Work Text:
Denki wasn’t sure when it started.
That was a lie, actually.
He did know—it was because Bakugou presented as a caregiver and suddenly became invested in Denki’s life. No one explained why, just stated it was “caregiver things” in a dismissive, knowing tone that irritated the hell out of him.
Shinsou gave him a better explanation, bless his little (ha) soul—“I think it’s because everyone, even Bakugou, sees you’re more Little-inclined than the other designations, but, to be honest, I don’t really know why he’s . . . like that.”—and Denki had safely placed Shinsou in his ride or die category.
His other friends were on thin fucking ice.
It was simple things, really, that stacked upon each other. He’d call it a slow descent, if anyone asked, and he hadn’t even been aware it was happening until they were studying for midterms, and Bakugou had lightly swatted his thigh when his attention drifted away from math, and he tried to see if he could inhale pencil shavings.
. . . Don’t ask.
Denki’s thought process was unchartered territory, even to himself.
It was like curtains withdrew, after that. Denki’s third eye opened, and he became hyper cognizant of the way Bakugou slotted himself in the position of his (his??) caregiver with little explanation.
Denki wasn’t even Little!
Yet Bakugou, and everyone else, seemed to think so. While Denki didn’t have anything against Littles—one of his best friends was one, hello—but given how everyone hadn’t even bothered to entertain thoughts of the other dynamics, it just simply pissed him off.
To be honest, Denki hadn’t intended to get high with Shinsou. He hadn’t intended to get high at all when he asked the teen to hang. When he asked that question (“wanna get baked?”), he assumed his friend would decline. Shinsou never seemed interested in that sort of thing, and that’d be the end of that conversation, and Denki would suggest they go to the arcade for a bit.
Except . . . Shinsou hadn’t declined.
He said yes.
And Denki had thought, well, I can’t back down now—what kinda friend would I be?
Now, however, Denki kind of wished he retracted the offer and played it off as a joke. His quirk made it difficult for him to retain a high, and he’d always burn through that haze far quicker than most people. His mouth tasted something awful, and his clothes smelled—his mother was going to kill him—but everything paled in comparison to the grip Bakugou had on his elbow.
“H-Hey, Kacchan,” Denki sputtered and tried, futilely, to squirm out of Bakugou’s hold. “Wh-Where’re we goin’?”
“My place,” said Bakugou.
Denki’s heart carved space in his throat. It hadn’t taken long to reach Bakugou’s house, though Denki might’ve blanked out a bit from sheer confusion at what the hell was going on. Bakugou opened the door and ushered him inside.
“Take your shoes off,” Bakugou ordered quietly, and that soft tone made Denki fumble to obey. “And go upstairs.”
“Just—,” Denki flushed. Just what was Bakugou going to do? “Just wait a min—!”
Bakugou swatted him. As in, on the ass. Denki quieted, from mere shock alone, but his stomach curdled at Bakugou’s eye squint and brisk, “Upstairs. Now.”
Oh, no.
Oh, no.
Denki had regrets. He had so many regrets. He knew where this might head, and he had half a mind to say fuck it and bolt, taking his chances with running away.
He’d die if he ran. Contrary to popular belief, Denki was stupid, sure, but he wasn’t that stupid.
The walk to Bakugou’s room seemed nothing short of a death march. A nervous question about parents revealed that Bakugou’s were out in Tokyo for the weekend. His throat tightened at the realization that they were alone.
At least, Denki thought, dazed, no one will hear . . .?
“You wanna explain?” Bakugou snapped out once he closed the door behind them, bristling with a cold anger that — that Denki hadn’t ever experienced before. “What were you thinking? You’re lucky Mic-sensei and I found you instead of the police.”
Denki hunched his shoulders and swallowed before nervous laughter escaped his mouth. “C-Come on, Bakugou, it’s not that serious—.”
Bakugou released a sharp bark of laughter, tinged in disbelief. “Not that serious?” He repeated in a low tone. It made kill bill sirens blare in Denki’s mind. “Not that serious? You’re kidding, right? You think it isn’t serious that a student of UA’s hero program got high — illegally — in public?”
“B-But no one cared before,” was Denki’s weak refute, and Bakugou, somehow, became more enraged.
“You’ve done it before?” Denki shrunk back at the increase of volume, and Bakugou paused, taking several deep breaths before he relaxed his shoulders. “Alright. Alright. I want your nose in that fucking corner for five minutes, and then we’ll have a talk.”
By Bakugou’s expression, Denki knew their impending talk . . . wouldn’t involve much talking, from Denki, at least. His bottom tingled. He’d never been spanked before, but he’d received enough warning swats from Bakugou’s palm to understand it wouldn’t be a pleasant experience.
