oh. Oh. He needed to tread carefully before he drop-kicked himself to the point of no return.
“I would like an answer, Hitoshi,” Aizawa said. The irritation in his voice made Hitoshi almost bring his shoulders to his ears. “And I would like it now.”
“I’m — I . . .,” His voice faded and burrowed in the ground. He swallowed around the ball in his throat, and gulped in the warm, summer night. “I’m – I’m sorry, Sensei,” he finished in a miserable tone.
Please don’t spank me.
(Hitoshi knew very well his night would end over Aizawa’s lap, but an elderly neighbor once told him that “it didn’t hurt to dream.”)
The world faded the longer Aizawa stared at him. Hitoshi wondered what he saw.
“Let’s go,” Aizawa instructed and gently guided Hitoshi forward, a gesture he appreciated as his feet were currently made out of cement. “We’ll discuss this more at home.”
Although a part of Hitoshi was apprehensive at the prospective talk, and the punishment that would follow—Hitoshi remembered the rules; he’d disobeyed orders on patrol, and there was no way he’d be able to negotiate his way out of a spanking—a much larger part of him floated with warmth.
(And that part echoed yes, let’s go home. Hitoshi stopped having a home when he turned seven, and he’d forgotten what it felt like to have one.)
As Yamada had a late-night show to prep for, the apartment was quiet when Aizawa ushered Hitoshi inside. “Shower and change into your pajamas,” he instructed in a tone that brokered no arguments or needling. “You’ll have ten minutes to dress and be in the living room once you turn it off, and you do not want me to come get you. Understand?”
His voice didn’t go higher than a whisper. “Yes, sir.”
Hitoshi didn’t dare entertain the thought of leaving the shower head on while he dressed for more time. The shower curtain echoed throughout the apartment when it moved at the slightest of touches, and Hitoshi didn’t want to push what luck he knew he didn’t have.
He hurried over to the guest bedroom and blindly grabbed his clothes, peeling off his scent patch as he moved. He slipped inside the bathroom and turned the shower spray to a setting he discovered he liked, all while his fingers trembled with anxiety. He wasn’t as terrified as he knew he’d be if he were to be spanked by anyone who wasn’t Aizawa or Yamada.
The warmth of the shower eased his nerves as did his strawberry scented bath wash. A rebellious part of him wanted to take as long as Aizawa would allow, but Hitoshi really didn’t want to test the mans’ patience even more than he already had. The shower curtain protested loudly when Hitoshi opened it.
He dressed in a matching strawberry-patterned pajama set: comprised of draw string pajama bottoms and a long-sleeve pajama shirt. Could you tell Hitoshi loved strawberries? He might love them more than he loved cats. They were his brothers’ favorite fruit, after all.
Aizawa’s sharp voice whipped down the hall. “You have five minutes, Hitoshi.”
Hitoshi took a few deep, calming breaths and exited the bathroom after he slipped on his socks. He padded down the hallway on light feet, but Aizawa stared in his direction as he appeared within sight. Aizawa was on the couch, dressed out of his hero costume and in a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. He motioned for Hitoshi to come closer.
“Stand here.”
Hitoshi wasted little time in obeying.
“Tell me our first rule.”
Aizawa wasn’t holding back; it’d barely been thirty seconds. Most people who had punished Hitoshi liked to stare him down until he was nearly to tears. Hitoshi played with a loose strand of fabric, a movement that grounded some of his anxiety, and cleared his throat. “I need to obey your – your instructions on patrol.”
“Interesting, especially in the context of your actions tonight,” Aizawa said; his voice blisteringly chilled. Hitoshi barely resisted a wince. “What’s the punishment for disobeying this rule, Hitoshi?”
His stomach squirmed. No one had ever made him feel so small before, so Little, like Aizawa had. Like Yamada did. His brother might have, as he was Hitoshi’s sole caretaker while his mother worked, but Hitoshi’s memories of him are watered and vague blobs. It was too long of a time for him to remember.
“Hey. Focus.” Aizawa snapped his fingers in front of Hitoshi, causing an abrupt end to his thoughts. “The punishment, Hitoshi. Tell me what it is, please.”
Hitoshi mumbled the answer under his breath.
