Chapter 6: Prime Time Performance
The scent of burnt popcorn and spicy chili oil hung in the warm air of the Aizawa living room, a familiar Friday night perfume. Bowls, plates, and abandoned glasses littered the coffee table, a testament to Katsuki’s latest culinary experiment—a Sichuan pepper-rubbed chicken that had left Hitoshi speechless and teary-eyed for a full three minutes. Now, in the soft glow of the large television, a comfortable, sated silence had fallen, broken only by the crunch of someone reaching into a half-empty popcorn bowl.
Kaito felt… normal. The raw, unraveled feeling from the alley four nights ago had settled into a deep, humming contentment. His body, so violently pushed beyond its limits, now felt stronger for it, like a muscle after a brutal, perfect workout. He was stretched out on the large, worn sectional, Izuku tucked under his arm, head resting on his chest. Izuku’s curls smelled like his expensive apple blossom shampoo. One of Kaito’s hands absently played with the silken strands while the other held a science journal he wasn’t really reading.
On the opposite side of the L-shaped couch, Katsuki was arguing with Hitoshi about the merits of practical versus theoretical music education, their debate a low, familiar background drone. Shouta occupied his armchair, a fortress of quiet amidst the chaos, his reading glasses perched on his nose as he scrolled through something on his tablet, the blue light flickering across his tired, handsome face.
“Movie’s starting,” Hitoshi announced, grabbing the remote and killing the overhead light. The room plunged into the shifting, blue-grey illumination of the screen, the opening logos casting dancing shadows.
Izuku stirred against him. Not a sleepy shift, but a deliberate, sinuous stretch. He arched his back, pressing the full, soft curve of his ass more firmly into Kaito’s lap. A spark, low and immediate, kindled in Kaito’s gut. He shifted slightly, trying to disguise his body’s instant response.
Izuku tilted his head back, his wine-red eyes catching the TV light. He smiled, a slow, knowing curl of his lips. “Comfy?” he whispered, so low only Kaito could hear.
“Mhm,” Kaito murmured, his voice already tighter than he intended.
The movie began—some big-budget superhero film full of CGI and quips. Kaito tried to follow the exposition. He really did. But Izuku was a distracting universe of his own. He began to move, tiny, almost imperceptible circles of his hips, grinding against the growing hardness in Kaito’s sweatpants. It was innocent from any other angle. Just someone settling in.
But Kaito felt every millimeter of friction. He let out a slow, controlled breath, his fingers tightening in Izuku’s hair.
“You paying attention, nerd?” Katsuki’s voice cut through, sharp but amused.
Kaito’s head snapped up. “Huh? Yeah. The… the thing with the energy source is implausible.”
Katsuki snorted. “The only implausible thing is you following the plot with Deku using you as a mattress.”
Izuku chuckled, the vibration traveling through Kaito’s chest. “Jealous, Kacchan? Need a cuddle?”
“Fuck off.”
The exchange gave Kaito a moment’s respite. But Izuku, emboldened, took it as a challenge. He shifted, turning his body slightly so he could look at the screen, but in doing so, he swung one leg over Kaito’s thighs, settling himself fully into his lap, straddling him. It was still, technically, a cuddling position. If you ignored the fact that Kaito was now fully, achingly hard, trapped beneath the seam of Izuku’s soft, grey sweatpants.
“Izuku,” Kaito whispered, a warning and a plea.
“Shhh,” Izuku breathed, not looking at him, his eyes fixed on the screen where two heroes were now battling atop a speeding train. “Watch the movie.”
He began to move again. Not subtle circles now, but a deliberate, slow, up-and-down rock. The pressure was exquisite, maddening. Kaito’s hands flew to Izuku’s hips, his fingers digging into the flesh there, whether to stop him or urge him on, he didn’t know.
On screen, the music swelled. In the room, no one seemed to notice. Hitoshi was texting. Katsuki was critiquing the fight choreography. Shouta hadn’t moved from his tablet.
Izuku leaned back, bracing his hands on Kaito’s thighs behind him, arching his spine. The position thrust his chest forward and dragged his clothed cleft more firmly along the length of Kaito’s cock. Kaito’s head fell back against the couch with a soft thud, his jaw clenched.