“W-What?” Denki sputtered, eyes wide at the order and the implication of getting spanked. Oh, god. “You can’t — You can’t do that!”
Bakugou narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I fucking can—.”
“But you’re not my caregiver,” Denki cried out before he could stop himself, eyes squinted in frustration. “You never — you don’t care about me!” Tears burned the backs of his eyes, and Denki could feel — something tug at the edges of his mind as he struggled to remain coherent. “I know you don’t care about me, and that, that I’m just annoying and a bother, because that’s just who I am,” Denki continued in a lower, wobbling tone. “I know I’m just, just a placeholder for your instincts to-to latch onto until you find a Little—and I know it won’t be me, even if I present as Little, so just . . . stop.”
Bakugou stilled and his expression went chillingly blank; it serrated Denki’s stomach into shreds. His internal organs dissipated at the pace of a snail as Bakugou prowled closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose.
When Bakugou spoke, his voice was soft in a way that sent both warmth and poisoned ice in the pit of what remained of Denki’s stomach. “Don’t care? Placeholder for my instincts? You think I’d be the kind of Dom who’d do shit like that? I’m not. I don’t know where these thoughts are coming from, Pikachu, but believe me when I say that if I, for one second, didn’t want to be your Caregiver, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
Denki hiccuped.
“I would’ve called Tape Dispenser or Raccoon Eyes—fuck, even shitty Deku, for all that it’d piss me off,” Bakugou continued. “I made the choice out of my own free fuckin’ will to take care of you, Denki,” —he startled at the use of his first name, wrapped so intimate and soft on Bakugou’s tongue— “and I don’t half-ass my responsibilities.” Bakugou paused for a moment and took a steadying breath. He struggled to say his next thoughts. “I . . . understand if you’re not comfortable with the idea of me being your Caregiver, and if that’s the case here, then I’ll—.”
“No,” Denki burst out. “I—I do want you to be my caregiver, but, but I’m not Little.”
Bakugou rose an eyebrow at that, as if to challenge the statement, and said, “Sure, you aren’t.”
Denki bristled. “‘M not!”
“Would it be shitty if you were?” Bakugou questioned, almost abruptly, and Denki gave an owlish blink. “Would you rather be Neutral?”
Denki found it a bit insulting Bakugou hadn’t considered the possibility of a Caregiver presentation—but then his mind reminded him what he’d done with Shinsou, and, well. No Caregiver, presented or otherwise, would get high with any Little, especially not one as perpetually anxious and small as Shinsou.
He pondered on Bakugou’s question. It made . . . sense (so much, it lowkey irritated him) when he thought of presenting Little. He never really “acted his age,” and tended to behave like a hyper toddler with access to unlimited electricity.
Of course, not every Little was in the toddler range. Most, actually, were around four to eight, headspace wise. He knew his family had a betting pool going on about his presentation—his sister had gleefully showed him the spreadsheet—and had an entire group chat dedicated to it. His friends, likewise, already treated him like he were Little (see case a: Bakugou).
So.
It wasn’t like he was surrounded by people who wanted him to be Neutral or a Caregiver. Much like his friends, his family essentially treated him as if he were already presented as Little, and while it often perplexed him (especially when he had an earlier bedtime than his younger siblings), it never really bothered him as much as he knew it probably should.
He wouldn’t mind it, being Little . . . but he, also, would very much mind getting spanked. Especially by Bakugou. His muscles alone intimidated Denki.
“I . . . wouldn’t mind being Little,” Denki conceded quietly, and flushed at Bakugou’s knowing smirk. “But I haven’t presented yet, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Uh huh,” said Bakugou. “You’re stalling. I don’t care if you haven’t presented yet, you’re still getting spanked.”
A whine yanked between his teeth. He stomped his foot before he could stop himself and huffed, “But I don’ wan’it!”
‘Not a Little’ my ass, snarked that voice. Denki pointedly ignored it.
“You should’ve thought twice about getting high in public, then,” Bakugou snapped and then narrowed his eyes. “You have two choices here, Denki. Either you let me punish you for this . . . or Sensei will when we’re back at school.”
Denki wanted neither of those options. “Wha—but, but Sensei wasn’t even there.”
“Yamada was, and you’d better believe he explained the situation to Aizawa,” Bakugou said before he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather be suspended, or worse, for public underage drug use or would you rather be over my knee and spanked.”
Denki’s breathed hitched. Think about it, said a voice that sounded suspiciously like Jirou. He could get a mark on his record—or worse; he didn’t know UA’s policy for drug use, but it likely wasn’t good for the user in question—or face punishment over one of his friends’ laps.
A friend that slotted themselves in the position of his caregiver, but a friend, a peer, nonetheless.