Aizawa briefly pinched the bridge of his nose. “Speak louder, please.”
“A spanking,” Hitoshi whispered.
Hitoshi remembered the way Aizawa easily manhandled the villain. He was never going to sit again, and the entire world would know that he had gotten a spanking from his homeroom teacher.
“That’s right.” Aizawa appraised him and then crossed his arms over his chest. Hitoshi wanted to flee the country until he was forty. That’d be enough time for Aizawa to forget, right? “Upon our agreement, you were made aware that direct disobedience while on patrol would lead to a spanking.” A part of Hitoshi really, really hated that word. “However, that’s not the only reason why you’ll be going over my lap tonight. Can you think of why?”
No. Yes.
“I . . . I put myself in danger,” Hitoshi explained. He had never sounded so quiet before. He hadn’t even known such a level was possible for his vocal cords. “And, um. Behaved recklessly?”
Aizawa looked unimpressed at the question mark in his voice. “We were unaware of his quirk, and he was under the influence of an unknown amount of Trigger—.”
“I don’t know what Trigger is,” Hitoshi interrupted, like an absolute buffoon, and shrunk at Aizawa’s scathing glare.
“That. Is not. The point,” Aizawa snapped. Hitoshi swallowed his tongue. “The point is that you behaved illogically and placed yourself—your life—in danger, and for what? Hitoshi, you are a student, you are fifteen, and this internship is for you to learn more about your career in a safe environment, it is not for you to place your life at risk when there are experienced adults who know how to handle situations like that.”
A protest bubbled forth before Hitoshi could stop it. “But—the knife, sensei—you didn’t see his knife, I had to . . .,” his mouth shut, almost comically if it were any other moment than this, at the shift in Aizawa’s expression.
“You mean to tell me . . .” Aizawa rose to his full, terrifying height, and Hitoshi wished his quirk had rendered him mute. “You had knowingly placed yourself in a position where you were aware a man had a lethal weapon, and deliberately made it so that he would attack you with said object instead?”
Hitoshi squeaked at the rise in volume. “Yes.”
For a few heart-stopping seconds, Aizawa stared Hitoshi down. He exhaled through his nose, and his eyes, briefly, flashed as he said, in a voice so quiet that it was unbearably loud: “The only reason you will not be getting spanked with a brush is that I was made aware of your discomfort with anything other than a hand . . . but you are. On. Thin. Ice, Shinsou Hitoshi.”
His stomach dropped to the floor—no, to the bottom of the sea. It made a new home at earths’ core, that’s how far it dropped. His head ached; his heart constricted in his chest. Aizawa returned to the couch, and the floor wavered between Hitoshi’s feet when Aizawa motioned for him to move closer.
“Over my lap, Hitoshi.”
A whine threatened to spill between his lips. Hitoshi didn’t want to be spanked—who did?—but he knew he had to face the consequences of his actions. He had disobeyed a rule (He had almost died). The short walk to Aizawa’s side felt as though Hitoshi were walking up to a guillotine. A soft exhale escaped his lips as Aizawa situated him over his lap.
Hitoshi tensed as his mentor placed a hand on the small of his back; his pants were pulled below his knees. His mind scrambled with a mess of thoughts. Where did he put his hands? He settled for gripping a fistful of Aizawa’s pants, the soft material bunched between his fingers. He tried to breathe, but his breaths were already hitching.
Hitoshi had only gotten lectured thus far. Why was he almost close to tears? How utterly pathetic was he—?
“—safe word?” Aizawa was asking, and a hand settled on the seat of his bottom. Heat seared through his flesh. He regretted the flimsy material of his pajama pants immediately.
Hitoshi exhaled, and tried not to think about how it trembled. He quickly perused through his memories for the agreed safe word. “Oranges.”
“Are you comfortable?” Aizawa asked as he rubbed soothing little circles against Hitoshi’s back.
Hitoshi wanted to snap back that no, his ass was about to get blistered, he wouldn’t call that comfortable, but swallowed the urge. He was on thin ice, and the last thing Hitoshi wanted was Aizawa deciding that yes, his punishment did, in fact, call for a hairbrush.
