Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hitoshi had the naïve thought that the rehab program was awful—though don’t get him wrong, it was an awful experience for everyone involved, even those who entered the program voluntarily—but it had nothing on who he’d be living with.

While he hadn’t been outright told who would “take care” of him once he was released from the program, Hitoshi guessed it was Eraserhead. Not only had the man visited the center far too many times to count, he was too invested into Hitoshi’s “recovery” to remain a mere ‘concerned pro’. Point was, Hitoshi hadn’t been surprised to learn he would live with Eraserhead.

Hitoshi was surprised when Present Mic pulled up to U.A. instead of an apartment or house like Hitoshi expected. No one bothered to tell Hitoshi Eraserhead mostly lived full-time in U.A.’s dorms ever since All Might’s retirement. He almost screamed when those gates rose into view—and the urge increased when Eraserhead handed him an ID card and added him to the security system.

If Eraserhead didn’t have such an ironclad grip on his hand, if Hitoshi weren’t so apprehensive to the consequences of running, Hitoshi would’ve booked it the moment they stepped out of the car.

Hitoshi stalled the best he could and almost dug the heels of his feet into the ground to keep Eraserhead’s pace as slow as possible—but squeaked from surprise when Eraserhead gave him an unimpressed look and . . . picked him up.

It wasn’t the first time Hitoshi had been picked up from a Caregiver, but it never failed to make him squirm. “I, I, I can wa-walk, Eraserhead—.”

“Aizawa Shouta,” said Eraserhead. At Hitoshi’s owlish blink, he added, “My name. You don’t need to refer to me by my hero name, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi wasn’t sure how he felt about knowing Eraserhead’s—Aizawa’s name. About knowing where he slept. “O-Okay.” Hitoshi tapped his bottom lip with a finger. “D-Down?”

“Not yet,” Aizawa responded. They rounded a corner and a dorm labeled Heights Alliance rose into view. “I want to introduce you to my class before we head to my dorm for a nap.”

Hitoshi crinkled his nose. “Why?”

“They need to be aware of your presence,” Aizawa said with a sigh. “It’s one thing to hear that I’m taking you in, but it’s another thing entirely to see you.”

Ugh.

Hitoshi didn’t want to be surrounded by heroes, baby ones or otherwise. He knew he could kiss any and all escape attempts goodbye. Not only was U.A. expansive and a headache to maneuver, their security system wasn’t a joke. He had no doubts that he would get discovered within minutes of not being where he was supposed to.

And there’s no way U.A. would let a villain, Little or otherwise, walk about its’ halls without some sort of chaperone.

Annoying.

He rested his head against Aizawa’s shoulder and sighed. As they neared the front entrance of the dorms, Hitoshi closed his eyes. It was stupid of him, but Hitoshi wasn’t in the mood to see the bright-eyed face of baby heroes—and he definitely didn’t want to see their expressions once they learned he was a villain.

Cries of “Sensei” and “welcome back” floated in the air. Footsteps scrambled in their direction, and Hitoshi pressed his face against the curve of Aizawa’s neck when he heard murmurs and exclamations about his presence.

“This is Hitoshi. He’s going to be my charge from now on,” Aizawa explained to his class. “As you can see, he’s also Little. Hitoshi, do you want to say hi?” Aizawa asked him in a quiet tone. Hitoshi’s stomach curdled. Heroes shouldn’t sound so gentle when they spoke to him . . .

Hitoshi shook his head and pressed two fingers into his mouth.

“Aww~,” cooed one of the students. “He’s shy; how cute!”

“You think everything is cute!”

“I do not!”

“I will be in the teachers’ dorms if you need me,” Aizawa informed over the rising squabble. “Try not to cause trouble.”

Once Aizawa was assured his class wouldn’t cause trouble, they were off to the teachers’ dorms. Hitoshi pretended to be half-asleep when they arrived, just so he wouldn’t have to interact with the pro heroes in the common room area. Aizawa seemed more convinced Hitoshi needed the nap—which he didn’t—and kept conversations short until they were in the dorm.

It couldn’t be called a dorm; more like a small apartment.

Hitoshi’s eye twitched. Hadn’t U.A. built these dorms in a few days? Interesting. He remained quiet and “sleepy” as Aizawa helped him out of his shoes. Hitoshi didn’t need help, of course, since his classification didn’t mean he was useless, but in order to keep his façade (in order to make it work—), Hitoshi needed to be as complaint as he could.

“No’ tired,” Hitoshi insisted around a yawn. He blinked and rubbed the heel of his palm against one of his eyes. He was probably laying it on a bit too much, but he’d have a sleepy tantrum if that’s what it took to break through Aizawa’s caution.

Aizawa’s expression softened. If Hitoshi were another person, he might’ve said it was fond. “Of course,” Aizawa murmured and ushered Hitoshi toward one of the bedrooms. “We can have a tour after your nap, okay?”

“’Kay,” Hitoshi replied, quiet and soft.

He obeyed Aizawa’s instructions to use the bathroom and hadn’t complained when he got dressed in a pajama set—which wasn’t cute, but it absolutely was; purple and patterned in kitten paws. He quietly gave himself points when Aizawa pressed a warm bottle of formula in his hands—and then decided to sit with him in a rocking chair.  

The room—Hitoshi wasn’t going to call it his because it wasn’t—was a typical nursery room, if Hitoshi were honest. Nothing about it made Hitoshi give it the stink-eye. He knew Aizawa was aware of his headspace age and made the appropriate adjustments for it like the rehab program did. Unlike Denki, who disappeared before his headspace age could be documented, Hitoshi had done the opposite.

Though it was more like Hitoshi hadn’t known he wanted to disappear until—

Anyway.

Aizawa rocked him slowly as he drank the formula. His back was rubbed in soothing circles and combined with the steady rhythm and warmth curling in his stomach, Hitoshi’s eyes were actually getting heavy.

Fuck; Hitoshi was actually getting sleepy.

He worked his way through a good portion of the formula before he pulled it away from his mouth, murmuring under his breath when Aizawa asked him if he wanted more. Aizawa rocked him for a bit longer before he decided Hitoshi was ‘practically asleep’, rising to his feet.

Aizawa rested him down in the bed and took a few minutes to make sure he was comfortable. He pressed a pacifier against Hitoshi’s lips, who hadn’t made any protesting noises at the object. “Sleep well,” Aizawa murmured and carded fingers through Hitoshi’s hair. It made him ache because it wasn’t real and Hitoshi wanted it to— “I’ll wake you in an hour, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi waited until thirty minutes passed. He climbed out of the bed—not a crib, not a crib, he chanted to himself—and tiptoed to the window. He hoped there wasn’t an alarm on the window and that baby monitor hadn’t picked up his movements, either. He heard the distant sounds of a TV and running water; Aizawa was distracted.

If there was any time to move . . .

He eyed the lock on the window and reached for it. His fingers turned the latch with a soft noise. He opened it with a few inches and waited, but no alarms were sounded. No robots burst into the room, screaming about his behavior.

 You got this, Hitoshi thought to himself and took a steadying breath. You can do this! You’ve escaped far worse situations before. He inched the window open a bit more. He just needed a bit more, and then he could slip out with a bit of wiggle room—

“I believe I said it was naptime, Hitoshi,” said Aizawa, in a voice that made Hitoshi’s heart crawl out of his lungs. It sent the world down around his ears as he picked up, plucked off his feet as though he weighed little more than a bag of chips. “Not ‘become an escape artist’ time.”  

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Hitoshi was not having a good time.

Throwing Dabi’s advice out of the window, Hitoshi plotted for his escape. He knew better than to write anything down—and anything he did write down was in a code only decipherable to himself, and if they did manage to break it (read: Nezu), it would spell out a string of nonsense—and utilized his memory to remember the pathways.

He had been given a tour on his third day in Aizawa’s care. They hadn’t showed him everything, of course, because for all that Hitoshi was Little, he was still a villain. It didn’t matter if Littles weren’t officially (and, to some extent, depending upon what said Little had done, socially) recognized as villains, Hitoshi had been exposed to those darker parts of society.

U.A. wouldn’t take any chances. Not until Hitoshi proved himself trustworthy, at least. He likely hadn’t (wouldn’t), given his first attempt at escape took place the first day he’d arrived on campus. Much to his disbelief, Aizawa hadn’t really punished him for his supposed escape. Hitoshi hadn’t done much, only opened the window, if barely, but he had been scolded and warned that escape attempts were prohibited by the terms of his probation. Aizawa had then put him down for a nap, staying in the room until he had fallen asleep.

Hitoshi had expected a lock to be placed on his window and had been surprised to find there hadn’t been any tampering. That was before he had noticed the baby monitor, though, and that seemed to be glued in place. Aizawa never failed to put him in timeout if he tried to mess with it, as well, and Hitoshi was quickly becoming tired of that damn timeout stool.

A mix of emotions followed him as U.A. grew accustomed to his presence. He couldn’t say whether it was an even mix—some were disinterested in his presence, thought he was harmless, or distrusted him on sight and thought he were trying to ruin U.A. from the inside. Curiously enough, faculty and staff warmed up to him quicker than the students.

It likely had something to do with how Aizawa carried him around everywhere (or held his hand as if he were some fucking toddler predisposed to wander off and get lost), and how his scent flowed, unhindered by scent patches and blockers (no matter how many times he begged, Aizawa refused to purchase them, and it wasn’t like Hitoshi could get them himself), and pronounced to the world at large he was a baby™️. His lack of action helped, too, given the only thing he did that could be “marked against him” was attempt escape. He seldom interacted with others, especially the students, and hadn’t harmed anyone, either.

Hitoshi privately thought everyone needed common sense. Why else would they lower their guard around a villain if they didn’t have it?

Within the first two weeks of being in Aizawa’s care, Hitoshi settled into a semblance of a routine despite his internal dismay. He would be in therapy from 9 A.M.-11 A.M. on Mondays and Wednesdays (a great time where he was supposed to talk about his emotions with some government-backed stranger). Aizawa would retrieve him for lunch and a nap, in that order, and he would spend his evenings in the staffroom. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and (sometimes) Saturdays, Aizawa would bring him along to lessons. Mostly the practical ones, which allowed Hitoshi to gain a deeper understanding of the training baby heroes underwent. If Hitoshi were in the classroom with Aizawa, he would often color or take a nap in Aizawa’s sleeping bag.

(He refused to admit how comforting that sleeping bag was.)

A part of Hitoshi dreaded Fridays if he were honest.

Those were when he would meet with Nezu for most of the morning. If this were another life, Hitoshi might not have had a problem with the principal. But Nezu liked to psychoanalyze him more than his therapist as they talked or played a Little-friendly board game, being empathizing and understanding to a degree that made Hitoshi want to cry.

Sundays were often a free day, for lack of a better word. He stayed in the nursery in Aizawa’s dorm until Aizawa dragged him out for something. Mostly for food and social interaction. For a pro hero who often took jobs he could complete alone, Aizawa was quite adamant Hitoshi socialize with others that weren’t a stuffed toy.

Aside from the daily happenings at U.A., Hitoshi returned to the rehabilitation center biweekly for an hour and a half, going through a “check-in” of sorts with his case worker.

When Hitoshi would be in the staffroom, however, there would always be at least three other faculty members around, and at least one Caregiver. A decent sized playpen had been built and set up (courtesy of Power Loader) near Aizawa’s desk, but out of the way, so it wouldn’t disturb anyone. Once placed inside it, Hitoshi would only be allowed to leave it if a) Aizawa removed him from it or b) he needed to use the bathroom.

It was there Hitoshi decided to try his next escape plan.

It had been almost three weeks since his previous one (he could check ‘escape while Aizawa sleeps’ off as an immediate failure; Aizawa having some demonic second sense even in slumber), and he could see they were relaxing their metaphorical walls. It was a decent plan, really. He would ask to use the bathroom and escape through the windows. He would leave through the vents, but he wasn’t tall enough to reach them—even when standing on a toilet.

(He had tried, and he had failed, and Aizawa had even given him a few swats in the bathroom stall because “that was dangerous, Hitoshi; you could’ve fallen and gotten hurt” and because the pro hero was an asshole.)

While there were two others in the staffroom, Hitoshi focused on Present Mic. Everyone knew how easygoing and soft the man was, even for a Caregiver. Hitoshi wasn’t underestimating the man, of course—one didn’t rise to the top thirty by twenty-years-old without a shred of intelligence and cunningness, after all—but he thought he would have an easier time deceiving the man with his attempt.

Hitoshi waited until Present Mic looked distracted from his laptop, waving a hand near the mans’ peripheral until the attention he wanted.

Present Mic smiled at him. “What’s up, sweetheart?”

Hitoshi removed the pacifier from his mouth (and that was another thing Aizawa insisted he used just because he liked to put fingers in his mouth; sue him), murmuring, “Gotta pee.” 

“One bathroom trip coming up!”

(Hitoshi was surrounded by nerds.)

Like he had expected, Present Mic hadn’t followed him into the bathroom, preferring to wait outside the door. Hitoshi waited for a minute or two before he stepped onto the toilet, having chosen the bathroom stall with a window above it, and reached for the window latch.

“You doin’ okay, Toshi-chan?” Present Mic called through the door. Hitoshi paused in his actions, not wanting any suspicious sounds to catch the Pros’ ear. “You’ve been in there for a hot minute, listener. Need help?”

“N-no,” Hitoshi answered, inwardly cursing when he stuttered. “I’m fine. I’m almost done.”

“Okay~!”

It’s the final hour, Hitoshi thought, grim and determined. He opened the window and wiggled out, feet hitting the ground after a short jump. He didn’t waste time in leaving. He should probably run, but he knew those stupid security robots were programmed to pick up that movement, and he didn’t want anything to be reported to Nezu.

The little rat would absolutely want to talk about it during one of their ‘teatime’ sessions, and Hitoshi would rather die.

Hitoshi rounded the corner—and made a disgruntled noise when plucked off the ground. He hated these stupid heroes acting as if he weighed less than a piece of paper. “Nice try, little Listener,” said Present Mic, kind but stern, as he readjusted his grip to be more comfortable. “But I’m not as gullible as you might think. Unfortunately for you and your naughty behavior.”

A pout formed. His stomach wriggled. “I’ll be out of your hair if you just let me go,” Hitoshi suggested, tone edging toward pitiful begging, as he squirmed. “You can be Hitoshi-free forever!”

Present Mic only snorted.

Asshole, Hitoshi decided.

Everyone on this damned campus were assholes.

“There’s our naughty baby~,” greeted Midnight when Present Mic opened the staffroom door. Hitoshi shrunk back at the sea of eyes trained onto him, a mixture of amused and sternness. His gaze settled on the familiar silhouette of Aizawa, and he swallowed. “He give you any trouble, Mic?”

“Nope,” Present Mic said in an annoying singing tone, setting him on his feet.

If he were an idiot, he might have taken a chance and bolted, but he knew his chances were in the negatives. He would be caught before he could take two steps.

(And who knew how Aizawa would react to that? He might swat Hitoshi in public.)

Aizawa had, somehow, brought over the fucking timeout stool from the dorms. It was clear what he expected Hitoshi to do, given his no-nonsense stare and finger-point toward the stool. Conveniently placed in a corner near his desk. Hitoshi wanted it to burn. “Ten minutes of timeout, Hitoshi.” Aizawa raised an eyebrow at the soft pout, adding, “You know our rules.”

Hitoshi made his way toward the stool as if he were walking to his death. He might as well have been. Aizawa carded fingers through his hair when he settled onto the stool, murmuring a gentle, “Thank you for listening,” before he left Hitoshi to his timeout.

He listened to teachers come and go, chatting with one another as if Hitoshi weren’t in the corner. He sniffled a few times, eyes prickling with distant tears. His breath trembled around a hiccup, and a part of him wanted to scream. Don’t be a baby, Hitoshi scolded himself as his throat started to ache. It’s just timeout; calm down.

“Eraser~,” said Present Mic, and a desk creaked beneath additional weight a moment later. Hitoshi figured the blond leaned against Aizawa’s desk. “Did you finish those evaluations for the third years yet? I wanna see how my little protégé is doing~.”

He placed two fingers in his mouth to soothe himself, sniffling.

“You’ll see how Honda-san is doing when she gets her results like everyone else,” Aizawa responded in his typical gruff manner. Fingers tapped against a keyboard, followed by a few clicks. Hitoshi wondered if Aizawa was sending out emails. “Don’t you have grading to do, Mic?”

“So mean~!”

