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It wasn’t ever supposed to happen at school. The scent patches itching against his neck gland was supposed to prevent this. The pathetic thing lies limp beside him, curled at the edges from countless tries sticking it back on. But the patch refuses to attach itself to his rashy skin and so he’s left scratching away at the gland. He digs his nails in and hopes it’ll make him stop producing that nauseating milky scent.
The second someone walks into the bathroom they’ll be hit with a wall of upset Little . If it’s a caregiver he’ll be bombarded by forced comfort, but even neutrals tend to go pathetically soft at the sight of a teary eyed baby-spacer. His neck is wet against his skin, he keeps going. Blood is better than milk and he can’t stop, he can’t let anyone know.
He barely made it to the toilet in the first place. His resolute desire to never ever even look at a pull up, let alone wear one, biting him in the ass when he was walking down the hall and just suddenly couldn’t hold it. And then when he went to press his patch back against his skin, it just falls off. As if it’s one of the cheap drug store ones that people just give away, but no. No, he got the good ones. He got the good ones, they aren’t supposed to fall off. They’re supposed to be reliable, he’s not supposed to have to worry about it. But now he can’t stop fucking crying and he has to pee again and he’s bleeding and he doesn’t even know what time it is.
He forgot his watch at home and though his phone is just in his backpack that’s hanging on the door hook, it feels an insurmountable distance away. So he sits there and uses one hand to jam fingers inside his mouth to just shut up. It’s childish, he knows, it’s far too little-like and the pathetic part of him yearns for a pacifier. But he can’t, he can’t. So he bites on his fingers hard enough to ache and hopes his neck will bleed enough to cover the stench of baby.
A bell rings and it startles him enough he has to clench his thighs together to not have an accident. With how persistent he’s been with his headspace preventing patches, the sudden loss his hitting his biology hard enough to get him wanting to scream. He’s already next to the toilet, all he has to do is get up.
He’s ridiculous. He’s being a big dummy and all he needs to do is just get up!
Not wanting to lose the small comfort of suckling on his fingers, he reaches his hand out to push up on the toilet, needing the help up. But then he sees the red and it’s slick and it smells bad and his hand slips. It startles him enough that he can’t help himself. He can’t help it and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry. He didn’t mean to. His hand is red and his pants are wet and he can’t stop crying. He doesn’t take his fingers out even when it makes him gag.
His clenches his eyes shut and wishes when he opens them it’ll all be a dream. He could wake up again and his patch would do it’s job and he could go to training and he wouldn’t disappoint Aizawa-
The thought gets him sobbing again. Aizawa is gonna hate him. He won’t wanna train him when he finds out he’s just a big baby. Baby’s can’t be heroes. Baby’s can’t be anything at all. Hitoshi was never meant to be anything, but god he wanted to. He wanted to be something more than this.
But now he sits with snot dribbling down into his fingers, the ickiness leaking into his mouth and making him heave again. He can’t stop crying.
He scratches at his gland, not knowing what else to do. Even if they don’t smell his pheromones, surely they’ll hear him. Maybe they’ll even see the puddle and they’ll just know. They’ll know how bad he is. A bad boy, and an even worse little. Bad Toshi.
He wants to wail out, beg someone to help him. But no one’s coming, not for him. A villain turned baby, it’s pathetic really. He’s pathetic, really.
He buries his head in his arms and hates the feeling of wet against his skin. He’s bathed in snot and urine and tears and spit and he’s so fucking disgusting. No wonder his foster parents hate littles so much. They’re awful. Hitoshi is just awful. A gross little boy waiting for someone to come save him.
There’s nothing he can do but wait until his headspace shifts. He just has to be on the cusp, and then he can drag himself back out. He’s not all the way down yet, he won’t let himself be. He can’t. It’s not allowed. He just has to pull himself back up.
So he waits, pretending his skin doesn’t tingle from the beginning of a rash. He keeps crying, not knowing how he’s not dehydrated yet. Well, more than he normally is. He’s sure it’s been a while because another bell rings. If he were bigger he’d know what period he was missing, know how much work he’ll be behind on. But it’s all too much. He sniffles and chews his fingers raw. He’s surprised they’re not bleeding yet. They usually do, when he allows himself the indulgence.
His backpack is right there, all he has to do is stand up and he can grab it. It’s not that hard. All he has to do is stand. Maybe he couldn’t go potty like a big boy, but he can do this. He’s not helpless.