“You okay over there, Kaito?” Hitoshi’s dry voice floated over. “You look… tense.”
“He’s fine,” Izuku answered, his voice remarkably steady. He was watching his brother, a faint, defiant smirk on his face. “Just invested in the narrative.”
Kaito was going to die. He was going to combust right here on the Aizawa family couch. Izuku’s rhythm became more insistent, a steady, grinding tempo designed to bring them both to the edge through layers of frustrating fabric. Kaito could feel the damp heat seeping through Izuku’s pants, a tantalizing promise. His own pre-come was slicking the inside of his boxers, a sticky, desperate confession.
Then Izuku did the impossible. He leaned forward, his lips brushing Kaito’s ear. His scent, his warmth, his everything engulfed Kaito.
“Remember the alley?” Izuku whispered, the words filthy and hot. “How you shook and cried for me? You’re gonna be quiet for me this time. You’re not gonna make a sound.”
He didn’t wait for a response. In one fluid, brazen motion, Izuku shoved his own sweatpants and underwear down just past the curve of his ass. Then, his eyes locked not on Kaito, but on his brothers across the room, he reached back. His hand slipped between Kaito’s body and his own, yanking the waistband of Kaito’s sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free his aching cock.
The cool air of the room was a shock. The heat of Izuku’s body was a revelation.
Kaito’s vision whited out for a second. He couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t happening. This was insane.
Izuku positioned the head of Kaito’s cock at his entrance. He was wet, so wet, the slickness obvious and obscene. He’d planned this. He’d been thinking about this all night.
With a slow, controlled exhale, Izuku sank down.
It was a tight, burning, perfect slide. The sheer, breathtaking fullness stole the air from Kaito’s lungs. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, a metallic tang flooding his mouth, to stop the guttural moan that fought to escape. His hands on Izuku’s hips were vises, his knuckles white.
Izuku took him all, until Kaito was buried to the hilt inside that devastating, clenching heat. He paused, letting them both adjust, his own breath coming in short, quiet pants. A fine tremor ran through his thighs. On the television, someone delivered a quippy one-liner. Hitoshi gave a low chuckle.
Then Izuku began to move.
He started a slow, deep rise and fall, using the strength of his legs to lift himself almost all the way off before sinking back down with a liquid smoothness that was pure torture. Each descent was a punch of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Kaito could only watch, hypnotized and horrified, as his boyfriend fucked himself on his cock in the middle of his family’s living room.
Izuku’s face was a masterpiece of controlled debauchery. His lips were parted, his cheeks flushed, but his expression was one of focused concentration, as if he was performing a complex dance. His eyes, gleaming in the dark, held Kaito’s, refusing to let him look away from the reality of what they were doing.
“Try to stay quiet,” Izuku mouthed silently, a wicked glee dancing in his gaze.
Kaito was a coil of silent, screaming tension. Every nerve ending was on fire. The wet, rhythmic sound of their joining, though muffled by their bodies and the movie’s soundtrack, seemed deafening to him. He was sure everyone could hear it. He was sure everyone could see the frantic movement of Izuku’s hips, the way the blanket had slipped to reveal the tantalizing strip of bare skin at the small of Izuku’s back.
A particularly deep thrust hit a spot that made stars burst behind Kaito’s eyelids. A choked, ragged sound, half-whimper, half-sigh, escaped his clenched teeth.
Katsuki’s head turned. Not a full look, just a slight shift, his sharp eyes cutting through the dim light towards them. He saw. Of course he saw. He saw the sheen of sweat on Izuku’s forehead, the desperate grip of Kaito’s hands, the unnatural, rhythmic motion. A slow, incredulous smirk spread across Katsuki’s face. He didn’t say a word. He just nudged Hitoshi with his elbow and gave a slight nod in their direction.
Hitoshi glanced over. His eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. He blinked once, slowly, then his usual mask of bland detachment settled back into place. He leaned over, grabbed the popcorn bowl, and offered it to Katsuki, his message clear: I see it. I’m not touching it.