There was the soft noise of impact, a hand slapping against a clothed arm, and Present Mic squawked in protest. Hitoshi tried not to smile around his fingers, sternly reminding himself that he was upset for being punished when he did nothing wrong. A part of him ached to turn around and watch the chaos of a bunch of Pro Heroes working together, so familiar and friendly with each other it sometimes made Hitoshi ache and grieve, remembering the people he’d left behind when admitted to the rehab program. 

“Toshi,” said Aizawa, almost abruptly, and jolted Hitoshi out of his thoughts. “Fingers out of your mouth, sweetheart.”

Hitoshi removed his fingers with a darkening scowl. He couldn’t wait until he left—there would be no more annoying Caregivers telling him to stop putting his fingers in his mouth there are germs, Hitoshi. He sniffled a few times and shifted. At least Aizawa wasn’t an asshole who demanded Hitoshi be utterly still and silent in timeout.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he sat on the stool, but it slowly turned into a lifetime.

“Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi practically spat his fingers out of his mouth, whined—and, to his imminent mortification, started to cry. Hitoshi despised timeouts: they sent his headspace out of whack, in his opinion. Yanking those little parts of him to the forefront and sending his emotions haywire. He hated crying in public, too. Everyone always looked at him with those soft expressions afterwards, further categorizing him as a minimal threat.

He made a soft noise when the bulb of a pacifier slipped into his mouth. “Use that instead, sweetie,” Aizawa murmured and soothingly patted his back for a moment, easing his soft crying.

“Someone’s in need of a nap,” whispered Midnight, almost cooing at the way Hitoshi sniffled. “Would you like me to make his bottle?”

A part of Hitoshi wanted to screech that no, he didn’t need one, and wasn’t even tired, but knew how that would be perceived. He would be put down for a nap faster than he could stomp his foot onto the ground for emphasis.

“Please,” said Aizawa. Hitoshi sniffled again and closed his eyes; they ached at his earlier tears. He heard the familiar noise of his playpen being cleared of toys and other items, Aizawa placing down blankets, pillows, and a few stuffed animals Hitoshi liked to have when he napped there. “Two more minutes, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi would be, like, fifty, by the time his timeout finished.

The electronic kettle whistled by the time Aizawa’s timer went off. Hitoshi slumped with relief at the familiar sound. He really hated timeout—and it was likely why Aizawa placed him there instead of doing something asinine and boring, like lines. He turned around and sniffled, feeling small enough that he made grabby hands in Aizawa’s direction.

Aizawa softened and picked him up. “Ready for your nap?”

Hitoshi rested his head on Aizawa’s shoulder, humming. “Uh huh.” He could always go for a nap. The less time he had to interact with the heroes, the better.

“Here’s your formula, hun~.” Midnight pressed the bottle into his hands, and he accepted the warm drink with sleepy eagerness. “Have a good nap~.”

Aizawa removed his pacifier when it looked like Hitoshi would simply let it drop to the floor, placing it on his desk. Hitoshi gave a noncommittal hum and slipped the bottle into his mouth, scent going pleased at the warmth pooling into his stomach as he drank. Aizawa took a seat, situating Hitoshi on his lap, and returned to his laptop, arms boxing Hitoshi in. Given Aizawa feared choking, he didn’t like it when Hitoshi lied down for a nap and drank formula.  

Hitoshi ignored the typical chaos of the staffroom, nursing his formula. He closed his eyes at some point, humming whenever Aizawa rubbed his back in a soothing manner. He drifted in and out as he drank, steadily depleting the liquid, and managed to drink about two-thirds before he stopped.

“Finished?” said Aizawa, even though it were obvious, and placed the bottle on the desk. Aizawa continued rubbing his back, soothingly lulling him to a sleepy daze. “I’ll wake you in an hour, okay?”

Hitoshi pressed two fingers against his bottom lip, humming, “Mhm,” with a slow nod, before he whined when Aizawa replaced his fingers with his pacifier. “No p’ci.”

“Yes, paci.” Aizawa rose to his feet, ignoring the way Hitoshi tiredly grumbled and whined. “Fingers are dirty, sweetheart. We don’t put them in our mouths.”

Hitoshi sniffled, but calmed when Aizawa ran a soothing hand down his spine. Aizawa laid him down in the playpen and tucked him in with the blankets. Hitoshi blindly reached for one of the stuffed animals, making a pleased noise when his fingers grasp the tail of the cat plushie. That was one thing Aizawa had, somehow, noticed immediately: how much Hitoshi adored cats.

Noise simmered low as Hitoshi drifted, the heroes cognizant that disturbing him from that delicate balance of not quite awake, but not quite asleep, either. He knew Aizawa wouldn’t be pleased if anyone disturbed him, either, knowing how difficult it could sometimes be when Hitoshi was abruptly pulled from slumber before he was ready.

Slumber murmured in his ear, wrapping around him in a comforting embrace. An old friend he never failed to greet with warmth.

Hitoshi knew he should have listened to his instincts. When Izuku asked if he and Denki would ‘scope out’ the area and analyze the heroes patrolling it, there had been a churn in his gut that made him hesitate. Hitoshi would’ve said no if Denki hadn’t of spoken first, cheerfully agreeing to the offer. His instinct of going terribly wrong was confirmed when it proved to be a fucking trap only two minutes in.

He barely had time to breathe and think of an escape plan, the influx of Caregiver pheromones drenching the environment and making his head spin, when soft footfalls sounded behind him.

“Excuse me?” A drawled voice, low and dangerous, sent shivers up Hitoshi’s spine. His mind raced. Where the fuck was Denki? “I was told villains attacked . . . but I only see a naughty little boy.”

Hitoshi flushed and turned around. He blanched when the man — no, when Eraserhead — stepped into view, his stomach squirming at the language used by the pro hero . . . no, the Caregiver. “I — f-fuck off!” Hitoshi managed to say, tongue dry and stone in his mouth. “I’m—I’m not naughty.”

He hated that word so much.

Eraserhead clucked his tongue, unimpressed. “What were you hoping to accomplish with your tantrum? Attention?” A smile curled on Eraserhead’s lips. Hitoshi shuddered at its’ sight and took a nervous step back, wringing his wrists in a nervous manner. “Congratulations, Mind Blank. You have it.”

Hitoshi swallowed; that displeased Caregiver scent rippling in the air. It made a whine build in the back of his throat. The skin of his scent gland prickled, a tell of scent patch malfunction. “I, I’m not . . ..” He took another step back; Eraserhead looked amused. Asshole. “I’m not throwing a – a tantrum.” His heart fluttered at Eraserhead’s nonplussed hum. “I’m not!”

His voice broke. Hitoshi wanted to set the entire fucking place on fire, never mind that’s Dabi’s go-to when frustrated.

“You are,” said Eraserhead, and Hitoshi squeaked in alarm when the man stepped forward. For every step Hitoshi took back, Eraserhead took two steps forward. Whines floated from the back of his throat as the displeasure in Eraserhead’s scent strengthened, the man becoming even more determined to—do what, Hitoshi did not want to find out. “Your behavior has been extremely naughty, Mind Blank. Ever since your little ‘debut’ as a villain, in fact.” Eraserhead seemed to grow taller, looming above Hitoshi’s hunched form. “It will be ending today.”

Infuriation burrowed deep in Hitoshi’s lungs. “Fuck off,” Hitoshi hissed, vitriol spitting from his mouth, as he glowered. Eraserhead’s lips thinned—and damn, that was kind of intimidating. “Who do you even think you are?” An imaginary line wrapped around Eraserhead’s consciousness. It was warm, Hitoshi noted in the back of his mind.

Take the bait, Hitoshi thought. Answer the question.  

“Someone who will put an end to your naughty behavior,” said Eraserhead; that determined and stern glint in his gaze that just screamed Caregiver. His stomach never ceased its’ squirming. Not yet, Hitoshi told himself. Not yet. “I’m aware you might not see it, but you are causing yourself undue harm with your actions.” Eraserhead narrowed his gaze, pinning Hitoshi in place. He couldn’t breathe. What was he doing again—? “And that is unacceptable. As I’ve already stated—it’s going to end. Today.”

A string pulled taut. Eraserhead’s eyes widened, going blank and unseeing. Bingo.

“Stay there for three minutes.” He should have enough time to escape, right? “Pinch yourself when the time limit ends.” Look, Hitoshi was a villain—but he wasn’t cruel. Once he made sure Eraserhead was influenced by his quirk, Hitoshi made his way in the direction opposite of Eraserhead.

He stuck to the walls and laid low as he moved. There were a few heart attack inducing moments where he overheard raised voices from heroes, barked orders and the like. He needed to find Denki and get them out of there—.

A white material wrapped around him and yanked him back. He yelped and squirmed, but the hold was unyielding as he was lifted and tugged through the air. “Naughty boy,” scolded Eraserhead; hair floating, eyes bleeding red. “How fortunate you are that I am well-prepared to handle misbehaving Littles.”

Hitoshi knew what that meant.

“No!” Hitoshi gasped and struggled—but it didn’t even register with Eraserhead, the man effortlessly tugging him over his lap, hoisting one leg over his to cease any kicking. Fuck. Fuck. “N-No,” Hitoshi whimpered out and hoped he sounded pitiful enough. “Please, no span—ow!”

Eraserhead’s hand fell upon his upturned bottom without hesitation. Bristling swats were peppered on his sit-spots and upper thighs, quickly bringing tears to his eyes. He squirmed, crying softly as he tried to hide away from the falling hand.

“We do not use our quirk on others, little boy,” Eraserhead reprimanded and moved up the crest of his bottom. Hitoshi drummed his toes against the ground, twitching and squirming at the building heat. “Especially not on people who are trying to help. That was very, very naughty of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Hitoshi sobbed out. It had been so long since a Caregiver spanked him, and he’d forgotten how terrible spankings were. How much he despised them. “I’m sorry!”

“I hope we won’t revisit this topic,” said Eraserhead, wrapping up the spanking with two more terrible swats—

He woke with a start, making a disgruntled noise. Aizawa hushed him gently, removing him from the playpen. It was likely time to head back to the dorms, given the low position of the sun. Hitoshi’s head lolled onto the man’s shoulder, deadweight from slumber.

He wasn’t sure why he had dreamed of the time he’d met Eraserhead, blindly stumbling onto a trap that had dropkicked him from his comfortable place in the underworld and into Aizawa’s care. Maybe it was a sign—but of what, Hitoshi wasn’t sure . . . and he didn’t know if he wanted to figure it out, either.

“Zawa?” Hitoshi mumbled around the pacifier, fingers loosely grasping the front of Aizawa’s jumpsuit as they walked. “W’s for dinner?”

Aizawa hummed and briefly readjusted his grip. “Shrimp yakisoba,” Aizawa informed him after a moment. “I found a recipe I’d like to try out tonight.”

“‘Kay.” Hitoshi pressed closer against the curve of Aizawa’s neck, hiding from the thrum of students around them. More than a few cooed at the sight of him and his sleepy, quiet scent. “Toshi help?”

“Of course, you can help,” Aizawa assured in a quiet tone. “But you won’t be handling the knives, understood? You’re too small for that right now.”

Hitoshi hummed in agreement. A part of him snarked it might be because Hitoshi was a villain, so obviously he would try to kill—

He stomped that thought of out his mind. He might have been a villain, but he had a strict moral code. One thing Hitoshi knew that separated him from most of the underground world was that he had never killed anyone nor harmed them. Brainwashed them? Absolutely. Harmed anyone outside of self-defense? No.

Hitoshi’s stomach turned, even now, at needless violence. Having been subjected to that through peers and foster parents, Hitoshi had resolved to never be the sort of person who rose a hand to another if his life weren’t in danger. It served him well in the underground. Sure, some people called him soft, but Hitoshi never gave a shit what others thought about him. He didn’t need violence to get what he wanted, after all.

It was why people often considered Mind Blank to be a one step closer to vigilante status. He wasn’t a traditional, stereotypical villain who sought harm and ruin to those around him.

No; Hitoshi planned and worked in the shadows. He hacked, for the most part, gathered and spread information. He stole, and he cheated, and he manipulated others to dance to his tune when he thought it necessary. One could say Hitoshi functioned as an informant rather than a villain. Public opinion was as fickle as always when it came to the undesirable parts of society.

Regardless, Hitoshi had as little blood as possible on his hands and strove to maintain that bloodless streak.

(Denki was the violent one, if anyone wished to point fingers. Where Hitoshi shied away from violence, Denki reveled in it. Where Hitoshi would ruin lives with just a few spoken words and taps on a keyboard, Denki broke bones and slit necks. It worked for them; how the violence and neglect of their childhood shaped the type of villains they became.

It hadn’t surprised Hitoshi that Red Riot had custody of Denki. Wasn’t surprised the Unbreakable Hero would watch over the one villain who wouldn’t be able to make a scratch on his skin.

But. Anyway.)

They reached the teachers’ dorms with little problems. Although the dorm rooms had a small kitchenette, it didn’t have much space to do everything Aizawa likely wanted for dinner. With that in mind, Hitoshi wasn’t surprised when Aizawa made a beeline for the common room kitchen instead of their dorm room. He did make a noise of vague complaint, however, when he was buckled into the highchair.

“We’re having a snack first,” Aizawa said to his disgruntled expression and bopped his nose with a finger. Hitoshi blinked wide at the action and snorted at the incredulous action of Eraserhead bopping his nose. Was he some recalcitrant kitten? “. . . Would you like apple slices or oranges?”

Hitoshi wrinkled his nose. “Neither.”

Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “Those are your only options, Toshi,” Aizawa explained in a patient tone. Hitoshi couldn’t understand how the man remained so patient. Especially with how Hitoshi often behaved. “I will choose for you if you don’t.”

Hitoshi pouted, but faced with Aizawa’s rapidly stern expression, reluctantly said, “Apples, please.”

Aizawa nodded. “Good boy.” Warmth pooled in the pit of his stomach as Aizawa ruffled his hair. A part of him wanted to scream (but that was normal at this point). “Do you want peanut butter with those apple slices?”

“Mhm!” Hitoshi clapped. Apple slices and peanut butter were the shit. Sign him the fuck up. “Yes, please!”

Aizawa made quick work of prepping the snack. Faculty spilled into the dorms, filling up the quiet with their typical noise. Hitoshi munched contently on the apple slices, quietly observing those who passed by or stopped to chat with Aizawa. Present Mic and Midnight, for one, made themselves comfortable on the island counter barstools.

“How’re those apple slices, baby?” questioned Present Mic. It took Hitoshi a moment to realize who the man spoke to and pointed to himself to clarify. Just in case. Present Mic smiled. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, love.”

“Good,” mumbled Hitoshi once he swallowed the bite. Talking with ones’ mouth opened was gross, and chewed up food went everywhere (and, again, gross). “Wan’ one?”

“Aww, no thanks, honey,” Present Mic waved an absentminded hand. “It’s your snack, ya feel?” He leaned closer, then, and mock-whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “And Shouta’ll scold me if I do.”

“Mic,” said Aizawa.

Present Mic’s expression went comical as he squawked, “See?”

Hitoshi laughed and ate another slice.

(Sometimes, though, they weren’t assholes. But only sometimes.)

A good two months into Aizawa’s care, Hitoshi discovered an underground pathway and attempted escape (or, at the very least, attempted to map out the area). He wasn’t sure how, but, somehow, he ended up in Nezu’s office. The mouse-bear-whatever poured him tea and chatted about crime syndicates in the area, for some reason.

(Hitoshi knew why it was brought up. He had been loosely associated with a crime organization, after all.)

Aizawa came for him when classes ended, displeased as always with Hitoshi’s failed attempts. “I heard you’ve been naughty today,” was the greeting, followed by a coolly raised eyebrow, before he bowed in Nezu’s direction. “Thank you for watching him, Nezu-san.”

“No problem,” said Nezu, cheerful as if he hadn’t verbally terrorized Hitoshi for a few hours. Over tea and fucking crackers. They were good crackers—but that wasn’t the point. “It is always a delight to keep an eye on the youngest member of U.A.’s community!”

Hitoshi wasn’t that violent of a person, but damn did he want to fill Nezu’s office with rat poison.

Aizawa hummed and grabbed Hitoshi’s hand. “Say goodbye to Nezu-san, Hitoshi.”

“B-bye.” Hitoshi had flushed bright at Aizawa’s words. If he could, he would ban that word. Naughty. Ugh! “I, I w-wasn’ naughty,” Hitoshi protested as they left Nezu’s office, but quieted at Aizawa’s expression.

“Trying to runaway—again—was very naughty behavior,” Aizawa scolded quietly, cognizant of the students still within the building. Hitoshi would rather the man didn’t scold him at all. “You know better than that, Hitoshi.”

