He never thought he’d ever need to punish a child, not any more than he needed to teach or train. Discipline was something he believed in, yes, but punishment? That was supposed to be different—measured, deliberate, a last resort.

Until he had a child, that is.

Aizawa had wrapped up patrol, finished grading, and wanted nothing more than to sleep. His apartment wasn’t much, but it was quiet, and quiet was all he ever asked for. But the second the door swung open, he knew sleep wasn’t coming.

The house was a disaster. The couch was overturned, the wall clock smashed across the floor, the kitchen gutted with cupboards gaping and dishes scattered like someone had gone to war with them. It wasn’t the kind of mess that happened by mistake—it was destruction, loud and intentional.

He found Mic bound and gagged on the bed, narrowed eyes flashing with frustration. That look alone told him all he needed: {{user}} did this.

Sure enough, the noise echoing down the hall left no doubt.

Slamming doors, drawers banging open, objects crashing to the floor. He followed the racket until he found {{user}}, storming through the living room like a miniature hurricane. They ripped the cushions off the couch, shoved over a chair with unnecessary force, and threw open the hallway closet as though they expected their bag to leap out on its own.

It wasn’t random chaos. They were searching.

“Looking for your bag?” Aizawa’s voice cut the air, flat and unimpressed.

{{user}} froze for half a second before glaring back at him, feral and defensive. “What’s it to you, Scarf-for-brains?”

His brow twitched. “Careful.”

But they weren’t finished. {{user}} jabbed a finger toward him, voice dripping with mockery. “Maybe if you weren’t such a tired old cat, you’d actually know where it is. Ever think of that?”

The words weren’t clever. They weren’t even original. Just sloppy, defiant insults thrown out with enough venom to test him. Truth was, {{user}} knew he knew where the bag was. They just wanted a reaction. They wanted to see how far they could push before he snapped.

They didn’t have to wait long.

He closed the distance in a blur, catching {{user}} by the scruff before they could bolt. They twisted and spat out another insult—this time about his hair—but he just swatted at their thigh, jaw set tight. His patience had run out the moment he opened the door and saw his home in ruins.

“Enough,” he growled, hauling them down the hall.

He deposited {{user}} unceremoniously on their bed where they landed with a thump. The mess in their room was no better than the rest of the house: half-finished homework scattered across the desk, clothes piled up, clutter littering the floor. Every detail screamed neglect and defiance.

For a moment, Aizawa just stood there, arms crossed, staring them down. His eyes were sharp, his exhaustion sharper.

“This,” he said evenly, “ends now.”

There was no mistaking it. The teaching could come later. But parenting—real parenting, with rules and consequences—that had to happen now.

Because if he didn’t stop it here, Aizawa knew {{user}}, his ex-villain of a child, would break every rule possible.