The acknowledgment, the silent audience, sent a new, terrifying thrill through Kaito. It was shameful. It was exhilarating. His hips jerked upward, meeting Izuku’s next descent with a force that made Izuku’s breath catch. A soft, punched-out “oh” escaped Izuku’s lips, barely audible over the movie’s explosion.
It was the wrong sound.
Shouta looked up.
His dark eyes moved from his tablet, over the scene on the couch. He took in the position of his youngest son, the strained expression on Kaito’s face, the knowing smirks on his twins’ faces. His gaze lingered for three endless heartbeats. His expression didn’t change. No anger. No shock. Just a profound, weary understanding of the chaos that was his life.
With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand such moments, Shouta reached for the TV remote. His thumb pressed the volume button. Once. Twice. Three times.
The roar of the cinematic battle swelled to fill the room, drowning out any possible gasp, any slick slap of skin, any ragged breath. It was a wall of sound, a paternal blessing in the form of auditory camouflage.
He then pointedly returned his attention to his tablet, the blue light reflecting off his glasses, a silent sentry allowing the transgression to proceed.
The permission—because that’s what it was—unleashed something in Izuku. A low, hungry noise vibrated in his throat. He abandoned his slow, deep rhythm for something faster, more frantic. He braced his hands on Kaito’s shoulders, his nails biting through the fabric of his shirt, and rode him with a desperate, grinding intensity.
“Come on,” Izuku hissed, his composure finally cracking, his voice a ragged thread under the movie’s din. “You gonna come inside me? Right here? With my family five feet away? Do it. I want you to. I want to feel you lose it.”
The words, the situation, the overwhelming sensation shattered Kaito’s last shred of control. The coil snapped. Pleasure, white-hot and catastrophic, erupted from his core. He came with a silent, seismic convulsion, his body arching off the couch as he pumped his release deep into Izuku in pulsing, endless waves. His vision tunneled, the room and the movie and everything dissolving into pure, blinding sensation.
Izuku clamped down around him, milking him through it, his own body shuddering. With a sharp, gasping cry he couldn’t fully suppress, Izuku followed him over, his internal muscles fluttering wildly around Kaito’s still-throbbing cock as his own climax ripped through him. He collapsed forward, his forehead dropping onto Kaito’s shoulder, his curly hair a damp curtain against Kaito’s neck.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged, synced breathing and the deafening boom of the movie’s final act. Kaito’s arms came up, wrapping around Izuku, holding him close as they both floated back to earth, spent and trembling.
Slowly, carefully, Izuku shifted, lifting himself off. He quickly, discreetly, pulled his clothing back into place. Kaito did the same, the aftermath sticky and uncomfortable but a necessary reclaiming of normality. The blanket was pulled back up.
The movie ended. Credits rolled, casting the room in a soft, scrolling light.
Hitoshi stretched, his joints popping. “Well. That was… loud.”
“The climax was predictable,” Katsuki grumbled, standing and gathering bowls. “Could see it coming a mile off.” He shot a look at the couch, his smirk returning. “Some of us, anyway.”
Izuku, still curled against Kaito, didn’t move. “You’re just jealous my climax was better,” he mumbled into Kaito’s shirt, his voice hoarse.
Shouta stood up, setting his tablet aside. He walked to the couch and looked down at them. Kaito froze, expecting a lecture, a disapproval, something.
Instead, Shouta reached out and ruffled Izuku’s sweaty hair. “You two,” he said, his voice dry as dust. “Hydrate. And for the love of god, clean the couch if you got anything on it. I’m not explaining that to the cleaner.”
He turned and headed towards the kitchen. “Katsuki, if you put those bowls in the sink without rinsing them, I’m donating your knife roll.”
As Shouta’s footsteps receded, Kaito let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for an hour. His heart was still hammering against his ribs.
Izuku finally lifted his head. His face was flushed, his eyes brilliant and satisfied. He looked at Kaito, then at his smirking brothers, and a slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. It was the smile of someone who had gotten exactly what he wanted, and then some.
He leaned in, his lips brushing Kaito’s ear once more, his whisper for Kaito alone.
“Told you it was my turn to wreck you.”