He gained a few knowing looks from some of the students, recognizing the stern line to Aizawa’s mouth and his teary-eyed gaze trained on the ground as he was marched back to the teachers’ dorms.

Ugh.

Hitoshi hated high school.

It was quiet when they entered the teachers’ dormitory, the pros likely back on the main campus. Hitoshi remained docile as Aizawa guided him into their dorm, only sniffling a few times. He hated being scolded. He hated being called naughty. And he hated the fact that all his escape attempts have failed.

Has Hitoshi lost his touch? Have those few weeks in that program derailed the abilities he had spent years cultivating? Where had the notorious and wickedly cunning Mind Blank gone? Replaced by the sniveling, too tiny Hitoshi, apparently.

(Replaced by a Hitoshi who finally, finally, existed in a space where he felt safe—.)

“I believe fifteen minutes in timeout should be enough for you to reflect on your naughty behavior,” Aizawa said as he helped Hitoshi out of his shoes. “You know where the stool is, Toshi.”

Hitoshi took a few steps back, shaking his head. “N-no.”

“Excuse me?” Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “That was not a suggestion, little boy. Go to the corner, please. You will be having timeout for fifteen minutes.”

Hitoshi crossed his arms and shook his head. He refused to be intimidated by Aizawa’s subsequent frown and stern tone. No matter how terrifying Aizawa could become when Hitoshi “was naughty.” “D-don’ wanna.”

Aizawa stared for a moment, quiet. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling, as if to gather strength, and then met Hitoshi’s gaze. “. . . You have three seconds to get your naughty bottom on that stool,” Aizawa said, low and warning. Hitoshi’s shoulders tensed, rising to his ears. “If I get to three and you haven’t done as told, I assure you, it won’t be pleasant. One.”

Despite the fear cold against his lungs, Hitoshi rolled his eyes and scoffed. “What’re you gonna do?” he asked, partly rhetorical. “Kick me out?” He snorted at the mere thought. He wished that were Aizawa’s prerogative.

No; Hitoshi would likely get an early bedtime at most. That wasn’t too bad, in his opinion.

Aizawa only hummed. “Two. Last chance, Hitoshi,” Aizawa said, tone far sterner than Hitoshi was accustomed to. “Are you going to be a good little boy and follow instructions or are you going to continue being naughty?”

Hitoshi’s lips thinned. “Fuck off and bother someone else, Eraserhead.”

“. . . I see you’ve chosen to be naughty, then.” Aizawa’s nonchalance rose Hitoshi’s hackles. “Three.” He couldn’t tell you who moved first: Aizawa, lurching forward with a storming expression or himself, scampering back in vain. He yelped when his forearm was grasped in a firm, but gentle, hold, and Aizawa pulled him close.

Hitoshi fucked up. His lungs became nonexistent when Aizawa propped a foot on the coffee table, guiding him over his leg in a swift, dizzying move. He fucked up. Hitoshi barely had time to grasp Aizawa’s pants leg for purchase before a hand landed on the seat of his pants with a sharp smack.

Hitoshi squealed.

(He would deny he had made such a noise until his dying breath, though).

“I expect you to follow my instructions when they are given, Shinsou Hitoshi,” Aizawa intoned and dusted his bottom in a volley of smarting swats. Hitoshi whimpered at the building heat, crying out when Aizawa doubled back and layered extra attention on his upper thighs. “You will find I do not appreciate, nor tolerate, deliberate disobedience, Hitoshi. Am I understood?”

Hitoshi twitched at the three swats aimed at the soft undercurve of his bottom. A few tears fell as he sobbed quietly. “Y-yes, Zawa.”

“Good.” Aizawa rested that dreadful palm on the crest of his bottom. “Now . . . is my little boy ready to behave and go to timeout . . . or do you need more incentive?” Aizawa gave his bottom a firm pat, implying just what that incentive entailed. “Let me know, please.”

A hiccup burrowed in the middle of his throat. “I’ll b-be good, Zawa,” Hitoshi promised, tone soft and wavering. “I’ll g-go to the corner.”

Aizawa righted him and wiped away the falling tears with the gentle swipe of a thumb. “You’re always good, Toshi,” Aizawa assured him with that stupidly soft expression. Hitoshi wanted to grimace; no one was supposed to look at him that way. Especially not a pro hero. “You just have lapses in judgement, and that’s fine. No one’s perfect, not even myself, and it would be unfair if I expected you to be.”

Hitoshi sniffled, nodding, and went to the stool as directed. His breath hitched as he sat down, the wood pressing against those freshly spanked areas of his bottom. He needed to calm down. He needed to stop letting that impulsive and little part of him take over, and make those rational decisions he was known for in the underground world. He would never get a moments’ peace if everyone thought he were smaller than he was.

“Fifteen minutes, Toshi,” called Aizawa, clothes rustling as he moved to set the timer.

Hitoshi stared at the wall and sighed. It was going to be another long night, wasn’t it?

“You have clearly been hit on the head far too many times.”

Hitoshi rolled his eyes and squeezed the soft block in his hands so he wouldn’t be tempted to throw it. They were surrounded by hawk-eyed Caregivers, Aizawa among them, and the last thing he wanted was to he scolded or put in timeout again. “Fuck off.”

“No,” said Dabi—or Touya, as the Caregivers called him. They said something about ‘moving forward’ and separating himself from his villain title, but Hitoshi knew he, and everyone else, would always call Dabi by the name he wanted to be called. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re worse than Denki.”

Hitoshi snorted at that.

He had arrived at the rehab center for his biweekly ‘check in.’ His case worker had been concerned at the number of times Hitoshi attempted escape but deemed it a case of restlessness and longing for the life he previously had. Made sense given he laughed for five minutes when she asked if Aizawa was hurting him.

There were so many opportunities for Aizawa to hurt him—to reach out whenever he was small and annoying, break his jaw or some other bone. So many opportunities to break Hitoshi; chip him away piece by piece because he could.

And yet.

(And yet.)

It never seemed to cross Aizawa’s mind. No matter how many times Hitoshi deliberately annoyed him, frustrated him, toed that line and crossed those boundaries placed, Aizawa never became violent with him. Where previous foster parents would’ve started swinging, Aizawa remained calm and unyielding.

(Hitoshi often wanted to scream. Wanted to rage whenever Aizawa decided he needed a nap or earlier bedtime or fucking timeout again. Wanted to look the man in the eye and demand he just beat me already and get it over with, my god—)

“Aizawa’s a fucking softy,” was his exact wording to her hesitant question, and he hadn’t even complained at the slight scolding for his language.

(Still an asshole, though.)

They—the Caregivers, that is—thought what he needed to better adjust to civilian life with Aizawa would be to have interactions with other Littles who had shared experiences with him. Which brought him to where he was now: getting judged by Dabi while they played with soft blocks.

“Let’s not be too hasty with that,” said Hitoshi, and Dabi chuckled. “I don’t think anyone is as bad as Denki.”

Dabi made a thoughtful noise at that. “How about Neito? Setsuna?” listed Dabi, quietly suggesting familiar names of other villainous Littles that, thankfully, hadn’t been caught yet. Kyouka had a close call with the pro heroes Creati and Pinky, though. “Kyouka? Tamaki?”

Hitoshi paused. “. . . I stand corrected.” He rolled his eyes harder at the way Dabi laughed. A few warm smiles and looks were sent their way, so he made sure not to look too annoyed. “You forgot to add yourself, by the way.”

Dabi cleared his throat and sniffed, looking appropriately insulted by the mere suggestion. “Excuse you? I am an angel, Toshi-chan.”

Hitoshi gave Dabi a wide-eyed, innocent stare, and teased, “Lying is naughty~, Dabi-kun.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Dabi groused out, bristling at the word the same way Hitoshi often did, and then winced, nodding, when a Caregiver overheard and said a warning Language, Touya. “Sorry.”

Hitoshi waved absentmindedly. “Don’t worry about it.” He formed a small tower out of the soft blocks and clapped a bit when he knocked it down. He couldn’t explain it, but he loved watching the blocks tumble to the ground when knocked over. It was far too amusing than it should’ve been. He paused when he noticed Dabi staring at him with an odd expression. “. . . What?”

Dabi shook his head. “. . . It’s nothing.”

Hitoshi narrowed his eyes. “Dabi,” he said lowly, “what is it?”

“It’s just . . . I never really knew how . . . small you are,” Dabi said slowly, looking thoughtful as Hitoshi brought a soft block to his mouth. “Like, shit, you’re tiny.”

Hitoshi mumbled around the block, a gnarled mash of words that were supposed to say I’m not that tiny but might have sounded like utter gibberish. Dabi nodded as if what Hitoshi said had been completely coherent.

“I dunno,” Dabi said abruptly. Hitoshi gave him a slow, wide-eyed blink. “Don’t you think you should, like, stop?” Hitoshi’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion. “Your escape attempts,” Dabi clarified in a quiet tone. “I don’t know if you can see it, but . . . he’s good for you. Eraserhead, that is. You’ve looked . . . healthier. Stable,” Dabi commented after a pause, unbothered by Hitoshi’s stare. “I’d even say happy, but . . . you look like you want to gouge my eyes out . . . so . . ..”

Hitoshi rolled his eyes and let the soft block fall to the ground. “’M not gonna do that,” Hitoshi assured even though Dabi were more than aware of his stance on unnecessary violence. “. . . I d’nno. He’s not . . . awful,” Hitoshi admitted softly, eyebrows furrowed as he spoke, “but . . . that’s just not my life, you know?”

“It could be,” Dabi pointed out gently.

Hitoshi hummed in thought, pressing two fingers into his mouth. “It could,” he agreed after a pause, and then reached for another soft block. “Bu’ I don’ th’nk so.” Wait for it—

“Toshi,” called Aizawa, tone warning, like Hitoshi knew he would with his demonic senses. “Fingers out of yours mouth, please.”

Dabi snickered at his expression. “Yeah, Toshi~,” the fire villain teased, lips curling into a soft smirk. “Don’t be naughty—ow.”

He interrupted himself with an indignant squawk, Hitoshi having given into his impulsive nature and thrown the soft block in his hands. There seemed to be a pause on movement before realization descended. Hitoshi only had, like, two seconds to remember hey, I’m fucking surrounded by Caregivers. By Aizawa.

“Rest in pieces,” murmured Dabi.

Hitoshi itched to throw another block, but Aizawa loomed over him with crossed arms. “Hitoshi,” Aizawa intoned in a voice that spelled trouble for his ability to sit. He shrunk beneath the sea of scolding expressions, but it was Aizawa’s who made him sniffle and look contrite. “We do not throw things when we’re upset. Apologize to your friend, please.”

“S-sorry.” Hitoshi sniffled, and Dabi waved a dismissive hand, muttering an it’s okay under his breath. Hitoshi gave Aizawa a nervous stare, his stomach twisting. “T-timeout for T’shi?”

Aizawa picked him up as if he were only two pounds, and Hitoshi wanted to go on strike. “That’s right,” said Aizawa as he carried Hitoshi toward the designated ‘timeout corner’ for the center. “Timeout for five minutes, alright?”

Hitoshi whined in the back of his throat but nodded. He sniffled a few times when Aizawa placed him onto the chair used for timeout.

Ugh.

Never mind letting it “be his life.” Hitoshi couldn’t wait to be done with this Caregiver bullshit.

Even before the rehabilitation program, Hitoshi never had much of a grasp on the passage of time. He only cared for when the seasons changed, adjusting his wardrobe to better suit the weather. He didn’t care for holidays, country-specific or otherwise, and he didn’t care to know the days of the week, either. He didn’t really attend school, nor did he have a “traditional” occupation—and, really, it wasn’t like he needed to know if it were Tuesday when he did a job.

His new routine at U.A. made him aware of the days, though, but that had more to do with he only had specific schedules on specific days. There was no room to become mind blank (HA) to the days of the week, not when his routine relied so heavily on them.

He didn’t keep track of birthdays, either. His, to be more specific. In all honesty, Hitoshi hadn’t even known how old he was until he entered the program. He knew he was older than twelve, obviously, and that a few years had passed since he disappeared from ‘polite’ society but hadn’t kept a concrete track of the number.

His therapist and case worker both thought that meant something. Hitoshi amused their questions, but ultimately remained in the mindset that it just didn’t matter. Everyone had an opinion on the matter, though, much to his rising irritation.

It happened a few days after therapy on Wednesday. His therapist had told Aizawa about the “birthday dilemma” after their session, and Aizawa gave him a few glances here and there as they traveled back to U.A.. That wouldn’t be a problem had Aizawa’s eyes not been clouded with worry and pensiveness.

“So~!” Present Mic (Hitoshi should really remember what his name was, shouldn’t he?) beamed at him, leaning back in his chair far enough that Hitoshi vaguely worried about it snapping beneath the man’s weight. “I heard from a lil’ birdie your birthdays’ coming up~!”

Hitoshi looked up from his puzzle and tilted his head. “It is.”

Midnight (was it Kayano? Kanae? Ka-something) gasped in delight and pressed her hands together. “How exciting~!”

It . . . wasn’t, but okay.

“I bet you’re excited, hmm?” said Present Mic (was it Yamaguchi? Yanagi? No, wait, that was Reiko’s last name—). Green eyes gleamed with interest. “What’ve you done at previous birthdays?”

If life came with a remote control, here would be where Hitoshi pressed pause. “I did . . . stuff,” said Hitoshi. He wasn’t sure if there were a tactful way to say he had been completing jobs of dubious legality.

Present Mic looked delighted. Hitoshi noticed most of the room were paying attention, expressions curious and interested. Aizawa was one of them. “Okay,” Present Mic said, clearly wanting more information. “What kinda stuff are we talkin’ here? Dinner? A movie~?”

(A heist, once.)

(He and Izuku toppled the Eight Precepts of Death on what he guessed would be his birthday: destroying the crime organization from the inside out and leaving its’ leader, Chisaki Kai, for last.

He wondered how Eri was doing. She should be in—what? —the fifth grade, now?)

You do know I’m a villain, right? Hitoshi wanted to snap. He didn’t, though, only tapped a nervous finger against his bottom lip (Aizawa made a warning noise at that; annoying). He breathed and remembered where he was. “That’s classified,” Hitoshi chose to say, settling for a deadpan that was comical when compared to the fact that he was literally in a playpen, dressed in a soft, dark green jumper and white t-shirt.

His socks were fuzzy with mini frogs on it—but. Anyway. It caused a rise of laughter to float around the room, Present Mic the unsurprising loudest.

“Well~,” Midnight started when the laughter petered out to slow chuckling. “Is there anything you’d like to do for your birthday this year?”

Hitoshi tilted his head, humming in thought. “Hmm . . . dunno.” He shrugged at the dramatical pouts on Midnight and Present Mic’s face. “I guess . . . something with cats? Like stickers.” Hitoshi smiled at the thought. He hadn’t played with stickers in so long. He loved wrapping them around his fingers as if they were bandages.

He liked the sensation; sue him.

“Cats, huh?” echoed Midnight. There was a knowing tone to her voice that Hitoshi didn’t really understand, but figured it was some inside joke he wasn’t privy to.

“Yeah,” Hitoshi said, and then returned to his puzzle. He made a triumphant noise when he connected another piece. “Cats.”

It dawned bright the next morning.

Hitoshi woke slow, wrapped in the warmth of slumber and three blankets. He grew colder at night. Recovery Girl had hummed something about the malnutrition and lack of proper nourishment throughout his childhood, but he’d tuned her out at that point, always uncomfortable whenever his past was brought up in clinical (or any) tones. Aizawa liked to bundle him up in blankets because of it, not that he complained.

He wiped at the slight drool around his chin and blindly patted around for his pacifier. He did not want to hear Aizawa scolding him about his fingers before breakfast. He slipped into his mouth with a content, sleepy hum.

Aizawa opened the door after a soft knock, summoned by the baby monitor Hitoshi still called stupid. Because it was. “Morning, Toshi. Sleep well?”

Hitoshi hummed noncommittally in response and sleepily rose his arms as Aizawa approached. He was picked up and set on his feet. His fingers threaded through the hem of Aizawa’s shirt, grasping tight as Aizawa guided him to the bathroom.

He made a soft, curious noise at the folded clothes on the counter. Aizawa typically waited until he was out of the shower to pick out clothes, often wanting to gauge how tiny he might be for the day. It looked soft—and it was when Hitoshi reached out to touch it.

Aizawa rested a palm on his head, finger pads gently scrubbing his scalp, and gave a soft smile at his owlish blink. “Happy Birthday, Toshi,” said Aizawa and kissed the crown of his forehead.

Oh.

(Hitoshi hadn’t hallucinated the better half of yesterday like he’d thought.)