“Spa-Spa . . ..” Denki couldn’t even say it. “It’s . . . embarrassing, though!”
“Why should you feel embarrassed?” Bakugou asked with a head tilt, and before Denki could do more than sputter, added, “Is it because you know you did something naughty,”—Denki made a wounded noise at that word, his stomach in twists—“and have to face the consequences?”
Denki flushed bright. “You’re—dude, it’s like, I’m just—can’t you give me lines?” He asked, voice wet and shaky at the prospect of the punishment.
“No.” At his whine, Bakugou sighed lightly. “I’m not going to fucking torture you, Pikachu. You did something you shouldn’t have, and it’s time to accept the consequences. Once it’s done, it’s done. You’ll be forgiven, and we can move on. Got it?”
Denki sniffled. He was so pathetic; nothing had even happened, and yet he was a mess. “Forgiven . . .?”
“Yes,” said Bakugou, as if it were that simple. It probably was. “Forgiven. Now.” Bakugou straightened and Denki, seeing the way the boys’ forearms flexed, knew he would be doomed. “Nose. In the corner. Go.”
Denki hadn’t been in a corner in years (read: four days ago), but he couldn’t remember it ever making him feel so — small, before. Bakugou moved about, clothes rustling. A part of Denki wanted to turn back and see what he was doing, but that voice told him it’d be best if he didn’t.
A distant car horn floated in the air. Denki was partly disbelieving the rest of the world moved on while he was moments away from being over Bakugou’s lap. It was a monumental moment in his life; shouldn’t things stop?
“Denki,” called Bakugou. “Come here, please.”
Denki took a breath to steady himself and made his way to Bakugou. He swallowed at the sight of the teen, perched on the edge of the bed, expression quiet and solemn. “So . . . uh . . .,” Denki played with his fingers, nervous. His high had essentially dispersed at this point. “D-Don’t we need a safe word?”
“We do,” Bakugou agreed. “I don’t care what it is.”
Up to you was left unsaid. “Dunno—tomatoes, I guess?” Denki suggested.
Bakugou raised an eyebrow. “Why tomatoes?”
“They’re gross, Kacchan,” Denki protested, grimacing as he remembered all the times he’d accidentally eaten a tomato. “The texture is disgusting; it’s so slimy and cold!”
Bakugou snorted at that, shaking his head briefly, before he said, “Alright. Our safe words’ tomatoes. Normally we’d have a bit more negotiation before this . . .,” His expression shifted, a bit more stern than Denki was used to seeing. “But it’s a special occasion today, so lucky you,” he added, drier.
“Lucky me,” Denki mumbled.
“So.” Bakugo looked pensive. “Tell me why we’re here.”
His eye twitched. “You already kn—.”
“Denki.”
He exhaled noisily and stared down at his socked feet. “Because . . . Because Shinsou and I got high in public.”
“I don’t think I need to say how things could’ve gone wrong,” Bakugou started in that same tone. Denki wished he’d yell and curse. Quiet Bakugou was a scary one. “I’m glad you and Eye Bags are safe, but that doesn’t change what you did. Now . . . you can either put yourself over my lap or I’ll do it for you.”
Denki grimaced at the options, but felt it’d be better for his dignity if he did it himself. Movements stilted and unsure, Denki laid over Bakugou’s knees. He wasn’t sure where to put his hands, so he folded them by his head.
Bakugou readjusted him to a better position. While it made it easier to breathe, it made Denki feel small and vulnerable . . .
Like a naughty Little bent over their caregivers’ lap. Is his how Shinsou always feels?
When Bakugou reached for the waistband of his pants with a gruff, “These are comin’ off,” Denki’s breath hitched in the middle of his throat at the realization.
“No, Bakugou,” Denki whined, fingers curling around the fabric of his pants to keep it upright. “Don’t take m—ow, ow!”
Bakugou swatted his upper thighs hard, and yanked his pants down as if his hands weren’t in the way. “Unfortunately for you, little brats don’t have an opinion in how they’re punished. Be happy I’m not taking off your underwear.”
Denki could feel his ears redden. “‘M not a brat,” he protested, choosing to focus on that rather than the threat of being bared. He wasn’t sure he’d survive if that happened.
“Sure you aren’t,” Bakugou replied as he rested a hand on the small of Denki’s back. It served a purpose to ground Denki’s nerves and keep his attention in reality. “I’m going to start now.”
Before Denki could open his mouth to stall, a swat landed on the seat of his bottom. He startled at the sudden sting, a cry of shock rippling from his mouth, before he inhaled sharply at the flurry of bristling swats falling on his behind.
He whimpered into the crook of his elbow at the building heat. Tears prickled the edges of his eyes, and he blinked rapidly to make sure they didn’t fall. It was one thing to get spanked by Bakugou, but another to cry about it. His breath hitched, regardless, and he squirmed in a futile attempt to hide from the rain of swats.