He’s still trying to get his feet to cooperate when the bathroom door opens. He freezes, clamping down on his fingers to keep from releasing any sobs. He slowly covers his neck gland, fruitlessly hoping he can physically block the scent from giving himself away. He doesn’t even sniffle when snot starts dripping, just letting it flow out if it means he’s not heard. He’s trying so hard and yet he still hears a voice call out, “Hitoshi?”
He tries to bite down his whimper but Aizawa must hear him because he says, “kiddo, what’s going on?”
He’s called him Kiddo before, there’s no reason it should make his stomach flip on itself.
Steps approach and there’s nothing he can do. The stall doors don’t go all the way to the floor, all he has to do is crouch down and he’ll see the evidence of his lies. All his hard work to try to get transferred ruined all because he didn’t go get a new box of patches yesterday like he was supposed to. Instead he was stupid and went straight home and rested, like Aizawa had told him to. Stupid Hitoshi, bad Hitoshi.
The footsteps stop right in front of his stall and though he knows it’s futile, he holds his breath.
“Hitoshi, please open the door.” It’s the softest he’s ever heard him. He has to know. He knows and he’s come to tell him not to bother with training anymore, not to bother with school anymore. A little like him doesn’t belong in UA. A little like Hitoshi doesn’t belong anywhere, not at school, not at home. Oh god, what if he tells his foster parents? They’ll be pissed. Hitoshi doesn’t want another spanking. He tries so hard to be good, he doesn’t know why he can’t be good. Little may be his classification but it should have been villain .
He can’t help the cry that stutters out, muffled by his abused and wrinkled fingers.
He hears shuffling, the voice somehow closer. “I just want to help you. I’m not here to judge.” No, he’s just here to rip everything away. He wants to say as much, but all he can do is cry. He wants to tell him to go away, to pretend this never happened, to let himself be humiliated in peace. But he doesn’t move, just says, “you’re not in trouble. I’m not upset with you. I’m just worried.” That’s almost worse.
Even if Hitoshi wanted to open the door, he couldn't. He can’t even get up. He can’t even move out of his own puddle, let alone get the help he needs.
He sniffles, it doing nothing to prevent more snot from dribbling down. “Can you open the door?”
Knowing there’s no way out of this that allows him to keep living as he had been, he makes a whining sound he hopes sounds like a denial. “Okay, that’s okay. Is it alright if I open the door?” He doesn’t know how he would even manage that but this close he surely smells the urine. He has to know what a bad boy he is. The only thing hiding is doing is keeping him from looking him in the eye.
He hums his consent. His hands remain on his throat and in his mouth, hoping if Aizawa can see how hard he’s trying then maybe he won’t yell at him so much. If he yells he’ll just cry again and then he’s more likely to wet himself again. It’s just a cycle. He’s entrapped himself.
He’s not sure what he does but somehow the lock clicks, and the door opens. He can’t shuffle back, already pressed between the potty and the wall. There’s nowhere for him to go.
When he sees his teacher, eyes soft with concern, he weeps. He presses his head against his arm and wails like the infant he was born to be.
“Toshi,” he coos, “can I touch you?” He wants to beg for it, a gentle hand. He’d give it all up if someone would just hold him, just once. But the mere possibility he doesn’t mean gently, that he could mean hurting, he couldn’t handle that. He shakes his head no no no, hating himself for it. “Okay, that’s fine. Are you able to get up?” If he was, he would have ran away already. He would have ran and ran until he found a hidey hole he could curl up in. Somewhere small and dark where no one could ever hurt him again. Instead, he sits and cries in front of the person he’s most admired.
He shakes his head no, loathing himself more with every breath.
Though he doesn’t reach out a hand to touch, he still pumps out his scent sweet and soothing. “That’s fine. You’re doing so good. Can I help you up?” It’s the same thing, he thinks. He’s touching him either way. But if he doesn’t allow it, then he’ll sit covered in pee for the rest of his life. He’ll be stuck here until he chokes on his own tears. So he nods, hoping it won’t hurt.
It doesn’t.
Aizawa glances at his backpack before shrugging it on. Then he slowly and gingerly reaches out. A hand behind his back, one under his legs, he scoops him up like the baby he is. Cradled to his chest he can feel the wetness soaking into Aizawa’s jumpsuit. He whines around his fingers, wiggling to be let down lest he ruin his clothes further.