“T’shi got a gift?” Hitoshi blinked slow, staring up at Aizawa with a sleepy expression. “. . . Zawa got T’shi a gift?”

“I did.” Aizawa nodded at the article of clothing. Hitoshi wanted to say it was just a shirt, but . . . that wouldn’t make much sense. Why would Aizawa not give him pants, then? “Unfold it and see.”

Hitoshi acquiesced. He noticed the white cats and cat paws littering the hem first, and then realized it was a dress, second, once he unfolded it and held it out for inspection. A part of Hitoshi stared at the item with a blank expression—while other parts, honestly, cried.

If there was one thing Hitoshi loved more than cats, it was cute clothes. Hitoshi never gave a damn about “gender roles” and the type of clothing he was “supposed” to wear. Dresses were cute, and therefore fell beneath the category of Hitoshi’s Most Favorite Things™️.

Those two things combined? Hitoshi was kind of ready to burn the world down if Aizawa even hinted at it.

(No one ever gave him a present before—.)

“. . . I love it,” Hitoshi breathed out. His eyes watered a bit and he sniffled, hugging the dress close to his chest. He didn’t care about bunching the material; it was black, anyway. Wrinkles wouldn’t be as obvious. “Zawa, I love it so much.”

Aizawa chuckled warmly and ruffled his hair. “I’m glad,” said Aizawa before he took a step back. “I’ll leave you to your bathroom routine—but let me know if you need any help, alright?” Aizawa waited until Hitoshi nodded before continuing. “I’ll be making breakfast, so join me in the kitchenette when you’re finished.”

“Kay!”

It hadn’t taken long for Hitoshi to shower and dress. One could say he was excited with how he flew through his bathroom routine. He padded down the hall toward the kitchenette, listening to the soft sizzle of a heated pan. Given there were only two people in the dorm, their kitchenette had a small table and two chairs—well, technically, one chair and a highchair.

“Clean behind your ears?”

Hitoshi made a face. Caregivers were so annoying. “’M notta baby, Zawa,” Hitoshi grumbled as he stepped further into the kitchen, even though he, technically, was. But that wasn’t the point. “Course I did.”

“Sure, sweetheart.” Aizawa buckled him into the highchair without hesitation. Hitoshi squirmed a little as the highchair table locked in place. “Any formula preferences?”

“Str’wberry, ple’se.” Hitoshi swung his legs back and forth, humming around his pacifier as he waited. He made an excited noise when Aizawa placed his plate down. It was omurice for breakfast. It was one of the things Hitoshi would go crazy for. “T’anks fo’ th’ meal.”

Aizawa ruffled his hair. “Enjoy, kiddo.”

Breakfast passed as it always did. Quiet and filled with the familiar scrape of metal against plates. Hitoshi eagerly enjoyed breakfast, savoring each bite as if it were the first time he had ever tasted omurice. He set his utensils down with a flourish once he finished; only two seconds away from licking the plate clean if he knew Aizawa wouldn’t have scolded him for it.

“Done, Zawa!”

Aizawa wiped his face, chuckling a bit at his look of disgruntlement, before unbuckling him from the highchair. “Let me get your shoes.”

Shoes? Hitoshi blinked. Why would he need his shoes? It was Sunday, wasn’t it? They had nowhere to go, after all. Aizawa had little responsibility on Sundays except for heading to the student dorms every few hours or so to check and see if his students had died in their stupidity.

Hitoshi pouted.

He wouldn’t lie; he had been looking forward to lounging around in his dress and watching some cat videos on Aizawa’s tablet. It was the only thing he could watch, if he were honest. Aizawa had child-locked most of the abilities on his tablet, and Hitoshi could only have access to those with a specific code he didn’t know.

No matter how much he pleaded, Aizawa remained tightlipped on the code. Hitoshi could only play a few games, but, for security purposes, they had no internet access. He knew it was so he couldn’t have contact with some of his acquaintances in the underground world or leak any U.A.-specific information. Not that Hitoshi would, of course.

Just because he didn’t like heroes (a voice that sounded suspiciously like Izuku laughed at that, a teasing that’s a fucking lie that Hitoshi resolutely ignored) didn’t mean he wanted them dead.

“Where’re we goin’?” Hitoshi questioned as he took slow steps toward Aizawa, who was slipping on his shoes in the genkan. Hitoshi’s were placed neatly beside him, but he hadn’t moved to put them on. “S’early.”

“It’s almost eleven.” Aizawa raised an eyebrow, amused at the pout on Hitoshi’s face. He patted the ground beside him. “Come on. Let’s put on your shoes.”

Hitoshi’s pout deepened but followed the soft order. “You didn’t answer my question, Zawa,” He pointed out as Aizawa helped him into the first shoe. Two fingers wandered into his mouth. “Where’re we goin’?”

“It’s a surprise,” Aizawa explained and pulled Hitoshi’s hand away from his mouth. A stern look crossed over Aizawa’s patient expression at his subsequent whine

“You know our rules, sweetheart.” Aizawa pulled a pacifier out of his jumpsuit pocket—Hitoshi wondered if he had an endless supply of pacifiers—and slipped it into Hitoshi’s mouth, bopping his nose. “They still stand, even on your birthday.”

Hitoshi hummed around the pacifier and rose his arms. He didn’t want to stand—or walk—anymore. Aizawa acquiesced to the silent order and picked him up once his shoes were on. He loosely wrapped his arms around Aizawa’s neck, resting his head on his shoulder.

“Will it take long?” Hitoshi questioned, mumbling against the curve of Aizawa’s neck.

“Just a short walk, I promise.”

Hitoshi hoped so. Surprises made him impatient.

“Zawa,” Hitoshi said for the twentieth time, likely. He was just waiting for Aizawa to snap at him, but only received the same hum as all the other times. “Where’re we goin’?”

“We’re almost there, sweetheart,” said Aizawa and gave his hand a comforting squeeze. “You’ll know the place when we get there.”

He wrinkled his nose, mumbling, “S’my birthday.” Hitoshi never thought he’d be able to use the ‘it’s my birthday’ card before. “So, I should know.”

Aizawa bopped his nose. “You can wait for a few more minutes, Toshi.” At the deepening pout, Aizawa added, casual, “But I don’t think you’d want a tantrum to ruin your day, do you?”

“. . . No.”

They walked into their destination comfortable quiet. Hitoshi did his best to pay attention to the stores they bypassed—he was curious, okay? —never failing to wonder if it would be The One™️. As he opened his mouth to annoy Aizawa once more, his voice petered out of existence. Snuffed out before it could even rise.

Because Aizawa had stopped in front of a café, and that was . . .

Hitoshi thought he would vibrate out of his skin. “Is that . . . is that . . .?” He tugged on Aizawa’s hand; his scent flaring with excitement that strangers were sending him amused looks. “Zawa—Zawa, that’s . . ..” Hitoshi couldn’t even say it, holy shit.

“Yes,” Aizawa answered, giving his hand another squeeze. “It is.”

From one of the window seats, a small and furred creature pressed against the glass. Their toe beaned paws flexed, and Hitoshi died and ascended astral planes. He didn’t notice Aizawa guiding him inside the establishment nor asking a hostess for a table, too consumed in staring gleefully at the cats.

There were so many of them.

Hitoshi had never been inside a cat café before. Never had the money nor the time—and Hitoshi would often think he would be pushing it, entering such an establishment when he was a notorious villain. Even if he weren’t there to cause trouble.

“Zawa, Zawa.” Hitoshi tugged on Aizawa’s sleeve as they walked to their table. He didn’t even know where to look. “So many cats, Zawa!”

“I know, baby,” said Aizawa, chuckling warmly at his reaction. “It’s a cat café.”

Hitoshi was going to cry. He was going to burst into tears right by their table—where there were two cats (TWO!!) lounging on the table—and he didn’t care who would side-eye him. He didn’t care. No one had ever done something like this for him before. No one ever cared.

They weren’t supposed to care.

“This is Marigold.” Aizawa’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He cooed at the orange cat, the feline meowing and blinking up at him. He held out his hand dutifully. “Pretty docile, compared to some of the cats.”

“Who’s that one?” Hitoshi pointed to the gray cat. “So pretty~.”

“Silver,” said Aizawa.

Hitoshi made another noise when Marigold didn’t protest at his soft petting. “Zawa,” Hitoshi said after a few minutes of being surrounded by the adorable creatures. One pressed against his back, lightly pawing at his shirt. Another had made themselves comfortable on his lap, the bell around their neck tinkling with each purr. “I wanna cat.”

Aizawa brought a hand to his mouth, muffling his laughter. He had been taking pictures, something Hitoshi knew Present Mic had demanded before they’d left campus, and his phone beeped every couple of seconds. “I believe you’ll need to bring that up with Nezu-san.”

Hitoshi would—and he’d make flashcards pointing out all the reasons why he should be allowed a cat on campus, too.

(He didn’t have flashcards, but that was fine. It was the thought that counted or something.)

They stayed at the cat café for an hour and a half before Hitoshi’s stomach grumbled for food. Aizawa brought him to a monjayaki restaurant for lunch before they headed back to campus for a nap. Hitoshi didn’t even complain when Aizawa placed him onto the bed, halfway passed out from a full stomach and overall excitement.

The excitement of the day had Hitoshi dead on his feet when late evening rolled around. Curled against Aizawa’s side on the couch while they navigated their animal crossing island (Present Mic had been eager to ‘spoil’ his nephew, and had gifted Hitoshi a switch lite and a slew of (nonviolent) games), Hitoshi found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. Aizawa’s familiar, comforting warmth and the way he rubbed his back weren’t helping his predicament.

“Enjoyed your birthday?” Aizawa questioned him, sometime after Hitoshi started to blankly stare at the screen of his switch. His character has been conversing with a villager—some energetic blue bear who sought to be the newest star—for the past five minutes. “Pretty tired, hmm?”

Hitoshi made a sleepy murmur in agreement. “Had fun,” he managed to say, a yawn spilling between his teeth. “S’was good.”

“Good,” Aizawa said and pressed a gentle kiss against the crown of his forehead. “I’m glad. You deserve to have fun on your birthday.”

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. Hitoshi wanted to complain to whatever higher deity thought it would be okay for Aizawa to be so — so — nice. He wasn’t supposed to be that way. At least, not to Hitoshi. He was supposed to remain distant and detached in his role as Hitoshi’s Caregiver. The barest of bare fucking minimums.

He wasn’t supposed to care.

(He was supposed to be mean, and cruel, and make Hitoshi vindictive in his decision to become a villain. Supposed to follow the steps previous guardians have taken with Hitoshi, treating him as some abomination they only took care of for the government checks. Supposed to surround Hitoshi with violence and contempt.

He wasn’t supposed to make Hitoshi feel safe and cared-for. Wasn’t supposed to treat him like a human being—.)

Not fair, Hitoshi thought as Aizawa murmured about something about bedtime as he rubbed his back. Not fair at all.

He wanted a fucking refund.

(Hitoshi wasn’t supposed to get attached, either.)

The typical end-of-term chaos approached a few weeks after his birthday. Hitoshi waited until everyone was consumed within it for what he considered his final escape. ‘Final’ because it would be successful.

(Here would be where guilt clogged his throat, but Hitoshi resolutely ignored those whispers of maybe staying wouldn’t be so bad. 

It would be better, for everyone, if Hitoshi disappeared and became the deadweight, worthless villain people told him he would be when he was younger.) 

Group projects, final exams, papers, grading, and increased tensions made a perfect equation for distractions and lack of attention. It was just what Hitoshi needed to make a perfect escape. He had planned carefully, being cognizant of changes on campus. He snooped around when Aizawa had taken a nap and discovered Aizawa’s staff ID, a key card Hitoshi would need if he wanted to leave through the entrances on the wall.

Even with his limited knowledge, he knew climbing wouldn’t work. A security bot would flag him the moment he pressed his big toe against the concrete.

No.

The key card was the only way.

He swiped it the day he decided to run. He didn’t want to tip his hand early. Didn’t want to risk Aizawa looking for it if he swiped it earlier. He slipped it into the pocket of his clothes—to make sure there would be as little suspicion on him as possible, he even let Aizawa chose his outfit that morning, wanting everyone to believe he was smaller—before he left for the staffroom.

The only problem would be the moment he could slip away—and how. Even with the distraction, Hitoshi was under constant surveillance. Only when he took a nap or went to the bathroom was he not, but they would be expecting a bathroom escape at this point.

Hitoshi needed to think outside of the box, and he needed to think fast.

A miracle arose when Aizawa informed him they would have class outside, and he would be joining them for “some fresh air.” He knew they wouldn’t bring the playpen outside—bugs, for one, and it was heavy—and entertained brief thoughts of a playground before he shook them away. It wouldn’t make sense for U.A. to have a playground.

Aizawa laid out a picnic blanket on the floor, setting Hitoshi onto it with some of his toys and books. “You know our rules, Toshi,” Aizawa said, carding fingers through Hitoshi’s hair. Hitoshi hated it when the man sounded so soft and gentle, especially when he had an escape planned. It made Hitoshi feel guilty. “Stay on your blanket, okay? Let me know if you need anything. Would you like your juice now or later?”

Hitoshi grabbed the ring of jelled keys, humming in thought. “Later.” He placed one of the keys in his mouth, sighing at the cooling sensation. It was essentially a teething ring except Hitoshi didn’t need to teethe, but it was a comforting stimulus. A better choice than his fingers, really, and Aizawa wouldn’t be so eager to plop a pacifier in his mouth. “Ple’se.”

Aizawa nodded and turned attention to his class. As he barked out orders for the exercise, Hitoshi played with the key ring for a while until he grew bored of it. Fingers inched into his mouth as he opened one of his books, the outside lighting perfect for reading.

“Fingers, Toshi,” warned Aizawa, and Hitoshi made a face at Aizawa’s back. The man hadn’t even looked at him. “Nagisa. I don’t believe being on our phones was part of my instructions.”            

Hitoshi turned around and kept his fingers in his mouth, spurred on by the stubborn spite only a Little could feel. He could hear Aizawa sigh—and wow, that was a long one—before clothes rustled from movement. Hitoshi thought nothing of it, thinking he was in the clear, until his fingers were removed with little fuss. A pacifier slipped into his mouth.

A whine sputtered in the back of his throat. He didn’t even care that a few of Aizawa’s students had paused to observe the commotion. “Zawa!”

“Fingers, Hitoshi,” Aizawa repeated in an unwavering tone. He wiped Hitoshi’s fingers with a napkin—where he got the napkin, Hitoshi didn’t know. He whined again and Aizawa raised an eyebrow, murmuring, “Would Toshi like to have some quiet time, instead?”

Hitoshi would not. “Nuh uh.”

“That’s what I thought.” Aizawa nodded and gave him another stern look before he turned back to his class. “Yamaguchi, Natsume, Haruki—three more laps for not following instructions.”

The trio groaned but obeyed.

Hitoshi watched after them with a disinterested gaze. He waited for Aizawa to pace his students through another exercise, some ten or so minutes later, before he decided to put his plan into action.

“Zawa,” Hitoshi said around his pacifier, waiting patiently for the man to turn to him. “Zawa, w’nna walk.”

“No.” It was nearly an immediate denial, but Hitoshi expected that. He pouted, still, and sniffled a bit. “I’m sorry, Toshi, but you can’t right now. We’ll go on a walk later, okay?” Aizawa promised, dropping a kiss to the crown of his forehead, before he noticed something one of his students had done from his peripherals, turning around with a sharp bark of their name.

Wait, Hitoshi assured himself as he reached for another toy. I just need to wait. He existed in a permanent state of the waiting game.

His chance revealed itself thirty minutes later, and Hitoshi didn’t even have to throw a tantrum. Not that he would’ve, though, because if Aizawa disciplined him in front of a bunch of fifteen-year-old baby heroes, he would, honestly, shrivel up and die right then and there. 

“Aizawa-sensei!” An unfamiliar student skidded to a halt in front of them. Hitoshi gave an owlish blink at their presence before he turned back to his toy, ‘uninterested.’ “Aizawa-sensei, th-there’s a fight!”

“A what?” Aizawa scowled. Hitoshi, inwardly, gave his respects for those students. They were going to die. Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh before he turned to Hitoshi, pointing at him, the blanket, and the track court as a whole. “Stay here, Toshi. Do not move from that blanket. Understand?” He waited for Hitoshi to nod and chirp a soft agreement before turning to his class. “No one leaves this area. Sakusa.” The student in question squeaked out a hurried yes, sensei? “You’re in charge.”

Sakusa Eiko, the Class President, gave a sharp nod. “Understood, sir!”

