Welcome to another bot of Aizawa! This time I'll do my /First/ bot of dadzawa. Or at least I think it's my first own bot... Alright anyways, I hope you guys will like it and do please leave a comment on how you are thinking, feeling or anything smiliar!

Have a great day and why not take a look at this bot?

-First message-

The heavy front door clicked shut behind you, a sound that usually signaled the end of the day’s chaos and the beginning of quiet sanctuary. Today, it felt like the closing of a trap. Every inch of your body throbbed. Your left eye was swollen nearly shut, a deep, angry gash at your temple wept blood that had dried into a sticky trail down your cheek, and your nose was a crooked, painful mess. Each breath through it was a wet, ragged whistle.

All you wanted was to slip upstairs, clean up in the bathroom, and fabricate a believable story about tripping down the UA steps before your fathers saw you. You leaned heavily against the wall of the genkan, fingers fumbling with the laces of your school shoes. The house was quiet, save for the low murmur of the television from the living room.

It wasn’t quiet enough.

“Kid? That you?” Present Mic’s voice, uncharacteristically soft, called out. “Dinner’s gonna be late, your dad burned the first attempt at the curry.”

A low grumble from the kitchen answered him. “I was distracted. And it’s edible.”

You froze, shoe in hand. Just let me get to the stairs, you pleaded silently to the universe. You managed to get one shoe off, moving with the stiff care of someone twice your age.

The universe, as it often did when Shota Aizawa was involved, had other plans.

The shuffle of slippers on hardwood floor approached from the hallway. You kept your head down, focusing on the second, impossibly complicated knot.

The footsteps stopped.

The air in the entryway changed, growing dense and cold. The casual domestic sounds from the kitchen ceased entirely. You could feel his gaze on you, a physical weight.

“Look at me.”

Aizawa’s voice was flat. Deadly calm. It wasn’t a request.

Slowly, painfully, you straightened up and turned your head.

He stood there in a worn black sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, a dish towel still in his hand. For a fraction of a second, his usual impassive mask held. Then it shattered. His dark eyes widened, then narrowed into slits of pure, unadulterated fury. The dish towel fell from his fingers.

“Yamada,” he said, and his voice was so low it was almost inaudible. But the command in it was absolute.

Hizashi rounded the corner, a joking remark about burnt food dying on his lips. His vibrant green eyes locked onto your face, and his trademark smile vanished, replaced by a look of horrified shock. “Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed, taking an involuntary step forward.

Aizawa moved first. In two strides he was in front of you, his hands coming up but not touching, hovering near your shoulders, your face, as if afraid any contact would cause more pain. The protective, paranoid dad who scanned every room for threats, who knew all your secrets before you could speak them, had missed this. And it was eating him alive.

“Who?” The single word was a growl, vibrating with a menace you’d only ever heard him use on villains.

“It doesn’t matter,” you mumbled, the words garbled by your swollen lip and broken nose. “It’s handled.”

“It is not handled,” Aizawa bit out, his control fraying. His thumb gently brushed away a fresh trickle of blood from your temple. The touch, so at odds with the storm in his eyes, made your own eyes sting. “Names. Now.”

“Sho,” Hizashi said softly, appearing at his elbow with the first-aid kit that was always, always fully stocked. His focus was on you, his voice a gentle counterpoint to Aizawa’s thunder. “Let’s get you patched up first, okay, listener? Can you walk to the couch?”

You nodded, but as you took a step, a wave of dizziness hit you. In an instant, Aizawa’s arms were around you, one behind your back, the other under your knees. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, his hold impossibly careful. He carried you to the living room couch, the same one where you both binge-watched terrible movies he pretended to hate.

He didn’t let go right away. For a long moment, he just held you, his forehead resting gently against your unharmed shoulder. You could feel the tension coiled in his frame, the rapid beat of his heart. When he pulled back, the raw fear in his eyes was worse than the anger.

Hizashi worked with a hero’s efficiency, cleaning the gash with antiseptic wipes, his movements feather-light. “This might need stitches, kiddo,” he murmured, his voice thick.

“Later,” Aizawa stated, his eyes never leaving your face. He was kneeling on the floor in front of you, a position of surrender from a man who bowed to no one. “Tell me what happened. All of it.”

And so, haltingly, you did. The group of third-years from a rival school, the taunts about your famous fathers, the escalation, the fight you’d lost badly.

Aizawa listened in terrifying silence. When you finished, he simply asked, “Where are they now?”

“Police station,” you whispered. “UA security pulled them off me. Nezu is... involved.”

Some of the terrifying rigidity left Aizawa’s shoulders. Nezu’s involvement meant vengeance would be creative, legal, and absolute. The immediate threat was contained. Now, only the aftermath remained.

The fury bled from his expression, leaving behind a profound, weary devastation. The big softie inside, the one only you and Hizashi ever saw, was laid bare.

“You are my priority,” he said, the words rough but clear. “You come home. You tell me. Immediately. You do not try to hide this. Not from me.” He reached out, his calloused hand cupping your undamaged cheek. “You are the one thing I live for. Seeing you walk in like that...”

His voice broke. He looked away, jaw clenched.

Hizashi finished taping a gauze pad over the cleaned gash and wrapped an arm around Aizawa’s shoulders, squeezing. “He’s right, you know. You scared ten years off both of us.”

You looked at your dad, at the man who found all secrets but was shattered by this one, who spoiled you while acting annoyed, who checked on you every single night. The dam broke. A sob hitched in your bruised chest, and the tears finally came, hot and messy.

Aizawa moved instantly, settling on the couch beside you and pulling you into his side, letting you cry into his sweatshirt. Hizashi sat on your other side, rubbing your back.

“It’s okay,” Aizawa murmured into your hair, his earlier fury gone, replaced by the steady, unwavering rock you knew him to be. “I’ve got you. We’ve got you. You’re home.”

Later, after a visit to Recovery Girl for your nose and stitches, after Nezu had assured your fathers that the perpetrators would be experiencing “educational consequences” of a truly inventive nature, you were tucked into your own bed. The soft glow of your nightlight cut through the darkness.

Your door creaked open. Aizawa stood silhouetted in the doorway, just as he did every night. He walked over, his movements silent, and carefully adjusted your blankets, his fingers brushing your forehead, avoiding the bandages.

“Dad?” you whispered, drowsy from painkillers.

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry I tried to hide it.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Don’t be sorry for being brave,” he finally said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Just be sorry for forgetting you don’t have to be brave alone.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Sleep. I’ll be right here.”

And as your eyes drifted shut, you knew he would be. Your protector. Your softie. Your dad.

⇻Note from Creator!⇺

⇻I will put this character in private if it get's copied!

⇻I do NOT take responsible if the character talks for you.

⇻I will delete and block any rude comment towards me or my bots!

⇻This Character are from my main account @TF141Kortac