“Y-Yes,” Hitoshi replied; his fingers nervously gripped Aizawa’s pant leg. He hoped the man didn’t mind. “I’m co—ow!”
He flinched as the first slap landed and a cry pulled from his lips at the sudden flare of pain. His breath shuddered as Aizawa began the punishment. Hitoshi hadn’t had an actual thorough spanking before; if he had, he was too small to remember. Most people threatened to spank him, of course; but he’d only received warning swats that momentarily stung. He always fixed his behavior before anyone decided to pull him over their laps.
Littles on the forums he perused talked about the pain involved in spankings, and Hitoshi used to think they were exaggerating.
They weren’t. If anything, they were underexaggerating.
The staccato of piercing smacks rose in the air, and whimpers burned his mouth. Aizawa expertly layered his bottom in a series of blistering swats, and red-hot tears clung to the edges of his eyes. Hitoshi blinked them back as he shifted, discomfort at the heat billowed in his chest. Hitoshi was not going to cry right at the beginning.
He’d really be—
A high-pitched whine cracked open his jaw as Aizawa focused on his sit-spots and upper thighs. Hitoshi hiccupped and tried to jerk away from the sharp heat, but Aizawa kept him pinned in place. Discontented whines floated in his chest, but Hitoshi swallowed them down—and some slipped out as Aizawa landed two harsh swats on the seat of his pants.
“Our rules exist for a reason,” Aizawa scolded in a voice as blistering and sharp as the swats he peppered on Hitoshi’s backside. “I will not sit back and watch you cause yourself harm because you think you’re invincible.” Hitoshi breathed in sharply and yanked at Aizawa’s pantleg as white-hot heat seared through his bottom. “You are not invincible nor are you replaceable. How do you think your family would feel if I had to tell them you were murdered on patrol? Your friends?”
A part of Hitoshi wanted to snark back what family, but the shadowed figure of his brother flashed through his mind. If he learned Hitoshi had jumped into a villain fight, and that he had . . . Hitoshi barely remembered his brother, but he knew the knowledge of his death would destroy him.
Hitoshi liked to dig himself future graves, however, and sputtered, “B-B-But—the knife, sen-sensei—ow, ow, OW!”
Aizawa’s hand cracked down on his sit-spots with vigor. “Do not presume I was unaware of his weapon.” What? He knew? His ribcage creaked beneath the weight of his sobs, and they floated in the air alongside the sounds of lightning-quick swats. “I had the surveyed the situation before I jumped in, and had it handled. You, on the other hand, are a fifteen-year-old child who jumped into an altercation that could’ve—would have—killed you if not for interception.”
Hitoshi remembered the bloodlust in the villains’ eyes, the way he easily changed targets once Hitoshi made his presence known. He drummed his toes against the couch and wept. He didn’t bother to be quiet as he knew the apartment was soundproof. His tears dampened his knuckles. His bottom felt as though Aizawa sat him down on glass fresh out of a kiln.
The swats were sharp and relentless; pace unforgiving and rigid. Recovery from the blows were nonexistent. Aizawa covered the entire expanse of Hitoshi’s behind, sit-spots, and upper thighs in a scorching heat. Hitoshi could do nothing about the situation, draped and pinned over Aizawa’s lap. His cries nestled by the ceiling as the sound of the severe spanks reverberated through the apartment.
Hitoshi was very glad Yamada was at his radio show. He would’ve died from embarrassment alone if anyone else were present to the way Aizawa thoroughly spanked him like the naughty child that he was—that Aizawa currently perceived him to be.
Apologies spilled out of his mouth. “S-Sor-ry,” Hitoshi babbled; his throat burned from the effort and the tears. His grip on Aizawa’s pants was so tight, he probably stretched the material. He couldn’t bring himself to care much, but he hoped the man wouldn’t punish him for it. Slivers of his headspace floated to the front of his mind. “I bad. Sorry, I’m – bad, sorry.”
“You are not bad,” Aizawa informed him, tone scolding still. He adjusted Hitoshi briefly and the rain of persistent swats followed. Hitoshi’s snot was smeared all over the couch cushions by now. “You behaved bad. Your actions were naughty and unfit for the hero-in-training that you are.” Ouch. “You were aware of the rules and chose the route of disobedience, but that doesn’t make you a malicious person. You were placed into my care temporarily, Hitoshi, and I expect you to follow the rules I have in place. Understood?”