It was quiet when Aizawa left. The students grouped together, chatting about the fight or other things Hitoshi didn’t really care to know. He played with his toys for another minute or two before he stared at Sakusa, waiting for her to notice him. When she had, she gave him a slow, almost panicked, blink.

Hitoshi, ever the patient Little, raised his hand.

“Uh. Um.” Sakusa blinked rapidly at him. Hitoshi could tell she didn’t have much experience with Littles. “Y-yes?”

“C’n I go walk?” Hitoshi questioned, tone soft and vulnerable. “I won’ go far, I pr’mise.”

Sakusa swallowed, pinned beneath his pout. “I, uh, I, uh, d-don’t think so, Hitoshi-chan. A-Aizawa-sensei said you have to stay here, that all of us have to, and he trusts that we’ll follow those instructions.”

“I won’ go far,” Hitoshi repeated when he saw them waver at his petulant expression. “Ple’se? I jus’ wanna walk.”

Sakusa bit her bottom lip. “D-Dunno.”

Another student scoffed. “Oh, just let him go,” she sniffed and rolled her eyes. “It’s just a fucking walk. He won’t get, like, murdered or anything.”

“Don’t curse around him,” said another. Hitoshi thought they had a snake quirk, given the scales on their skin, but wasn’t entirely sure. Izuku would have a field day with the quirks surrounding him. “He’s, like, an infant.”

“Oh, god,” whispered another student. Akashi, if Hitoshi remembered correctly. “We’re going to get expelled.”

“We’re not going to get expelled,” said another, scoffing at the mere idea. Minami, maybe? “Maybe house arrest or detention or something, but not expulsion.”

“I don’t wanna be stuck in the dorms with you all day,” protested a pink-haired student. Hitoshi thought they had a rather mean scowl for such soft looking hair.

“Oi! Wanna fight, Miyamura?”

“O-okay,” Sakusa stammered out. Her face, round and innocent from youth and inexperience, made Hitoshi churn with guilt. He hoped they wouldn’t get in trouble with this—or despise his existence. But, well. He was used to the hatred, regardless. “B-But only if you don’t go far, okay?”

Hitoshi smiled. A bright and innocent Little. “Kay!”

He stepped into the little forest area beside the track field amidst their prickling gazes. He kept his steps calm and paced until he knew he was obscured from view. He booked it a second later, almost stumbling over his feet from excitement alone, and hoped he remembered the gate placements correctly.

He had five seconds—literally—before one of the students trampled through to look for him. Or, worse, Aizawa. He could not fail this time. He just couldn’t.

He took a deep, steadying breath as he reached the gate. His fingers trembled as he slipped the key card out of his pocket, pressing it against the card reader against the door. It beeped for a moment, lights turning from a red orange to green, and Hitoshi heard the soft click-click of locks being unlocked. The gate slid open a second later.

Hitoshi didn’t waste time.

He walked with ease, keeping any suspicion off himself, as he pick-pocketed a few people. He gathered enough cash to buy himself a jacket with a hood, which he didn’t waste time in slipping into. The more he obscured his features, the better. Nezu had a near inexplicable reach with his quirk, and Hitoshi didn’t want to be found as easily.

He kept walking, feet tracing familiar pathways. He hadn’t bumped into too many familiar faces; most of them being on jobs or resting. Or in that stupid rehabilitation program like Hitoshi was. Had been. Whatever. He thought about taking the train and leaving Musutafu, but he didn’t have enough funds for a ticket—and people always paid closer attention to a Little traveling alone. Especially when they were as tiny as him.

He gained a few suspicious looks with his hood, but most of the suspicion melted when they received a whiff of his scent. It was times like these Hitoshi loved that Littles were considered “too baby” to be anything other than harmless. It allowed him to slip by unbothered.

It was the farthest Hitoshi had ever gotten in an escape attempt, both in distance and in time. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

He wasn’t sure how long he walked nor what time it was. He utilized familiar alleyways and shortcuts that would make even the most knowledgeable underground pro hero perplexed, nodding whenever he bypassed anyone familiar. He heard the echo of Toga Himiko giggling nearby but hadn’t sought her out. Not only would she try to stab him in greeting, but it would also take a while to leave whatever conversation she pulled him into.

That wasn’t what he needed right now. They could catch up later—but only when Hitoshi hunkered down and settled. He would need to lay low for a few days—if he even had that much time.

He slipped the pacifier back in his mouth, nervously sucking it as he walked. He had never gotten this far before. He doesn’t even know what to do with himself, if he were honest. He had expected to be stopped. He hadn’t thought his attempt would succeed.

Time drifted as he walked. His feet ached and protested the farther he walked, so he found a small park to dawdle in. It was a small playground, and few people were around. Hitoshi’s stomach grumbled as the sun lowered, sunset painting the sky a pretty ombre of reds and pinks.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. A crackling echo that rattled Hitoshi’s bones. He hated thunder. He hated rain, too. He pulled his knees close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them for comfort. He should find shelter soon . . .

If Aizawa were there, he would scoop Hitoshi up. They would return to the dorms where he would be supplied with warm blankets and hot chocolate, cuddled as he shuddered and sniffled at each harsh boom of thunder.

(If Aizawa were there, Hitoshi wouldn’t be so hungry, would he?)

Rain fell quiet.

Quiet like the way Hitoshi’s heart had once shattered, scattering pieces that he slowly recovered over the years.

Hitoshi shivered, arms wrapped around his abdomen, and turned to whine and pout—but only empty space greeted him. Aizawa wasn’t there. Hitoshi went a bit numb as the realization of his actions dawned on him. He had a successful escape attempt. That meant Aizawa wouldn’t be around him anymore.

Hitoshi wouldn’t have any annoying, protective Caregivers looming in his space. He wouldn’t have anyone telling him to take his fingers out of his mouth. No one would pick him up or take his shoes off when he fumbled too much with the laces. No one to fuss over his eating habits, murmuring that he was still too skinny, Toshi, you need to eat more.

No one to wrap him in blankets when he shivered too much. No one to buy him cat-patterned clothing and socks. No one who patiently weathered through his nearly daily tantrums. No one to stick him in timeout whenever he broke a rule or did a misstep. No one to make him omurice or take him to new restaurants or cat cafés.

No one except himself, that is.

A sob fluttered out of his mouth before he could swallow it. His shoulders trembled—from his tears, from the rumbles and cracks of thunder. He hugged himself tighter. Shivers wracked his spine, a cold sinking into his bones that he thought would never shake off. Hitoshi wanted to be warm. He wanted blankets, and hot chocolate, and cuddles. He wanted a warm voice, never failing to answer his questions. Never afraid of the power in Hitoshi’s voice. He wanted—

He wanted—

He wanted Zawa.

Rain continued to fall as he forced his legs to move. His clothes clung to his skin, sticking cold and wet. He crossed his arms over his chest, shivering, as he tried to remember the direction U.A. was in. He walked aimlessly, thankful no one was around to bother him or think he were someone to be messed with, and happened upon a telephone booth.

Hitoshi made a victorious noise in the back of his throat. Relief crawled up his spine. He sought sanctuary inside the metal box and breathed once he escaped the rain. He hoped he wouldn’t get sick, but, knowing his immune system, knew he was only lying to himself.

“. . . How much do I need . . .?” He murmured to himself, squinting at the fading paper taped to the side of the phone box that stated how much change he needed. He dug into his pockets for the amount he needed, thankful he had the exact amount to make one call.

Hitoshi huddled against the telephone stand, trembling fingers curling around the cord. He tapped an impatient foot as he listened to the dial tone, hoping he got the number correct. Hoping Aizawa would answer.

A sob fluttered out of his mouth when the dial tone sputtered out of existence, the call having been answered. Hitoshi rested his forehead against the phone box and croaked, “. . . Zawa?” before Aizawa could speak.

There was a sharp inhale. A “Hitoshi?” drowning in hope.

“Uh huh.” Hitoshi hiccuped and sniffled, detangling his hand from the cord to rub at his eyes. “C-Can Zawa p-pick Toshi up, ple’se?”

“Always,” promised Aizawa. Hitoshi had forgotten how much one could miss a voice. “Tell me where you are, sweetheart.”

Hitoshi managed to read—and coherently say—the street signs through his tears. Aizawa promised he would be there as soon as he could. Hitoshi could tell the man wanted to stay on the phone, but the operator beeped in that mechanical voice, asking for more change, as the call dwindled out of time. Hitoshi didn’t have more change and, therefore, reluctantly hung up the phone.

He settled onto the floor—even though it was kind of gross, but whatever; it wasn’t the worst place had ever been (no offense to Tenko, but his bar was disgusting)—and amused himself by counting raindrops. It was an impossible task, really, but it gave his mind something to latch onto while he waited.

Hitoshi hated waiting. He really did. He seemed to be waiting his entire life—waiting for his parents to return from the flight that stole them from him far too early, waiting for the few relatives whom he knew were alive to pick him up from that orphanage, waiting for someone who would treat him like a human being to foster him, waiting, waiting—and he was getting sick of it.

His head ached at some point. He wasn’t sure how long it had been, but he rested his forehead against the cool metal of the phone box. It soothed the ache, somewhat. A truck rumbled by, but it was a simple delivery truck. Nothing to do with him.

“No f’ngers,” Hitoshi muttered to himself, hearing the echo of Aizawa’s voice in his mind, when he pressed a finger to his bottom lip. He sniffled. He missed Aizawa. Where was he? He groaned as pain scrawled across his forehead. “’M ‘ead ‘urts.”

He curled into a tighter ball, shivering. He wasn’t sure why the phone booth was so cold. You’d think it wouldn’t be, given it shouldn’t have AC, but there he was. Shivering as if it were entrenched in winter. Tires skidded across the road a moment later, and Hitoshi made a soft noise at the sound of hastily closed doors and thudding footsteps.

Footsteps heading toward him.

Aizawa’s voice was muffled by the glass doors, but Hitoshi heard him clearly. “Hitoshi?”

Hitoshi blinked up from the telephone. He winced at the way the lighting seared through his aching eyes. Aizawa noticed the action, and his frown deepened with worry. He opened the doors without further prompt, kneeling before Hitoshi.

“Hitoshi?” Hands fluttered at his sides, searching for any hidden injuries. “Speak to me, baby. What’s wrong? Where are you hurting?”

Footsteps headed their way. Gravel crunched beneath boots, and Present Mic’s familiar face, pinched and drowned in concern, floated above Aizawa. “What’s wrong, Shouta?”

“I don’t know, Hizashi,” Aizawa nearly growled out. “He isn’t responding. Toshi—sweetheart, can you understand me? Hear me?”

Hitoshi gave a noncommittal hum. A slurred, “Gon’ sleep, Zawa,” slipped out of his mouth before he could swallow back the words. When those dark murmurs of slumber beckoned close, Hitoshi greeted them as warmly as always.

“No, Hitoshi—!”

Slivers of consciousness tugged, sweeping through that cloaking haze of slumber. Hitoshi woke to both the familiar walls of the nursery and a sore throat. He wasn’t sure how he felt about either of those options. Quiet floated in the air, unbothered save for Hitoshi’s rasping breaths. A flurry of coughs wracked through his throat, and Hitoshi then became aware of the over-encompassing ache.

Shit.

He had forgotten, briefly, what happened if he stayed too long in the rain. His poor immune system meant he would be easily susceptible to colds and the like—and being practically drowned in the rain was never a good sign for his health.

Aizawa was almost a blur to his sleep-bleary eyes, opening the door before his coughing fit even ended. He wondered, briefly, how Aizawa even knew he were awake, but then he remembered the extremely sensitive baby monitor on the bedside table and found his answer there.

“. . . Z’wa?” Hitoshi croaked out—and then cringed, flinching back, at the pain crawling over his throat. He hated getting sick—his voice (his quirk) was one of the first things affected. “’Urts, Zawa.”

Aizawa pressed the back of his hand to Hitoshi’s forehead. “Shh, don’t speak so much, sweetheart,” murmured Aizawa and gently hushed him when he opened his mouth to speak again. “You have a sore throat, Toshi.” Aizawa’s hand moved to the lymph nodes on his neck. “Hmm. Swollen. Hold on a moment—let me get the thermometer.”

Hitoshi whined in the back of his throat, trying to chase the coolness of Aizawa’s palm. He closed his eyes to hide from the light spilling into the room from the hallway. Aizawa rummaged around the room in search of the thermometer, discovering it with a victorious hum. It didn’t take long for the thermometer to beep with his temperature once placed under his tongue.

Aizawa clucked his tongue at the number. “Fever. Not too high, though,” added after a pause, running gentle fingers through his hair. “Up, up.” Before Hitoshi could mutter a negative, he was gathered up in Aizawa’s arms. “You need to eat something and take medicine.”

Hitoshi pressed his nose against the curve of Aizawa’s neck, whining. He hated medicine. It always tasted gross. “No,” he rasped out. “No medicine.”

“Yes medicine,” said Aizawa and rubbed his back soothingly at the responding whine. “I know, I know . . . but you need to take it in order to get better.”

Hitoshi sniffled. “Icky.”

“It’s a necessary evil, I’m afraid.”

Like always, the medicine was as slimy and gross as he remembered it to be. Aizawa was empathetic to his misery, though, and rubbed his spine in comforting circles as he grimaced, swallowing every drop of the grape-flavored medicine.

“Good boy.” Hitoshi hummed at the fingers carding through his hair, and then registered Aizawa’s words and frowned. Aizawa noticed. Of course. “What’s with the frown? Head still hurting?”

Hitoshi shook his head—and then grimaced. His brain rattled in his skull, and that was not the nicest feeling. “No’ a good boy.”

Aizawa crouched down until he was eye-level with Hitoshi. “Oh?” Hitoshi couldn’t explain his expression even if he wanted to. “Why’s that?”

Guilt that had simmered low on the backburner flared to life. To Hitoshi’s horror, tears prickled his eyes. Sobs were building in his throat too fast for him to swallow them back. This was why Hitoshi didn’t get sick. Colds always made him more emotional. “Ran ‘way,” Hitoshi explained softly, hiccupping as he brought a hand to scrub at his eyes. “M-made you w-worry,” Hitoshi managed to say, voice fading to a whisper, and did a hiccup-sob that Izuku said would always pull at peoples’ heartstrings if they heard (Hitoshi still doesn’t understand that, though). “T’shi bad.”

“You are not bad,” Aizawa said quietly. Softly. Hitoshi wanted to hide from that expression. He wanted to soak it up in his memory. “No, no, listen to me, sweetheart,” Aizawa interjected when Hitoshi opened his mouth, reaching to squeeze his hands. “I know what bad is, Toshi. I know bad people, given my occupation—but you? You are not bad. Naughty? Yes, at times,”—Hitoshi flushed and made a soft noise— “but bad? No. You’re a good boy, Toshi.”

Hitoshi sniffled. “’M a villain, Zawa,” Hitoshi reminded the hero. Bitterness, more disgusting than that medicine, spread over his tongue. “’M never a good boy.”

Aizawa sighed and kissed the crown of his forehead. “I know you won’t believe me, but you’re always a good boy,” Aizawa said in a firm tone. It was one that demanded obedience. Demanded Hitoshi be quiet and listen. “You aren’t a villain, either, sweetheart. Just a misguided little boy who needs support and healthy role models.”

Hitoshi stared. “. . . My quirk,” he croaked out at last. His fingers trembled in Aizawa’s grasp. “It’s—it’s a v-villains’ quirk—!”

“No, it’s not,” Aizawa interrupted in perhaps the gentlest tone Hitoshi had ever heard. “It is not—and has never—been a villains’ quirk, Hitoshi. You can do—and have done—so much good with your quirk. Even so . . . our worth as humans are not tied to our quirks and its’ fundamentals. Do you understand, sweetheart?” Hitoshi wondered, distantly, if the medicine caused hallucinations. It was the only explanation— “You don’t have a villains’ quirk, Hitoshi. You never have.”

“I brainwash people,” Hitoshi whispered. As if it were a dirty secret spoken between them in the low lighting of some dingy dive bar.

Aizawa only raised an eyebrow. “And I erase their quirks.”

(Not fair, cried that small part of him, that little five-year-old child who had been cast away and branded a villain before they could count higher than twenty. Not fair!)

A lot of things weren’t fair. Hitoshi had learned, by the time he was seven, to accept the inevitable.

“I know you don’t believe me,” Aizawa continued when all Hitoshi did was stare, glassy-eyed and distant. “That’s alright. You will with time.” So certain he would, Hitoshi mused to himself. So resolute and unyielding in his opinion.

No one had ever told Hitoshi he wasn't a villain. That his quirk wasn't the incarnation of evil, before. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He wasn’t sure if he even was feeling something; numb and cold spreading all over. That could be the effects of the cold medicine, though.