“I’ve got you, Hitoshi,” he soothes, his caregiver pheromones engulfing them both. He hates the way it makes his shoulders lose their tension, the hand clenching his neck finally easing. Not wanting to get blood on his teacher, he fists his own shirt. Hitoshi can only watch as he’s carried away from the ruined patch littering the floor.
He knows it’s selfish, but he can’t help himself from tucking his face in the teacher's neck, right by the strongest scent gland. He doesn’t know what it’s called, but his pheromones smell sweet and homey. He hides and he hopes if there’s anyone in the hallway they can’t see the tears still streaming down his face.
They don’t walk far. Hitoshi doesn’t get a chance to read the sign beside the door, but as soon as they enter he knows where he is. He immediately starts whining, wiggling with all his might to be dropped, to get a chance to crawl far far away.
“Hey, it’s okay kiddie, I just want to get you cleaned up.” His assurance does nothing to soothe Hitoshi, only furthering his desperation to escape. He starts pushing at the caregivers chest, relinquishing his hand from his mouth to get more strength. “What’s going on?” He asks, completely unaffected by his squirming.
He whimpers, grabbing at Aizawa’s hands to try to force him to drop him. He doesn’t, no good caregiver would ever drop a little. “This is a Little Care room,” god like Hitoshi doesn’t know. Everyone in this fucking school knows what this is. He knows what happens to bad littles when they misbehave, where they get brought. He was at the sports festival, he knows what they did to Bakugou.
He can’t handle getting spanked by his mentor. His foster parents are one thing, Hitoshi deserves that. But this is Aizawa, this is Erasurehead. He can’t- he can’t he spanked. His bruises haven’t even healed yet, he can’t handle another one. He’ll break into fragmented pieces all over his lap.
“What’s on your mind, Hitoshi?” He asks, somehow still seemingly patient even after how annoying he’s being.
He has so many things he wants to say and his tongue can’t form the words. It’s endlessly frustrating and there’s nothing he can do but whimper.
That seems to be answer enough, because Aizawa says, “let’s sit down for a minute.” Conveniently, there’s a couch right against the wall. And he can only pray it’s not where discipline is dealt. Shrugging off the backpack, he sits down. “I don’t want you to be any more afraid than you already are.” That’s asking the impossible. “I’m not going to hurt you.” If he gives the whole this is hurting me more than it hurts you thing then Hitoshi might actually just kill himself.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” he says, “there are some extra clothes in here I want to change you in. And if you’re comfortable with it, I’d like to clean you up a bit.” Just the reminder of his accident has him cringing, shoving his thumb in his mouth for comfort. “And then we can figure out next steps. Right now, I just want to get you clean and dry. How does that sound?” Hitoshi shrugs, knowing if words didn’t leave him completely he’d still not know what to say. The last thing he needs, afterall, is to be accused of attempted illegal quirk usage.
Aizawa sighs, a horrible sound. Hitoshi can’t help but shrink in on himself. “Would you feel more comfortable with someone else helping you?” To that it’s a quick and decisive no no no no no-
“Okay,” he has a bit of a smile to his voice, the only hopeful thing that’s happened so far. “Do you think you can clean yourself up, or are you okay with me helping?” Not quite sure how to answer without words, he just leans back against him, nuzzling his shoulder, hoping it’s enough.
It is. Aizawa smiles at him, and his ribs loosen a bit from their chokehold against his heart. Standing up, he stays securely in the caregivers arms. Knowing a spanking isn’t on the immediate agenda embarrassingly eases a large portion of his anxiety, allowing him to be held without another fight.
The teacher brings him over to a tall cabinet, opening it to reveal organized bins labeled of different types and sizes of clothing. He doesn’t hesitate to reach for the bin labeled pamaja’s. Aizawa lays out two options on the shelf in front of him, “which one do you want to wear?” Though his cheeks redden, he points to the cat themed onesie, not even considering the truck themed set.
Aizawa doesn’t try to hide his smile. He lays it beside the changing table that Hitoshi was trying awfully hard not to pay attention to. He then grabs a diaper, wipes, and rash cream, immediately triggering another bout of fussing. He shakes his head, shifting and turning so he slips out of his grip.
“Toshi, I don’t want you to have another accident. You don’t have to use it, it’s just in case.” But that’s the problem! If he puts it on then Hitoshi’s hands will be too clumsy to be able to take it back off. Then he’ll use it and he’ll prove how infantile he is once and for all.