A sob sputtered into a whine as Aizawa spanked his upper thighs again. “Uh huh,” Hitoshi said, though he was too focused on the searing heat of his ass to fully comprehend what he agreed to. He felt small and tiny and cared about.
He felt . . . like a Little being punished by their stern caregiver.
Tears left burn marks on his cheeks by the thought.
“You. Are. A. Student.” Aizawa punctuated each word with an unforgiving swat. Hitoshi squirmed in an attempt to lessen the blows, but they landed exactly where Aizawa wanted them to. His breath stuttered as more and more cries dripped from his mouth. “You do not place yourself in reckless situations. You do not try to engage in a villain with your limited training. And you do not disobey orders from a pro hero you’re interning with. If I were anyone else, this incident would have caused the end of your internship.”
“I—.” A flutter of sobs caught between Hitoshi’s teeth, and they morphed into watery gasps. He thought he ripped a tear in Aizawa’s pants. “I’m—sensei, sensei, pl-please.”
“Your actions have consequences, Hitoshi,” Aizawa continued as if he’d said nothing, but his mentors’ tone had softened. Hitoshi moved his hips in a futile attempt to hide from the swats, but Aizawa remained unbothered and thus, the spanking trudged forward. Hitoshi wished it didn’t because he wasn’t going to sit ever again. “I need you to understand how lucky you had gotten tonight. Patrol could have ended in a hospital visit—or worse.”
Hitoshi hiccupped and trembled; nose burning from the tears he shed. He pressed his face against the cushion and focused on breathing, but the heat that crackled and spread over his bottom made it so, so difficult. His mumbled apologies drowned where they formed.
“Your behavior will not repeat,” Aizawa informed him in a firm manner. “Do you understand, Hitoshi? You will follow the implemented rules.” A sputtered wail dripped off Hitoshi’s mouth, but the rain of swats showered his bottom without pause. No areas were left untouched by the expanse of Aizawa’s palm. “If you ever disregard your wellbeing and safety like you had done tonight, I will assume you’re too Little to follow instructions.” Hitoshi bit down on the cushion to swallow the deep sobs in his chest as Aizawa lathered the seat of his pants in attention he didn’t want. “This will not happen again. Do you understand, Hitoshi?”
Hitoshi made an agreeing noise in the back of his throat. He cried so much that the rest of the apartment was an amorphous blob of muted color.
“Verbal.” Gutting pain bloomed in his sit-spots as Aizawa tanned the area in response to Hitoshi’s silence. “Answer. Hitoshi.”
“Uh huh. Uh huh.” Sobs heaved from his chest as he tried to remember how to form words. His tongue lolled in his mouth. He closed his eyes amid a pained whine. “Y-Ye-es. I’m. . . I w-won’t . . . I won’t . . . no-ot again . . .!”
“I’ll hold you to that promise,” Aizawa said in a dark tone right before Hitoshi was positioned to a higher angle. Brief confusion flickered at the base of his spine before it drowned at the wave of heightened pain as Aizawa peppered a series of rapid-fire spanks on his sit-spots and upper thighs. Hitoshi had thought the previous pace was horrible; this was ruthless.
How much time had passed? It seemed like an entire era passed since he stood on two feet.
Hitoshi kissed the ability to sit comfortably goodbye. “’M sorry,” Hitoshi just short of bawled out. He went limp over Aizawa’s lap; his heart firmly one with the floor. He wheezed out a breath and belatedly realized Aizawa rubbed his back. “I be good,” spilled out of his mouth. A distant part of him rejoiced that the blows had ceased. “Be . . . be s-so go-ood.”
“Shh, Hitoshi. Shh. I know you’ll be good,” Aizawa soothed in a low and gentle tone, rubbing firm, grounding circles into his back. A minute or so passed before Hitoshi had been maneuvered around and cradled in Aizawa’s arms instead of over his lap. Fingers carded through his hair, and Hitoshi closed his eyes at the feeling. “Shh. Shh. I’ve got you. I’m right here. Shh.”