“Don’t worry about you running away, either,” Aizawa murmured after another pause, reaching to press a warm, grounding hand on his head. “We’ll discuss that further when you aren’t sick, okay? Now,”—Aizawa picked him up and headed for the highchair— “Let’s eat. How does miso sound? I don’t want to irritate your sore throat.”

Was Hitoshi even breathing? He didn’t know. “. . . O-okay.”

(Not fair. Not fair. Not fair. NOT FAIR—)

Recovery Girl cleared him with a clean bill of health four days later.

He had been sick for three of them—three grueling, miserable days where he was distantly aware of the world. Hitoshi thanked her for her service, to which she only chuckled and patted his knee. “I only ask you don’t play out in the rain from now on, alright?” Her tone was a mixture of softness and steel. “A Little with as ill-health as you get sick easier than most.”

Hitoshi grimaced at the reminder. Like always. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

Aizawa had a determined set to his mouth. Hitoshi’s stomach melted. “Thank you, Chiyo-san. Hitoshi.” Fuck. “Let’s get going.”

It was a quiet walk back to the dorms. Hitoshi knew what was coming next—if he had a foresight quirk, it would be acting up—and wanted to get as far away as he possibly could. He slipped off his shoes in the genkan and tried to look like he wasn’t about to book it for his room. Aizawa’s cleared throat halted him before he could take two steps.

“We need to talk.”

Hitoshi hoped, for a moment, they would not.  His fingers played with the drawstring of his sweatpants as he took nervous steps further into the dorm. “O-okay.”

Much to his dismay, Aizawa made a beeline for the living room and sat on the couch. Hitoshi tensed and froze, knowing from experience what that meant. Aside from their . . . first meeting, Aizawa had only spanked him one other time. Hitoshi wasn’t talking about a few warning swats, either. It was the entire ordeal: sprawled over the Caregivers’ lap, pants down to his ankles, upturned bottom stinging for days, and everything.

(His convoluted plan of poisoning himself just so he would be taken to the hospital, and escape during the chaos of typical hospital-life, perhaps hadn’t been the best idea—especially when he had spilled his plan, drugged to the nines on pain medication, believing Aizawa to be Izuku.)

It wasn’t something he wanted a repeat of.

Aizawa’s (inhumanely large, in Hitoshi’s opinion) hand was calloused and rough from years of hero work. His aim was precise and landed exactly where he wanted it to, regardless of wriggling.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Hitoshi.” A whimper burned the back of his throat at the sternness in Aizawa’s tone. “You have broken quite a bit of rules with your actions, and I refuse to do you a disservice by letting that remain untouched.” Hitoshi didn’t mind the disserve. Not at all. “Since you’ve been given the all-clear from Chiyo-san, I believe now is as good a time as any other.”

No, Hitoshi wanted to say. It’s not a good time, actually.

“Come here, Hitoshi,” Aizawa said in that tone Hitoshi associated with danger. He had the audacity to pat his lap—as if he thought Hitoshi would actually lay over it. “You are not unintelligent nor oblivious. It’s time to pay your dues, and your naughty bottom needs a spanking.”

It was difficult, suddenly, to breathe. “No thanks.”

Aizawa paused, blinking, and then narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?” Hitoshi’s stomach receded into his ribcage at the soft tone, at the expression on Aizawa’s face. “I don’t believe I’m giving you an option.” Aizawa pointed to the space in front of him. “Come. Here. Now.”

Hell. No.

Hitoshi stepped back and shook his head. “I, I s-said n-no.” He inwardly cursed himself for stuttering, for showing weakness in front of Eraserhead. He averted his gaze, shy and small. “I’m not—you’re not spa-spanking me.”

“I wasn’t aware you were the one in charge here,” Aizawa said dryly before he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. “You have five seconds to get your naughty bottom over here. One.” Hitoshi wanted an invisibility quirk, post haste. “You won’t be pleased if we get to five, and you haven’t listened. Two.”

Hitoshi stayed; anchored in place by a swirl of anxiety and rebelliousness.

“Three.” Aizawa rose from the couch. “You’re playing a game you will not win, little boy.”

Hitoshi moved, but only backward. He wanted as much space between them as possible. Aizawa didn’t even have his capture weapon—and he was mostly retired, at this point, so how fast could one old man be?

“Four, Hitoshi,” Aizawa said. “This is your last chance to follow my instructions.”

“Go have a power trip somewhere else,” Hitoshi muttered under his breath, though made sure Aizawa had overheard. The edges of his lips twitched at the subsequent exhale. “I don’t want anything to do with it.”

“. . . Five.”

Hitoshi bolted—but it seemed Aizawa had been possessed by a fucking demon and hadn’t said shit, because Hitoshi hadn’t even made it halfway down the hallway when the back of his shirt had been grasped, halting his steps and yanking him backward. He barely yelped before a hard, calloused palm landed right on the soft undercurve of his bottom.

(. . . Apparently, one old man could be extremely fast. Inhumanely so, in Hitoshi’s humble opinion.)

He squirmed, but it was futile. Aizawa’s hand landed right where the man wanted it to, scorching those vulnerable areas of his bottom. “Ow! Ow!” Hitoshi dripped with remorse as Aizawa dusted the seat of his pants with that demonic hand of his, throat burning at the sobs dying there. “A-Aizawa-a, I’m sor—ow—rry!”

“I appreciate your apology, but you’ve been an extremely naughty little boy, Hitoshi,” said Aizawa, and proved to be a ruthless asshole by the way his pants (and his underwear) were swiftly removed. Hitoshi made an indignant noise and kicked Aizawa’s shin, feeling a rush when he struck target—and yelped at the sharp, punishing swat on his upper thigh. “Do not kick me, little boy. Violence is not the answer in any situation.”

“Hypocrite,” Hitoshi snarled. He knew it landed softer and weaker than he wanted, given he was halfway to tears, sniffling and hiccuping like the scolded Little that he was. Dancing on his toes in a failed attempt to hide from the swats laid upon him by his stern, no-nonsense Caregiver. “Get off your, your high fu-fucking — ow, ow! — horse, and leave me alo—ow!” Hitoshi almost choked at a particularly harsher swat and couldn’t swallow back the sob. “Th-that hurt!”

“I would be doing something wrong if it didn’t,” said Aizawa, and before Hitoshi could complain further (read: dig a deeper hole), his world had been upturned. Literally. Aizawa picked him up without prompt, one arm firmly grasping his waist as he dangled over the man’s shoulder. As if he were some fucking doll. The fuck? “Your actions have consequences, Hitoshi . . . and you will be facing them all tonight.”

“Don’ wanna!” Hitoshi wiggled in the hopes it would make Aizawa’s grip slacken before he dug the heel of his palms against Aizawa’s back. He whined, a sob in his throat, at the bristling swats aimed on the taut skin of his sit-spots.  “‘Zawa!”

“Settle down,” instructed Aizawa. His hand remained on the crest of Hitoshi’s bottom, a threaten and a warning on the stingy heat. “I have had enough of your behavior. Your little tantrum will be ending now.”

“S’not a tantrum,” Hitoshi protested, sniffling at the responding hum. “S’not!”

“It has been a tantrum—but that’s alright.” Aizawa gave his bottom a firm, but gentle, pat. Hitoshi made a soft, dismayed noise at the touch. “I am more than equipped to handle tantrums from naughty and stubborn Littles.” Hitoshi sniffled, whimpering at being called naughty, even if it were indirect, and grasped the back of Aizawa’s shirt, more to ground himself than anything. “Before I forget, however, . . . you have reminded me I will need to provide a bit more incentive for our discussion.”

. . . What?

Aizawa headed toward the kitchen without further prompt. Hitoshi’s stomach curdled. Ice splintered his lungs. Hitoshi had been threatened with a cooking utensil before, a typical warning to get him to behave, but Hitoshi had thought Aizawa had been joking. It was supposed to be a joke—but, clearly, only Hitoshi had gotten that memo. Aizawa opened a drawer and rummaged through it, plucking up an item with another ominous, considering hum. Hitoshi almost asked just what the Caregiver thought he could whack Hitoshi’s ass with when he decided to just see for himself, craning his neck for a better view. 

“No!” ripped from his mouth as he saw just what Aizawa would use, tucked thoughtfully in the pocket of Aizawa’s jumpsuit. “No!”

“Yes,” said Aizawa. Hitoshi hated how calm Aizawa looked. “I had already decided this before your tantrum, but your naughty bottom is going to get spanked with this spoon.”

Hitoshi shook his head and made a sound that could be described as both desperate and animalistic. “No spoon,” Hitoshi pleaded, lip wobbling. “Zawa, Zawa, no!”

“My decision won’t change,” Aizawa said in a sharpened tone. “You need to understand your behavior has been unacceptable—and if that means I must spank your naughty bottom with a spoon, then so be it.”

Hitoshi didn’t care what he looked like in that moment; he was not going to get spanked. Not by Eraserhead. Not by anyone. And definitely not by that fucking wooden spoon. He flailed, and squirmed, and kicked, all in the fading hope Aizawa would lose grip. Either the man had some secret fucking quirk Hitoshi wasn’t aware of or Hitoshi had just gotten that weak, he wasn’t sure, but Aizawa hadn’t loosened his grip, and Hitoshi remained slung over his shoulder. Spurred on by the desperation of an impending punishment, Hitoshi decided to do the next best thing:

Bite.

His teeth sunk into the meat of Aizawa’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure if his bite broke skin, but he clamped his jaw down, regardless. Except Aizawa didn’t have any normal human reactions, either, because he only reacted to the fierce bite with a low, ominous chuckle.

“I hoped you would have the sense to stop any further naughtiness, but I stand corrected,” Aizawa intoned right before a hand cracked down on his bottom in three stinging swats. Hitoshi gasped, teeth retracting from Aizawa’s shoulder as he did so, and had the foreboding sensation he had made life much more difficult for himself. “I hope you understand the severity of your choices, Hitoshi,” Aizawa continued as he walked back to the living room, placing a few careful, though sharp, swats while he did so. “I believe we’ll need to revisit our discussion at a later time to make sure it has properly sunk in.” Aizawa paused, and then, as if to clarify what dawned on Hitoshi’s mind in that moment, added, “Congratulations, brat. You’ve earned yourself a bedtime spanking.”

Hitoshi shook his head. “No, ‘Zawa, a-anything b-but that!”

“I know you’re not pleased, Hitoshi, but I warned you.” Aizawa reached the couch and set Hitoshi onto his feet. His hands were grasped by Aizawa, the man knowing better than to assume Hitoshi would stay. “I warned you and you refused to listen. Now . . . you are going to face the consequences of your actions.” Hitoshi’s bottom lip wobbled, feeling small and Little as he stood between Aizawa’s knees, acutely aware of his lack of clothing on his bottom half. “And those consequences are a well-deserved spanking on your naughty little bottom now and before bedtime. No,” Aizawa cut him off with a stern look. “I will not change my mind.”

Hitoshi hated the way Aizawa would make him feel like the Little he was. He had that stupid rehabilitation program. He hated he had been dumb enough to walk right into a trap those few months ago. “Y-yes, Z-Zawa.”

Aizawa hummed at that, appraising his teary-eyed expression, and gave his hands a gentle squeeze. Hitoshi could not understand why the man was still so gentle. Hitoshi had bit and kicked him— “Please explain why you’re getting a spanking, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi bristled, shoulders rising to his ears, and glared. Again: weakened effect, given the falling tears. “Y-You already know why—!” His mouth snapped closed, words dissipating, at Aizawa’s icy expression. Let’s just get it over with, a part of his mind thought. “I, um. I w-was n-naughty . . .?” Hitoshi flushed at the word, feeling smaller, and floundered when Aizawa prompted for more with an encouraging nod. “I w-was . . . I d-disobeyed you,” Hitoshi managed to say, sniffling. “A-and m-my probation terms. I . . . I ran away,” Hitoshi said after a steadying breath, less hesitant with his words. He knew there would be no more running away. Only acceptance of his transgressions. “I t-took y-your . . . key card, too, and, um, didn’t listen earlier,” Hitoshi ended in a whisper.  “’M sorry, Zawa.”

“Thank you for being honest with me, sweetheart.” Aizawa gave his hands a gentle squeeze. “I appreciate it. I won’t lie to you—you have quite a bit to answer for, and it won’t be that pleasant of an experience.” Hitoshi swallowed audibly and shifted in place, breath hitching at the knowledge that in just a few minutes, he would be a sobbing and contrite Little over his Caregivers’ lap. “I know it’s terrifying, baby, facing punishment . . . and that’s okay. I assure you I will never go over your limits or be intentionally cruel towards you . . . but you could have gotten hurt, Hitoshi,” Aizawa continued in a much firmer tone. He seemed to loom to Hitoshi’s gaze. “. . . No, you did get hurt—sick for a few days, in fact—and that is something I refuse to ignore, now and moving forward.”

A hiccup burrowed in his throat. Hitoshi never had anyone who worried over him, over his health, and took protective measures to ensure he remained safe and cared for. Izuku and Denki cared—but they were in the same boat as he, so to speak. There wasn’t much a group of poor, borderline homeless, runaway and villainous Littles could really do against common colds and viruses.

“You need to understand your behavior has been unacceptable, and it cannot—will not—happen again.” Aizawa straightened and guided Hitoshi over his lap without further pause. Hitoshi’s shirt was ‘thoughtfully’ tucked midback, exposing his bare bottom and all its’ vulnerable areas to Aizawa’s calloused palms. Hitoshi sniffled, whining low in the back of his throat, as Aizawa placed a couch cushion in his arms for comfort. “You’re going to get your naughty bottom spanked with the flat of my hand, then the wooden spoon”—Hitoshi shivered at the firm pat on the crest of his bottom, and whined again when Aizawa rested a steadying, grounding hand on the small of his back— “and, don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about our nighttime visit . . . but, as always, everything will be forgiven, afterwards. You will be forgiven. It will be a clean slate. Do you understand, Toshi?”

Hitoshi grimaced and made a soft noise when Aizawa rested his other palm on the crest of his bottom. The one that would soon be blistering his ass twice in one evening. Spankings were the worst, and he was going to get two of them. “Y-yes, Zawa.”

“Good boy,” murmured Aizawa, taking a moment to card fingers through Hitoshi’s hair. Hitoshi closed his eyes and sighed at the soft contact. He had once assumed Aizawa would never be affectionate with him, would never cuddle or hug him, would only touch him in clinical, detached ways when touch was inevitable—and remembered how that assumption had flown out the window the moment Aizawa picked him up from the program. Literally. “What’s our safe word?”

Here it comes . . . “M-mint.”

Although Hitoshi expected the first swat, a yelp escaped him still when Aizawa’s hand made contact. A flurry of stinging swats cracked against the crest of his bottom. He squirmed at the pace Aizawa set, relentless and bristling swats that steadily built heat. Whimpers soured his mouth as he tried to hide from Aizawa’s falling hand. Like always, though, Aizawa’s aim remained precise.

Hitoshi tried to keep quiet and breathe through it. He knew everyone would be aware of what happened, given Aizawa never made disciplining him to be some sort of secret, but that didn’t mean he wanted them to hear. Who knew how soundproof the dorms were? If the entirety of faculty and staff heard him sobbing like a baby, he would shrivel up and die. His stubborn quietness wasn’t meant to be, however.

Aizawa focused attention on the soft undercurve of his bottom. Hitoshi whined, high-pitched and pleading, before a few sobs slipped between his gritted teeth. Tears stung the back of his eyes and burned his throat. His fingers grasped the cushion, trembling around the fabric. Damp patches formed when Aizawa plopped two swats on his relatively untouched upper thighs and sit-spots, yanking a pained yelp and sob from his mouth.

I’m never sitting again, Hitoshi thought in dismay. Aizawa had meant it when he said the spanking would not be pleasant.

“I am more than aware the transition into civilian life has been a struggle for you,” Aizawa started, tone low and displeased. Another sob simmered in the back of his throat as he squirmed; three more swats falling on the crest of his bottom. “I am aware you have a severe dislike of the lack of freedom involved in your probation terms. Nonetheless,” —Aizawa moved down to lather his sit-spots and upper thighs in attention Hitoshi did not want— “you are to follow these terms until your case is reexamined. Your recent behavior has shown me you have a complete disregard for your personal health and safety, and that,”—Sobs spilled out of his mouth at the way Aizawa blistered his upper thighs— “is something I will never stand for, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi likely drowned the couch pillow in his tears and snot at this point. He wondered if Aizawa would get tired of his squirms, but the mans’ grip held fast and true. “Stop—Zawa, st-stop—! Why do you even care?” Hitoshi managed to spit out. His struggling continued even though he knew, from personal experience, Aizawa wouldn’t get tired. Not with that demonic energy of his. “I’m just, I’m just, I’m just a, a, project to-to you . . . you’re not su-supposed to care,” Hitoshi sobbed out. His voice faded and wavered, breaking beneath the weight of emotions he never failed to lock into a box and forget until they boiled over. “. . . You we-weren’t supposed to . . . care abo-about me . . .”

