Aizawa Oneshots and More

A Father, His Son

HI GUYS!! Here's a short chapter to keep your palate wet teehee. 

Request by t3afr3ak!

A m! reader x father! adoptive Aizawa ( but it's kinda vague so the reader can be any gender methinks )

Might make a part two to this as I didn't exactly fulfil my own requirements but idk ... let me know what y'all think <3

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The door creaks when Aizawa pushes it open, and the stench hits him immediately – a cloying mix of stale beer, cigarettes, and something sour lingering in the stagnant air. His boots make no sound against the cracked linoleum floor, his steps measured, calculated. His grip on the scarf is firm but loose enough to strike. He doesn't need to look at the peeling wallpaper or the trash-strewn floor to know what kind of palace this is. He's seen too many homes like it.

The house is quiet. Too quiet.

He moves carefully down the narrow hall, his eyes sharp despite the weariness in his bones. His pace quickens when he hears it – the dull, wet sound of something hitting flesh. His chest tightens. Then comes the sound of movement – frantic, scrambling – and a voice, faint but unmistakable. Yours. Raw and desperate.

"Please, I—I didn't—"

Thud. A sickening crack.

Aizawa doesn't wait. His hand is on the door before he realises he's moving. He shoves it open with a sharp, splintering jolt.

The scene hits him like a punch to the gut.

You're curled on the floor, arms wrapped around your head, trembling violently. The fabric of your shirt is torn at the collar, revealing bruises blossoming against your skin – dark, mottled patches trailing down your shoulder. Blood smears your lip, dripping slowly onto the grimy tile. Your breathing is uneven – hiccuping, shallow gasps that make your chest shake.

Standing over you is the man Aizawa has been warned about. OIder, heavier, and reeking of cheap liquor, he turns sluggishly at the sudden intrusion. His eyes are bloodshot, glazed with a dull, cruel haze. He lifts his hand again, and Aizawa's eyes narrow.

No.

The scarf lashes out before the man can move, the fabric winding tight around his wrist with a sharp snap. With one pull, Aizawa slams him back into the wall, the impact making the whole frame rattle. The man crumples to the ground, groaning, but Aizawa's focus has already shifted.

His eyes are on you.

For a long moment, he doesn't move. You're still trembling, clutching at your torn shirt, eyes wide with disbelief. When he kneels next to you, you flinch. Your whole body jerks back – instinctive, defensive, a conditioned reaction. You shrink away from him before you even register who he is.

Aizawa's hands still mid-air.

Slow. Steady. He doesn't reach for you. Not yet.

His voice, when he speaks, is low and steady – a calm undercurrent cutting through the chaos.

"Hey. It's over."

You don't respond. Your chest is heaving, your fingers clawing at the fabric of your shirt like you're trying to hold yourself together. Your eyes are glassy – barely focusing – flicking from the door to the man on the ground, still dazed and groaning.

Aizawa's hands remain where they are, hovering just inches from you. Patient. Steady.

"I'm not going to hurt you." His voice is quieter this time, a low murmur. His eyes, dark and tired, soften. "You're safe now."