Hitoshi pressed his nose against Aizawa’s collarbone. Light and watery hiccups slipped out of his mouth as he recollected himself. His fingers grasped the front of Aizawa’s shirt for purchase; his shaky breaths curled in the air. Aizawa bounced him gently and murmured assurances of how well Hitoshi took his punishment, of how good he was, and took care to avoid tender areas. Hitoshi’s soft cries dwindled to softer sniffles, and he pressed a few of his fingers into his mouth for maximum soothing.
Aizawa hummed at the sight. Hitoshi felt him move a bit, eyebrows pinched in slight confusion, but his eyes were too sore and weak, and made a surprised noise when his hand was removed, and the familiar bulb of a pacifier pressed against his lips a few seconds later.
“Your fingers are dirty,” Aizawa said. “Use your paci.”
Hitoshi drifted in a warm, floaty space as Aizawa comforted him. While many of his online Little friends talked about aftercare, Hitoshi hadn’t experienced it himself. He’d always been sent on his way with sharp instructions to “shape up” and that was the end of the conversation. It was . . . nice. He liked it. He liked it very much.
Aizawa turned the TV on low. Hitoshi couldn’t hear what was being said, but he didn’t mind. He focused on the warmth and safety he felt as he curled up against Aizawa’s chest. He dozed into a light slumber, and blearily rose to awareness when he heard the jiggle of keys.
“There goes our peace and quiet,” Aizawa muttered right as the door opened with a muted bang.
Yamada made his presence known with a bright, “I’m home, listeners—!”
“Hizashi.” Aizawa’s sharp voice cut the through air. “Quiet, please.”
“Ooh, gotcha!” There was a rustle of clothing, boots being unzipped, the lock sliding in place. Yamada padded into the living room and made a soft noise, though at what Hitoshi wasn’t sure. “Aww~, is he asleep?”
Oh. Yamada was cooing at him.
“Nearly,” Aizawa responded and bounced Hitoshi again when a soft noise fell from his lips. “Would you mind making him a bottle?”
Yamada paused. “Sure.” Fingers brushed back a few strands of hair. “Say, Shouta~. Why was the baby crying? Those are some tear marks . . .”
Aizawa was unapologetic. “I spanked him.”
“Wha—?” The fingers paused, and then— “Why? What happened? Ooh, should I bring out the bruise cream for the little one,” Yamada added, clearly joking, and then paused. “Like. I’m half-joking. Shouta, you spank really hard, you know.”
“Don’t be reckless, and I won’t have to,” Aizawa pointed out while Hitoshi internally dealt with the knowledge that Yamada trusted Aizawa enough for that deep of a relationship. With two caregivers . . . it was almost unheard of. “Anyway . . . here’s what happened.”
Hitoshi didn’t breathe as Aizawa explained the situation. His face was mostly buried by the curve of Aizawa’s neck. He couldn’t see Yamada’s expression. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to.
“Aww.” Yamada’s breath grazed against the crown of Hitoshi’s forehead as he pressed a light kiss there. “Baby had a rough night, hmm?”
“You could say that.” Aizawa snorted. “Go make the bottle and shower. You smell like a bad hairspray commercial.”
Mirth bubbled in Hitoshi’s lungs at Yamada’s gasped, “Shouta! After all I’ve sacrificed for you, this is how I’m treated?” He faked a sob. “I’m filing for a divorce right now.”
Aizawa chuckled quietly. “You’ll have to do your own laundry if we divorce.”
Yamada changed tune. “Never mind, that.” Aizawa’s chest rumbled from his rising amusement. “One bottle coming right up!”
Hitoshi’s smile was hidden by his pacifier. The punishment had been awful, and his ass was still uncomfortably hot—but, as Aizawa had pointed out, it could’ve been worse. Hitoshi could be in a hospital ICU (or, you know, dead), but he wasn’t. A sore bottom for a few days was a perfect tradeoff to have if your only other option was a casket.
Yamada played something soft as he prepared Hitoshi’s bottle, and Aizawa lightly bounced Hitoshi again when he hummed a light sound in his throat.
Yeah, he thought.
It wasn’t a bad day at all.