No one is supposed to care.

(Why should they? Hitoshi was destined for villainy because how dare a child present such dangerous power—)

It took Hitoshi a moment to realize the spanking stopped. He wasn’t not sure how he felt about that. A part of him was relieved, because spankings hurt, but another part was a storm, rising in the pit of his stomach. Hitoshi shuddered around another sob, wrapped around a breath, when Aizawa . . . repositioned him?

What.

Hitoshi blinked, sniffling, as Aizawa held him upright. Arms wrapped around him as if they had reached the end of the punishment, and it was time for aftercare. But Hitoshi knew his spanking wasn’t finished—they hadn’t even touched the spoon, not to mention the . . . bedtime spanking he was still in denial over.

“Zawa . . .?” Hitoshi croaked out. He couldn’t understand Aizawa’s expression in that moment. “Wha . . .?”

“I’d like to apologize, Hitoshi.” The regret in Aizawa’s tone made Hitoshi blink in befuddlement. Huh? “It wasn’t my intention to make you feel I took custody of you due to obligation or the government. Let me assure you that’s not the case here. That has never been the case here. Understand?” Aizawa rubbed his lower back in a soothing manner. His breath caught in his throat. No one ever— “I made the choice to take care of you. No one influenced my decision—not Hizashi or Nezu-san, not the Commission, nor the program. It was mine.”

Implications fell around Hitoshi’s ears; just like the sky would if it ever crumbled before humanities’ eyes. He wasn’t sure he breathed, pinned beneath the warmth and (dare he say it) love in Aizawa’s protective gaze.

“It might be difficult for you to hear, and you might not even believe me, but . . . I would like for you to sleep knowing these truths: you, Shinsou Hitoshi, are my child—and yes, I care about you, Hitoshi,” Aizawa added, somehow remembering the words and the hurt that had spilled out of his mouth earlier. “I love you, darling . . . no matter how naughty you might be, please understand that will never change.”

Aizawa took a breath—it trembled and shook. Hitoshi stared and noticed the glassy sheen to Aizawa’s eyes. He had never seen Aizawa so . . . emotional before. Except for those brief moments of consciousness back against the telephone box, Aizawa hovering over him and almost begging him to stay awake.

“If I have to remind you of this every night for the next ten years,” Aizawa continued in a softer tone. As if a normal voice would irreparably break the air between them. “If that’s what it will take for you to understand you are worthy of love and of being loved . . . then I will gladly do it.”

NOT FAIR.

It wasn’t fair Hitoshi’s life had been upturned. It wasn’t fair Aizawa had blew into his life and destroyed his assumptions about Caregivers and parental figures. It wasn’t fair Hitoshi had been forced to live in homes where he was treated with inhumane violence at worst, and disdained neglect at best. It wasn’t fair he had been forced to run away when he presented at twelve, overhearing his foster parents whispering about the amount of money they could make off a Little as tiny as him.

It wasn’t fair.

Hitoshi sniffled and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Y-You really . . . You really th-think that?” Hitoshi asked, softer than Aizawa. “You . . . you . . . you l-love me?”

Hitoshi could count the number of people who loved him on one hand. Two of them had been dead for almost two decades.

“I have never lied to you before, Toshi, and I’m not going to start now.” Aizawa gently scrubbed his scalp, a quiet huff of laughter when he made a soft sound. The comfort made Hitoshi’s toes curl, but in a way that differed from the spanking. Warmth pooled in his veins. “Thank you for being honest with me, Hitoshi. I appreciate the insight to how you’ve been feeling . . . but I’m afraid we aren’t finished just yet.”

Ice splintered his lungs when Aizawa patted his bottom. “But it-it hurts!” Hitoshi whined out, fingers grasping the front of Aizawa’s sweater. “We were having a, a mo-moment, Zawa! Can’t we just . . .?” Hitoshi trailed off at Aizawa’s patient, but determined, expression.

“I know it’s an unpleasant experience, Hitoshi,” Aizawa said in a gentle, understanding tone. “I know it’s not something you want to do . . . but as I’ve stated before, I would rather you have a stinging bottom and sit uncomfortably for a few days . . . than you be injured—or worse—because of your reckless behaviors.”

Hitoshi swallowed his tongue.

“I don’t want to lose you to something avoidable, sweetheart,” Aizawa added. Firm and resolute. A Caregiver who refused to allow a Little to waste away from their decisions. Without further pause, he repositioned Hitoshi over his lap. Aizawa ran a comforting hand down Hitoshi’s spine at a responding whine, murmuring under his breath how much Aizawa’s hand hurt. “I know it hurts, Toshi,” Aizawa said in a succinct tone as he reignited the burning ache in Hitoshi’s bottom. Hitoshi twitched at the heat, not bothering to swallow back any noise. “I can only hope your memory of how much it hurts will make you hesitate before you decide to act upon any naughty impulses in the future.”  

Aizawa made a thorough job of painting his bottom red. “‘M sorry,” Hitoshi wept as that terrible hand lathered his sit-spots and upper thighs in attention. He still had the spoon to worry about—and the bedtime spanking. “’M so-or-orry, Zawa.”

“I appreciate your apology, sweetheart.” Aizawa rubbed his back in soothing circles. There was a brief pause again, enough for Hitoshi to catch his breath before the cool wood of the spoon pressed against his heated bottom. “I believe it’s time for us to continue onto the next part of your punishment.” Aizawa tapped it against his bottom; much to his dismay. “Twenty swats, Toshi . . . you don’t have to count, though.”

This is the end, Hitoshi thought to himself as Aizawa rose the spoon. Goodbye, sitting ability. Thou will be missed.

Aizawa flicked the spoon down twice. Sting bloomed across his sore and aching bottom within seconds. A shrieked sob floated in the air. Hitoshi didn’t give a fuck who heard him anymore. That shit hurt.

“Let’s discuss your naughty habit of avoiding punishment,” Aizawa intoned in a quiet tone. Hitoshi regretted. He regretted so much. Aizawa applied the spoon onto both cheeks, making sure the sting spread evenly. “I understand being afraid of punishment—it is scary, and I don’t want you to think I’m punishing you for that fear.” Hitoshi would rather he didn’t get punished at all, but who cared what he thought? “But as I have stated before . . . I will never go over your limits nor punish you unfairly. It’s all about trust, sweetheart.” Hitoshi couldn’t understand how someone could sound so . . . gentle when they were painting his bottom red with a cooking utensil. “I need you to have trust in me to take you in hand when you need it. It will be difficult, I know,” –the spoon cracked down against his sit-spots and upper thighs; his shoulders wracked with sobs— “but I promised you I would take care of you, and I intend to uphold that promise.”

Hitoshi drummed his toes against the couch. It hadn’t alleviated the sting like he’d wanted it to, but it provided another grounding focus. Sobs twinged between his ribcage, floating in the air and coating the ceiling, as he went limp. His ears prickled at the sound of the spoon, further driving home that everything he had assumed about Eraserhead . . . about Aizawa Shouta . . . was so terribly wrong.

“Nevertheless . . . your previous behavior . . . biting and kicking me . . . was very naughty of you, Hitoshi.” Aizawa punctuated his words with the spoon, wielding it with terrible (and by terrible, Hitoshi means accurate) proficiency. “We do not kick or bite others when we’re upset, Hitoshi. Let it be noted that if you decide to bite me—or anyone—again, not only will you receive a spanking, but that naughty mouth of yours will get washed out with soap. Am I understood?”

Aizawa plopped the spoon down thrice. The impact crackled in the air, Hitoshi’s apologetic sobbing following.

“Ye-Yes, Zawa,” Hitoshi managed to say. “I underst-st-stand.”

“Good boy,” Aizawa murmured, and then tapped the spoon. “Four more, Toshi, and we’ll wrap up until your bedtime spanking later tonight.”

Hitoshi whined at another reminder. “Do . . . do we ha-have to?” he asked tearfully. “I, I lear-learned my-my lesson, Zawa . . .!”

Aizawa let another swat from the spoon be the answer. A flurry of sobs curled beneath Hitoshi’s tongue. “Naughty little boys do not get to dictate their well-deserved punishments,” Aizawa informed him, and the spoon fell again. This time, on the other cheek. “Tell me, Hitoshi . . . are you going to do something of this magnitude again?”

“Nuh uh.” Hitoshi shook his head. “I won’, Zawa, I pr’mise!”

“I will hold you to that promise, sweetheart.” Aizawa swatted the spoon down on his sit-spots for the last two. Hitoshi pressed his face against the cushion and sobbed. He distantly heard the spoon being set on the coffee table, but had more important things to worry about. Like the fact that his bottom felt as if he had to sit on metal that had been outside in the blazing summer sun. For an entire week. “Shh. Shh. Let it out, Hitoshi. Just let it out.”

Aizawa didn’t need to tell him twice.

Sobs coated his mouth. Aizawa rubbed his back in comforting circles, hushing and soothing his louder sobs, murmuring to breathe. Hitoshi soaked in the comfort, attempting to focus on anything other than the burning ache in his bottom. He was repositioned a moment later, curled up in Aizawa’s arms. Aizawa took care to alleviate pressure from his bottom.

“You’re good, sweetheart. Everything has been forgiven,” Aizawa murmured against the crown of his forehead. “Shh, baby. Shh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Hitoshi sniffled against Aizawa’s collarbone, trembling as if he were some kitten left in the rain. “S’rry.” Fingers grasped the front of Aizawa’s sweater for purchase. Aizawa rubbed his back and gently rocked him, arms grounding him to reality. “‘M s’rry, Zawa.”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay.” Aizawa hushed him gently, patting his back. “Focus on breathing and calming down, alright?”

Hitoshi hiccupped around another sob, nodding. He pressed his face further against Aizawa’s chest, as if to hide from some imaginary audience, and breathed. His sobbing tapered off to soft cries and sniffles as time drifted. Aizawa rose to his feet once Hitoshi seemed stabler, and less likely to choke on his tears, though, like always, took care to alleviate any pressure off Hitoshi’s bottom.

“Shh,” Aizawa said to his noise of disgruntlement. “I’m just going to make you a bottle, okay?”

Formula sounded nice. “’Kay.”

Aizawa hummed some tune under his breath as he walked toward the kitchenette. Hitoshi vaguely recognized it as something Present Mic would often hum, and that had implications Hitoshi was too emotionally frazzled to pursue right now (later was a different story, though). Hitoshi closed his eyes and listened to the familiar sounds of Aizawa rummaging around to prep his formula.

It didn’t take long to make the bottle, and Hitoshi made a soft noise when Aizawa pressed it against his lips. He drank steadily, sighing in content as the warmth pooled into his stomach. Aizawa returned to the couch and relaxed against it, Hitoshi snug and comfortable on his chest.

At some point, the bottle slipped out of his mouth. His grip went slack as slumber beckoned close. Hitoshi melted against Aizawa’s chest, becoming even more of a boneless Little, if that were even possible at this point. Aizawa noticed within seconds, the man always cognizant of Hitoshi and his movements, especially after a punishment.

“Hmm.” Aizawa’s lips brushed against the crown of his forehead. “Tired?”

Hitoshi opened one bleary eye and nodded. “Uh huh.”

Aizawa chuckled. Warm breath dusted across his skin. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart, so feel free to sleep.”

“M’kay.” Fingers tapped against his bottom lip and instinctively sought comfort. He whined when Aizawa tsked at that, gently pushing his fingers away from his mouth with a soft, but firm, Fingers, Toshi. “Z’wa.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Aizawa made a gentle hushing noise and pressed the bulb of the pacifier against his lips. “But fingers are dirty, remember? We don’t put them in our mouths.”

He accepted the pacifier with a grumbled noise. He wasn’t that annoyed, if he were honest, but it was routine, at this point, to protest whenever Aizawa removed his fingers from his mouth. He settled soon enough, soothed by the calming hand rubbing his spine, and drifted to the steady fall and rise of Aizawa’s chest.

“. . . Hitoshi-chan? You have a visitor~!”

Hitoshi paused from where he had been coloring. Crayons only, of course. For all that society preached Littles couldn’t be Villains, the rehabilitation program was cognizant of their pasts and environments they had arrived from. Colored pencils made an easy makeshift object to stab someone with, especially if one broke it, and ink from markers could be poisonous to some extent.

“Visitor?” Hitoshi echoed, eyebrows pinched together in befuddlement. The Caregiver beamed at him and nodded, outstretching her hand for him to take. Technically, program staff were called ‘Babysitters,’ temporary CGs for Littles within the program. A Caregiver was a Caregiver, in Hitoshi’s mind. What they were called never changed that. “Who’d visit me?”

Her name was Yoshida Hana. A golden heart and a passion for helping Littles gain healthy coping habits in the face of trauma. Hitoshi knew the underworld would eat her alive and spit out her remains onto the sidewalk.

“It’s a surprise~,” Yoshida almost crowed. If she were anymore excited, she’d vibrate in place. “Come on, sweetheart. We don’t want to keep them waiting, okay?”

Hitoshi grimaced at the baby talk, but knew there was little he could do about it. Save attempting to run—and that wouldn’t be possible. He and everyone else were surrounded by a security system he learned could rival U.A.’s. Not to mention the 24/7 rotation of security guards; their shifts were always three hours long, but there were no lulls in the schedule.

Hitoshi had checked.

He rose to his feet when Yoshida made a prompting noise, looking half a breath away from scooping him off the ground, and took her hand.

“Have fun,” said Denki, halfway to drawing something obscene on Dabi’s forehead, who looked oddly youthful in slumber. Hitoshi would be disappointed to miss the chaos of the Caregivers discovering Denki had somehow procured a sharpie. “Don’t do anything I would~.”

Yoshida tugged him out of the room before he could respond. “Are you excited, sweetheart?” asked Yoshida as they entered the hallway that would take them to the common area designated for visitors. “I bet you are~.”

Hitoshi almost rolled his eyes.

They entered the common area, and Hitoshi found his breath stuttering in his throat. Sitting by the low, round table, dressed in that familiar black jumpsuit, was . . . Eraserhead.

That was Eraserhead.

Why would Eraserhead visit him?

Hitoshi turned to Yoshida, a silent question in his eyes. Although the program encouraged him to ask questions, Hitoshi seldom asked. He wasn’t afraid his quirk would go haywire, given he had impeccable control, but he didn’t want anyone to accuse him, nonetheless.

“Eraserhead-san asked to see you,” Yoshida said; tone bright and optimistic. Hitoshi wondered if Yoshida would ever stop sounding cheerful. “Go on, go on, say hi~!”

Hitoshi did not, in fact, want to say hi. Memories of his last meeting with Eraserhead—coincidentally, the first—floated to the front of his mind: the pro hero’s sternness, that dreadful determination, the awful sting in his bottom . . .

Hitoshi swallowed and found his fingers grasping the hem of Yoshida’s shirt. He found himself taking a step behind her, not entirely hiding himself from Eraserhead’s gaze, but enough.

“Aww.” Another staff member—Hinata Rio, if he remembered correctly—cooed and, to Eraserhead, mock-whispered, “Hitoshi-chan’s a bit shy.”

Eraserhead softened. “That’s alright.” Hitoshi swallowed back a squeak when Eraserhead rose from the table. His fingers tapped against his lower lip as Eraserhead approached, and then kneeled before him. Such a gentle expression on the mans’ face. Hitoshi couldn’t help but stare. “Hello, Hitoshi.”

Feeling small (but . . . not unsafe, and Hitoshi doesn’t want to ponder on that just yet) beneath Eraserhead’s gaze, Hitoshi gave a tiny wave.

“. . . Cats?” Hitoshi zeroed in on the phone charm dangling from Eraserhead’s phone. It poked out from the mans’ jumpsuit pocket. A cute little black cat, wearing Eraserhead-themed goggles. He stepped out from behind Yoshida, always a bit braver when his favorite animal was involved. “You have cats?”

“I do.” Eraserhead nodded and, with a small smile, unlocked his phone. “Would you like to see them?”

Suddenly, the pro hero visiting him didn’t seem so bad.