“Are you sure you will able to make it to the potty?” As much as Hitoshi wants to lie, he knows Aizawa will be able to tell. So he hides his face instead, sucking his thumb furiously. Hitoshi is so focused on pouting he doesn’t notice what Aizawa grabs until there’s a pacifier being waved in front of his face. He hesitates, hating how much he wants.
A gentle smile. “Go on, it’s yours.” Hitoshi has never been a strong kid. He grabs it, suckling greedily with a content hum. It has no right to feel so good.
With the comforting weight in his mouth, he’s far too docile when Aizawa lays him down against the changing table. He knows he could try to roll off, but something tells him the caregiver won’t let him fall.
Aizawa eases him out of his shirt first, the easy part. He puts the dirty clothing in a conveniently placed plastic bag. He pauses a moment, before laying a hand on his stomach. Ensuring he stays put, he leans over and grabs something else. Hitoshi doesn’t see what it is until he takes a different kind of wipe to begin cleaning at his neck. He hisses at the contact, trying to cover the wound.
“You’re bleeding, kiddie, this will help.” That doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. He makes his protest known with loud whines as the caregiver diligently cleans the many scratches. Seemingly content with his work, he shows him the large cat themed bandage he picked out before applying it with some ointment to his gland. The itch immediately eases, a relieved sigh falling from his lips.
With that taken care of, he brings his attention to the rest of his clothes. He pulls off each shoe, Hitoshi suddenly embarrassed at his choice of stained white socks. Aizawa pays them no mind when he slips them off, going in the bag.
When he goes to take off his pants, Hitoshi grabs his wrist, hoping he’ll ignore the trembling of his own hand.
“I promise, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to clean you up, apply some cream, and then get you changed. That’s it.” Though his voice is reassuring and his scent is so incredibly comforting, his own stays sour. He can’t stop him from seeing though. So as much as he wants to flop off the table and crawl away, he knows he won’t get far. All he’ll do is get more bruises.
Aizawa carefully removes his pants, revealing calloused knees. When he reaches for his underwear, though he knows his teacher would never take advantage of him that way he still looks away, tears leaking onto the table. Aizawa must notice because his scent only pumps stronger into the air. He pulls it down, sticky against his legs. He hears the click of the baby wipes container opening, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
When his legs are lifted he hears the almost inaudible gasp. There’s only a small pause before he’s carefully and quickly cleaned. Politely ignoring his full body quivering, he applies the cream so gently it hardly irritates the deep bruising along his bottom and thighs. The diaper has no right to be so soft against his injuries.
Without a word, he’s slipped into the footsie pajamas, the softest thing he’s ever worn.
When they’re done, he’s scooped back up and carried back to the couch. Cradled against his chest, the caregiver whispers, “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you like that again.”
Tears spring to his eyes. Maybe they never left. He presses his head forward, nuzzling into the caregivers scent gland and hoping he hears the silent gratitude. He holds him like that for a few minutes, a hand rubbing soothingly up and down his back. His fingers rise and fall with each knob of his spine. Hitoshi closes his eyes, pacifier bobbing in his mouth. He gets to pretend everything could actually be okay for a moment, before he’s pulled back to reality.
“Toshi, I gotta stand up and put the stuff away.” The little one immediately grumbles, hoping his pout is blatant even if Aizawa can’t see it. “I’m not going to put you down.” That has no right to immediately soothe his fussing. He allows himself to be transferred to the teachers hip before they make their way across the room. He lays his head on his shoulder, not bothering to watch him put away the wipes and creams. His eyes unfocus as he hears the caregiver give the changing table a quick scrub down. The bag of dirty clothes is then tied to his backpack.
He perks back up when they sit back down, Aizawa pulling out his phone. He rapidly begins typing one handed, far too fast for Hitoshi’s little brain to keep up with. He huffs, settling back down. It’s a few more minutes of savoring the cuddle before Aizawa speaks again. “I’m a licensed emergency foster caregiver, I just put in the request to pull you from your current home and take you in.”
That gets him sitting back up. He doesn’t allow himself to feel embarrassed about his position on the caregivers lap, instead quickly shaking his head.
“Why no ?” Aizawa asks, brow furrowed. “Was it someone else who put those bruises on you?”
His face reddens at the proof of his punishment. It was his own fault anyway, wetting the bed like a real baby. He’s a teenager, little or not he should be past that.
He can’t exactly denying it, having no one else to point the finger at but himself.