“You were reckless today, Pikachu,” Bakugou scolded, and Denki wished he’d stay quiet. Somehow, the use of his nickname made it worse. “You’re a Hero student, Denki; you can’t do what you did today.” Three swats fell on the curve of his bottom, making Denki whimper. “As I said before, you’re lucky it was Mic-sensei and I who found you. You’d be having a different conversation if it were the police.”
Denki squeezed his eyes closed. “I get it,” he croaked out softly. “I’m stupid, you don’t have to spell it o—ow!” Denki inhaled sharply at the harsher swats that fell. “Kacchan!”
“You were not stupid,” Bakugou chastised over the relentless downpour. It seemed never-ending, to Denki. “You were reckless, there’s a difference.”
Denki doubted that, but he wasn’t going to say it. Bakugou decided to focus on his sit-spots and upper thighs, and Denki couldn’t swallow back his quiet sobs. “‘M sorry, Kacchan,” Denki cried, breaths watery and remorseful. “I’ll, I’ll do b-better, ‘m sorry!”
“Good,” said Bakugou. He was so mean! “Neither Sensei and I will be pleased if we have to talk about this again.”
Denki dug his toes into the mattress, weeping at the searing attention he gained from Bakugou’s palm. He was never going to sit again. His ass would be permanently red, and he’d have to stand for the rest of his life, and everyone would know.
Something prickled in the back of his mind, but his thoughts whirled too fast for him to make sense of it.
“We’re done. Hey, shh, we’re finished.” Bakugou’s voice cut through the whirlwind. “You’re did good, Pikachu. Okay? You’re good.”
If anyone asked for some poetic metaphor, Denki would say a dam had shattered in that moment, and the flood drowned everything in its’ path. He went limp over Bakugou’s lap and sobbed as the other teen rubbed his back and murmured assurances.
He hiccuped when Bakugou readjusted him, holding him upright so he wasn’t sprawled over on his stomach. Denki tucked his face in the crook of Bakugou’s neck and distantly hoped the teen wouldn’t mind his tears.
Bakugou didn’t. If anything, Bakugou tightened his grip the longer Denki cried softly.
His tears faded to quiet sniffles and watery hiccups as time drifted. Warmth sunk into his bones as he curled up against Bakugou’s chest, instinctively seeking the comfort the teen offered. The world moved around them as they stayed in place, stationary as Bakugou comforted him.
He . . . didn’t quite know how he felt. His mind was scrambled, though muted as if his thoughts were underwater. His emotions were too tangled for him to make sense of as he drifted in a pool of warmth, secure and safe in strong arms.
“Hey,” said that voice. “Don’t put your fingers in your mouth.”
Denki scrunched his nose. The voice was so rude. His bottom hurt, and his eyes ached from crying; let him soothe himself how he wished. He placed three fingers in his mouth, pointedly, and whined when a hand tugged his fingers away.
“Shh, I’m sorry, but fingers are dirty,” that voice continued, tone softer and warm.
Denki hummed quietly. The world dimmed as that voice murmured quiet assurances and hushes whenever he sniffled loudly enough. He drifted in a daze, surrounded by a floaty warmth he sunk into with ease.
He tipped into a doze at some point, deepened breaths ghosting across a collarbone as he slumbered, and woke to quiet and a sinking sun. Soft huffs of breath scrawled across his forehead and he blinked sleep out of his eyes, squinting when he noticed he was essentially the smaller spoon to Bakugou.
Denki wasn’t a stranger to cuddling; and even though Bakugou was prickly on a good day, who could resist a nice cuddling session? No one, that’s who.
A pacifier—his, apparently; he had vague memories of Bakugou slipping it in his mouth at some point—was partly out of his mouth, and a swipe of his tongue placed it back.
His nose crinkled, slightly, at the soft, cloying scent of an unmistakable Little floated in the spaces between them. He huffed in amusement; quiet musings of bets placed between family and friends.
At least Shinsou won’t be the only class Little, Denki thought to himself and closed his eyes again. He wasn’t that tired, but something about the way Bakugou held him, tucked him close against his side, while sleeping, made Denki reluctant to wiggle about and disperse that serene air.
An ache in his bottom made him remember just how he came into this position, a whimper building in the back of his throat. It wasn’t — pleasant, being over Bakugou’s lap, but it wasn’t entirely awful.
Muffled laughter of neighborhood children drifted through the window. Denki gave the pacifier a few experimental sucks, humming in the back of his throat, and sighed against Bakugou’s collarbone.
Yeah, he thought as he found himself drifting again, lulled by Bakugou’s steady heartbeat. S’not so bad after all.