Denki had a weird expression when he explained who his visitor was, an hour and a half later. A mixture of regret, and guilt, and a soft sadness that Hitoshi ignored in favor of fiddling with the handle of the purple cat-paw-patterned pacifier Eraserhead had gifted him, noticing his anxiety go-to was to soothe himself with his fingers.

“It’s the beginning of an end,” remarked Dabi, looking rather comfortable with Denki’s obscenely hilarious drawing—

He woke, quiet and warm, pressed against Aizawa’s chest. A blanket had been tucked around his shoulders at some point. His pacifier was partly out of his mouth, but a swipe of his tongue lodged it back in place. Aizawa’s arms outstretched beside him, the man typing away on his laptop, and it was then Hitoshi realized they were on the floor instead of the couch.

Aizawa looked to be responding to emails. Hitoshi didn’t want to disturb the rhythm the pro hero discovered and remained quiet. A part of him knew Aizawa wouldn’t mind, but he would always be hesitant over “bothering” the Caregiver.

Hitoshi often struggled in the aftermath of a punishment—whether it be a timeout, or a spanking, or, even, a simple scolding. It wasn’t something bad, but he was often left perplexed and apprehensive over how to behave. Aizawa’s behavior as a Caregiver, as someone caring for him, was an outlier to his experiences.

Aizawa seemed to be aware of that struggle, though Hitoshi knew he wasn’t aware of everything. There were some things a comprehensive file just couldn’t tell you. He seemed to think Hitoshi’s behavior meant he needed extra assurance and positive touch after punishment (which he kind of did). Hitoshi once assumed Aizawa would scoff and ignore him, thinking he was “too much” or “too needy” after punishment.  

He should know by now that Aizawa liked to dropkick his assumptions in the garbage dump.

Aizawa kept him close and kept an even closer eye on him. Save for naps—though even that was 50/50, given he often fell asleep in Aizawa’s arms or on the couch while Aizawa worked by the coffee table—Hitoshi wasn’t left alone often after he was disciplined.

His stomach betrayed him, nonetheless. He made a soft noise at the soft growl rippling in the air, disturbing the quiet peace in the air. Aizawa chuckled, warm and comforting, and rubbed the small of his back.

“Hungry?” asked Aizawa, rising to his feet without waiting for Hitoshi’s response. Hitoshi wiggled a bit in Aizawa’s arms. “Let’s see what leftovers we have.”

Lunch passed by quietly. Hitoshi had whined a bit when he was placed in the highchair, squirming to alleviate the pressure on his bottom.  He wasn’t surprised when they returned to the living room afterwards, given he already had a nap. He seldom had two naps in one day (unless he was sick, of course).

Hitoshi remained in Aizawa’s arms, even though he had the option to step aside and play with some of his toys.

“Cats?” Hitoshi sniffled against Aizawa’s collarbone. “Watch, please?”

“Of course.”

Hitoshi made a pleased noise when the tablet was placed in his hands. He unlocked the tablet and opened the gallery where it was essentially a treasure trove of almost ten decades of cat videos. He could have asked for his switch, but cat videos would always be his version of self-care. Especially cat videos with kittens.

Time drifted.

Hitoshi almost forgot about what hovered in the distance, drowned in the euphoria of almost 300 hours of cat videos. He caught sight of the time, the ominous tick toward eight. Aizawa seemed consumed in his laptop, nonetheless.

Hitoshi entertained brief ideas about hiding or locking himself in the bathroom—but squashed those thoughts when they formed. Aizawa would not be in the mood to play games, nor would he feel charitable if Hitoshi attempted to evade punishment again. For what had caused him to receive the bedtime spanking verdict in the first place.

Still, though.

Bedtime spankings were . . . a terrifying and new concept for him. He had heard about them, of course. Had listened to other Littles bemoan their fates with it. A part of him wondered if they overexaggerated, but his experiences over Aizawa’s lap made him realize they were not. A part of him wished they were. Perhaps the wait wouldn’t seem as intimidating, then.

He gave the clock nervous glances as time drifted close to when Aizawa would typically send him to prepare for bed. He didn’t know the routine for bedtime spankings. Would he have to go through his typical nighttime routine before he needed to lay over Aizawa’s lap?

“. . . Zawa . . .?”

The sound of fingers tapping against keys stopped. Aizawa paused in his activity—sending out emails or other teacher-y things, most likely—and turned, giving Hitoshi his undivided attention. Like always. “Yes, Toshi?”

Hitoshi chewed on his bottom lip. “‘M scared, Zawa,” Hitoshi admitted quietly. “I’ve . . . n-never had a b-bedtime spanking before . . ..”

Aizawa softened and reached to comfortingly squeeze his hands. “Thank you for being honest with me, Toshi.” Aizawa cupped his chin and maintained eye contact, regardless of Hitoshi inwardly wishing he could shy from that gaze. “I would like to reiterate I am not doing this to be cruel. I have gained no joy in spanking you. Understand?” Aizawa paused and waited for Hitoshi to nod before he continued. “It will be the same as any other spanking, okay? The flat of my hand. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Hitoshi sniffled. While the ache in his bottom was still present, it simmered low in the background. He knew the bedtime spanking would reinforce the heat, bringing back the uncomfortable ache and sting. “O-okay.”

“I will not go over your limits, Hitoshi. Please trust that I will always do what’s best for you, sweetheart.” Aizawa held his gaze. “Nonetheless, don’t hesitate to use our safe word if, at any point, you feel too overwhelmed or unsafe, alright? That’s what our safe word is for.” Aizawa removed his hand from Hitoshi’s chin and placed it atop Hitoshi’s head, carding gentle fingers through his hair. “It . . . all comes down to trust, okay? I know it will be difficult for you to—.”

“I trust you,” Hitoshi interrupted, voice barely higher than a whisper. Aizawa blinked, not having expected the admission, and Hitoshi took a breath. Repeated, louder, with confidence, with the unshakable certainty in what he was saying: “I trust you, Zawa.”

How could he not?

The number of times Aizawa could have harmed him, or ignored him, or abandoned him were far too many to count. He could have exerted his power over Hitoshi, as both a Pro Hero and a Caregiver. He could have kept Hitoshi in that nursery, could have asked Nezu to build robots that would care for him, and never think twice.

Could have given him back to the rehab program. Could have looked Hitoshi in the face like his previous foster parents, saying “Sorry, Shinsou, but . . . you’re just too much . . . I don’t want to deal with you any more . . ..”

He didn’t.

Aizawa didn’t.

“I trust you,” Hitoshi repeated once more. If they were in a movie, or some anime, there would be an entire orchestra providing dramatic and uplifting background music in that moment. “I’m . . . ‘m jus’ bein’ a baby.”

Aizawa took a steadying breath. Hitoshi tried not to think about why the Caregivers’ eyes had that glassy sheen to it again. “. . . Thank you for trusting me, Hitoshi,” Aizawa said and placed a warm kiss on the crown of his forehead. “It . . . it means a lot that you have placed that trust in my hands. I will do my best to uphold it, alright? And you’re not being a baby,” Aizawa added after another pause. His eyes narrowed slightly, a stern look that had Hitoshi reflexively swallowing. “Your concerns—your fears—are completely reasonable . . . and I appreciate you bringing them to awareness. Bedtime spankings can be scary, especially when it’s your first time experiencing it.”

Hitoshi chewed on his bottom lip. He didn’t want to experience it . . . but his behavior had consequences, and Aizawa had proven, various times, he wasn’t a Caregiver who went back on his word. Especially when ‘that word’ entailed discipline he thought Hitoshi needed. “Sh-Should T-Toshi get r-ready for bed now . . .?”

Aizawa hummed in a considering tone and glanced at the time. “Yes,” Aizawa said after a few minutes of contemplation. Hitoshi’s stomach shriveled as if it were a grape left beneath the sun for a week. “Same routine as always, sweetheart. Except you will meet me here once you’re finished in the bathroom, understand?” Aizawa met his gaze once more, that stern determination of a Caregiver that never failed to make his stomach curdle whenever he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to. “No playing around, Hitoshi. I’m certain you’re aware you won’t be pleased at the consequences, if you choose to do so.”

Hitoshi swallowed, feeling the distant ache, and nodded. “Y-yes, Zawa.”

A sigh escaped him once he stepped into the bathroom. It took him around ten minutes to complete his bedtime routine, slipping into his matching kitten-patterned pajamas. A sullen part of him wanted to grab the onesie and make life difficult for Aizawa, but he knew the mans’ patience was a frayed string at this point. No use snapping it indefinitely.

He brushed his teeth and then washed it with his citrus-scented face scrub, patting his face dry afterwards. It erased the feeling that he’d been crying for most of the day, though he knew that would soon change. He had found a hilarious irony in how strict Aizawa was about personal hygiene, considering the man often looked like he was a homeless ragamuffin on a good day. His socked feet scuffed against the floor, drowning any noise of his footsteps as he exited the bathroom.

Aizawa smiled, warm and soft, as he approached.

“Thank you for listening, sweetheart.” Aizawa reached out and held his hands, gently squeezing them for reassurance and comfort. “I would like for you to have five minutes in timeout, okay?” At Hitoshi’s soft noise, a mixture of confusion and disgruntlement—he wasn’t kidding when he said he hated timeouts, Aizawa added, “Not as another punishment, sweetheart, but I would like for you to take the time to both reflect and calm down. I will be taking that time to gather myself, as well. Are you still with me? Verbal answer, Toshi.”

Hitoshi gave a reluctant nod, not being able to find fault in Aizawa’s logic. “Uh huh.”

“Once those five minutes are up, you’re going to go over my lap for your spanking.” Aizawa squeezed his hands once more, following his audible swallow. His heart thudded, almost painfully, in his throat. “There will be no implements save the flat of my hand. I don’t want there to be any confusion or misunderstandings . . . so, before your timeout, could you explain to me why you’re getting a bedtime spanking?”

Hitoshi would rather not, actually. “B-because I, um, kept t-trying to, um, run and stall earlier . . . and b-bit and kicked you.” Having to say his transgressions out loud was the worst. He flushed and shifted on his feet, slightly uncomfortable and mortified by the way he’d behaved. It had been in the heat of the moment, of course, but damn. “’M sorry, Zawa,” he mumbled out. “D-didn’ mean to be bad.”

A sputtered squeak of protest escaped him when Aizawa flicked his nose. Confused lined his face as he stared, wide-eyed, at the firm set of Aizawa’s mouth. “You are not bad, Hitoshi,” Aizawa chided, though gentling his tone a moment later. “You were quite naughty earlier, but that does not mean you’re bad. Understand?”

Hitoshi nodded quickly, not wanting Aizawa to think they needed to have a chat about self-deprecation. “U-understand.”

“Good.” Aizawa gave a nod and then motioned toward the corner. The stool. “You know what to do, sweetheart. Timeout for five minutes.”

Hitoshi sat on the stool with little protest. He winced and squirmed once the wood pressed against those sore, aching areas of his bottom. A soft whimper formed in the back of his throat as he tried to get as comfortable as possible.

Five minutes seemed like a short amount of time, but it felt like a decade to Hitoshi. It did ground him further into reality, however, and made him less overwhelmed at the impending punishment. Likely Aizawa’s goal. When he heard the soft beep-beep of an alarm and the “Timeout’s over, Toshi,” from Aizawa, he returned to the couch.

Aizawa rubbed his forearm. “How’re we feeling? Overwhelmed, still?”

Hitoshi played with the drawstring of his pajama bottoms, looping it around his fingers, and shook his head. “N-no, I feel . . . calmer.”

Aizawa looked relieved. “Good. That’s what I was hoping for.” He squeezed Hitoshi’s hands once more, and then guided the Little over his lap. Hitoshi whimpered at the action, shifting minutely as Aizawa adjusted him to a more comfortable position, and sniffled at the pillow placed into his arms. A different one from earlier, thankfully. “What’s our safe word, darling?”

 “’S mint,” Hitoshi warbled out. A disgruntled noise escaped him when Aizawa surreptitiously tugged his pajama bottoms and underwear down to his ankles, brandishing his sore, reddened ass to the world. “Z-Zawa,” Hitoshi protested, heart crawling out of his lungs when Aizawa pressed a grounding hand at the small of his back. “N-No’ bare, please!”

A yelp escaped him when Aizawa’s hand swatted down. Sting bloomed beneath the calloused palm, a spreading ache that made him twitch. “As I have stated before, little boys are not able to dictate how their naughty bottoms are disciplined,” Aizawa scolded as his hand steadily reinforced the burning ache in Hitoshi’s bottom. “That being said . . . I need to be able to see and make sure there won’t be any bruising, Toshi.”

Hitoshi made a low, wounded noise when three sharp swats crack against his sit-spots. His leg would’ve kicked out at the impact, but Aizawa’s leg clamped over his made it difficult. He writhed over his Caregiver’s lap, sobbing contritely and murmuring apologies against the couch pillow, as his bottom was thoroughly painted a weeping red.

“Although I do not wish to sound like some broken record, I will not be pleased if something like this happens again. Your health and well-being are important, Hitoshi, and I refuse to watch you self-destruct and harm yourself in ways that are avoidable.” Hitoshi’s ears burned at the scolding. He hated being scolded when sprawled over Aizawa’s lap, bottom a scalding red beneath his Caregivers’ hand. “Avoiding punishment, likewise, was extremely naughty of you to do, and I hope our discussion today will stick with you in the future if you ever consider behaving in this manner again.”

Hitoshi rose his head from the pillow, warbling out a broken, “I won’, Zawa. Be good; T’shi be good!”

“I know you’ll be good, Toshi,” Aizawa murmured, gentle and soft even as his hand generously reheated the sting in his sit-spots and upper thighs, coaxing them to be a darker pink. “You’re always good, okay?” Aizawa rubbed the small of his back comfortingly. “We’re almost finished, sweetheart. Just these last few, and we’re finished.”

Hitoshi pressed his face back against the pillow, weeping. Those last few swats were akin to scalding water. He knew he was being dramatic, but still. Aizawa’s hand hurt. His Caregiver refused to half-ass things, and it showed whenever it was decided he needed to be disciplined. He went limp over Aizawa’s lap for the second time that day, likely ruining the mans’ furniture with his tears and snot.

Aizawa rubbed his back in comforting, grounding circles. It took him a moment to realize Aizawa had repositioned him, so drowned in his need to sob. He pressed his nose against the curve of Aizawa’s neck, knowing Aizawa didn’t care if it got damp from tears.

“Shh, sweetheart,” Aizawa murmured against the crown of his forehead. “I’ve got you, Toshi. I’ve got you.” Aizawa wrapped a grounding arm around his waist, pulling him close. “Let it out, Toshi. I’m not going anywhere.”

Hitoshi followed Aizawa’s advice, crying softly as he curled small against Aizawa’s chest. “S’rry, Z’wa,” Hitoshi soaked in the comfort Aizawa provided freely. “Be good.”

“I know, baby.” Aizawa hushed him gently and, after gauging how settled he was, rose from the couch. “You’re always a good boy, Toshi.”

Hitoshi sniffled. His fingers twisted through the front of Aizawa’s sweater. “B’ttle?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Aizawa headed for the kitchen, reluctant to set Hitoshi onto his feet even for a moment. Hitoshi didn’t want to leave the safety and comfort of Aizawa’s arms, either. “What flavor would you like?”

Hitoshi muttered his preference against Aizawa’s collarbone. Aizawa prepared the bottle within ten minutes and pressed it into his hands. He slipped it into his mouth and hummed, melting against Aizawa’s chest. He was distantly aware of Aizawa moving toward his room and was pleasantly surprised when Aizawa settled into the rocking chair instead of putting him down for bed.

He drank slow, wanting to savor the warmth that soaked into his bones. Aizawa rocked the chair at a gentle, steady pace, and combined with the formula, it didn’t take long for his eyes to start drooping. Aizawa noticed him fading and placed the bottle on the small table beside the rocking chair. He made a soft noise when Aizawa rose but calmed by a soothing hand running down his spine.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” murmured Aizawa. Cognizant of his currently sore bottom, Aizawa placed him onto his bed and rested him on his stomach.

Hitoshi accepted the pacifier when it pressed against his lips. “Nigh’, nigh’, Z’wa.”

A soft chuckle. “Night, night,” Aizawa echoed, and then placed another gentle kiss on his temple. “Sweet dreams, Toshi,” Aizawa whispered against his forehead and gently scrubbed fingers against his scalp, chuckling a bit more at the way he sleepily hummed and pressed into the contact.

Hitoshi barely registered the sound of fading footsteps, the creak of a closing door. He drifted slow, a quiet descend in the warm oasis of slumber. Surrounded by warmth and the knowledge of Aizawa’s support and love.  

(Maybe Dabi was onto something when he’d said this could be his life.)