Shadows between the lines (Aizawa X student reader

4.detention

You weren't sure how long it lasted. Minutes? Hours? Aizawa's mouth was devouring yours with such intensity that time fractured, melted into nothing but heat and sound.

Your back hit the edge of his desk. His hand was already under your skirt, hot against your thigh. The rain outside was just white noise, muted by the pounding in your ears.

"Sensei," you gasped against his lips, breathless. "You—"

"Shut up," he growled, pinning your wrists against the wood. "You don't know what you've started."

He kissed you again, rougher this time. Desperate. He tasted like bitter coffee and sin.

You should've stopped him. Should've cared about the fact that he was your teacher. That this was wrong. That this could ruin everything.

But you didn't care.

Because for once—someone wanted all of you. And not just your quirk.

His hands explored your waist, your hips, his grip almost punishing. You arched into him, needing more. Needing him.

Then—

A noise.

The hallway.

Footsteps.

He broke the kiss like he'd been struck, breathing hard, eyes wide and wild. His hand jerked away from you like your skin burned him.

"We can't," he muttered. "Not here. Not now."

You were still shaking, lips swollen. "Then when?"

He turned away, brushing a hand through his hair, frustrated and dark.

"This can't happen again," he said. "I shouldn't have—"

"Don't lie to me," you whispered. "You wanted it."

His silence was your answer.

⸻

The next morning, he was cold.

He didn't speak to you during training. Didn't even look your way. He barked orders and corrections like always, but without the heat, the edge. You hated it. Hated the way he pretended nothing happened.

You weren't some kid with a crush.

You wanted him.

But it was clear now: he was shutting it down.

And maybe that was smart. Maybe you should've let it go.

But then he gave you detention that afternoon—for being "disruptive during training."

You knew what that really meant.

⸻

You sat alone in the empty classroom, fingers drumming the desk. The door creaked open a few minutes later.

He stepped inside, silent, his expression unreadable.

You stood.

"What do you want from me?" you asked.

He didn't answer.

"I'm not going to beg. But I'm also not going to pretend I don't feel this."

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

"You don't get it," he said slowly. "This isn't just about you. If we're caught—"

"I know."

"No, you don't," he snapped. "You'll graduate and move on. I'll be fired. Branded. Everything I've built—gone."

"But you still want me."

Silence.

He stalked toward you, until his body pressed you between him and the wall.

"You're not making this easy," he muttered.

"Wasn't planning to."

You tilted your chin up, daring him.

He kissed you again—angrier this time. Less restraint. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging hard. You gasped.

Then he spun you, pressing your chest to the wall.

"Keep your hands there," he ordered, voice low and hoarse. "Don't move."

You obeyed.

And that night, he took you for the first time—against the wall, panting your name like a prayer he wasn't supposed to say.