“You’re not safe there. I’m sorry I didn’t see the signs sooner, but please let me help you now.” It’s not his fault though. It’s Hitoshi’s. He’s the bad guy. He’s the one who’s lied and kept secrets and ruined every fucking foster home in the province. This was his last chance. They said if he fucks this one up too then there’s no more homes close enough to UA for him to continue attending. He can’t leave. They’re not the worst family he’s stayed with, anyway. A spanked bottom is nothing compared to the punishments he used to have.
He shakes his head again, grunting with frustration. He pulls the paci out of his mouth, opening and closing his mouth. Eventually he stutters out the word, “can’t.”
Aizawa only looks more confused. “Can’t what?”
His mouth can’t remember the shape of the words he needs to say. That he can’t move again. He can’t stay in another foster home. He can’t pretend like Aizawa actually wants him just to be dumped two days later. He can’t leave UA. Even if he never gets into the hero course, this is the first school he’s been at that doesn’t completely suck. He can’t keep doing this anymore.
When it’s clear he won’t be able to verbalize his thoughts, Aizawa says, “I understand if you’re not comfortable with me taking you in, but I can’t just let you stay in an abusive home. Morally or legally.”
He shakes his head, knowing Aizawa won’t understand but not knowing what else to do. It’s all so confounding and frustrating and he just wants to go back to being held. He just wants to pretend again, like it could all magically get better. Like he’s not an unlovable broken villain at heart.
He doesn’t even notice he’s scratching at the bandage until Aizawa is taking hold of his hand. He gently pulls it away, rubbing at his knuckles. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t even scold him. He just takes a breath, then asks, “do you feel safe with me?” Hitoshi doesn’t have to think before he nods yes. “Good,” he almost smiles. “Do you trust me?” Before today, after the sports festival he would have said no. But now, now he can’t help but nod again. “Do you feel safe at your current foster home?” Though they both know the answer he still shakes his head. “Okay. You’re doing good, kiddie, just a couple more.” He can’t help but preen at the praise.
“Do you feel comfortable with me and my husband taking you in as our foster little?” Though his brain stutters at the mention of a partner, it doesn’t change his answer. Yes.
Aizawa smiles, the biggest he’s ever seen. “I’m so proud of you, Hitoshi.” He doesn’t think he’s ever done a single thing in his life worthy of pride, but the praise still further loosens his ribs from his encaged heart. “I’ll grab your stuff and then we can head home.”
It’s a simpler affair from there. Aizawa easily carries all his things as well as the little. It’s only once they get to his car that he pauses, asking him to sit in the back seat while he sets up the car seat. Apparently there’s a spare in the trunk, allowing him to install it with ease. Though Hitoshi wants to protest, he doesn’t want to have to take his pacifier back out of his mouth. He suckles and hopes his compliancy isn’t seen as pathetic.
Hitoshi doesn’t think the ride is long, but admittedly he is distracted by the plush bumblebee attached to the side of the seat. It successfully occupies him until they arrive at the house. He doesn’t get a clear look at it, too busy fussing after the plush when Aizawa tries to take him out. He easily hushes him with a small bounce, assuring they’ll get some toys inside.
The husband isn’t there when they enter, to Hitoshi’s relief. Though he’s sure Aizawa would never have a bad partner, it’s still a stranger. And strangers are scary.
As if reading his mind, “Hizashi’s just gone out to get some supplies. He’ll be back soon.” Something about the name urges something in his brain. But such big thoughts are too much, all he wants to do is cuddle up and take a nap.
He leans against the caregivers shoulder, lazily sucking on the pacifier. He knows he should be more anxious. But he’s just so tired. The man putters about a bit before they’re sitting again. This couch is so much comfier, plush and deep.
Aizawa shifts him to sit across his lap, leaning against one of his arms for support. The pacifier is eased from his mouth. Before he can start crying at the loss a bottle is brought to his lips. When he doesn’t latch on right away, it’s brought closer. The sweet scent of formula is too enticing to pass up. He drinks greedily, trying to force faster mouthfuls at the drag of flow. When he sputters a bit, Aizawa pulls the bottle back.
“Slow down, Toshi, it’s not going anywhere.” There’s no malice in his voice, just something warm. He doesn’t know what it is, but it leaves him boneless. He does slow, just a bit. The more he drinks the harder it is for him to keep his eyes open. At some point Aizawa started humming, and all determination to stay away just seeps out of him. He doesn’t think he finished his bottle but for once, he’s not worried.