Chapter 4: Chapter 4
The air in the living room hung thick and silent after Izuku’s sharp cry faded. His legs trembled violently, held upright only by Hizashi’s solid grip on his hips. The sour tang of sex mingled with the fading scent of bergamot tea and Shouta’s coffee. Izuku’s vision swam, his cunt still pulsing, slick dripping down his inner thighs onto the rug beneath his bare feet. In the ornate mirror, he saw Hizashi’s triumphant smirk falter, replaced by a flicker of unease as he finally withdrew his sticky fingers from between Izuku’s soaked folds.
Shouta lowered his mug. The slow, deliberate motion was louder than a shout in the stifling quiet. His dark eyes, flat and unreadable, scanned the scene: Izuku, trembling and naked except for the ludicrously tight bunny corset pushing his breasts obscenely high; Hizashi behind him, hand hovering near Izuku’s glistening cunt, his own sweatpants tented visibly.
"Costume fitting," Shouta stated, his voice a low, gravelly monotone that held absolutely zero inflection. It wasn't a question.
Hizashi cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud. "Uh, yeah! Just… final adjustments. Needed to see how the corset sat, you know? And, uh… the, the exposure level." He forced a laugh, patting Izuku’s hip. It felt patronizing. "Looks great, right? Real party starter." His fingers twitched near Izuku’s skin.
Shouta’s gaze didn’t leave Hizashi’s face. He took another slow sip of coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly. The weight of his stare was physical, pressing down on Hizashi’s bravado. Izuku felt his Papa’s hand tighten minutely on his hipbone, a silent signal, a plea for backup, or maybe just an anchor.
"It’s… it fits," Izuku stammered, his voice raw. He desperately wanted to cover himself, to disappear into the worn fabric of the couch. The post-orgasmic haze was rapidly dissolving into a cold, sharp shame. Not for his body, never for that, Hizashi had taught him better. But for the raw exposure, the pathetic trembling, the way Hizashi had used him like a toy right in front of Shouta, and Shouta’s utter blankness now. It felt cheap. Dirty in a way that had nothing to do with pleasure.
"It fits," Shouta echoed, finally shifting his gaze to Izuku. His expression softened a fraction, almost imperceptibly. "Get dressed, Izuku. You’ll catch a chill." The words were practical, devoid of the heat that had just filled the room, yet somehow carrying an undercurrent of protection.
Grateful for the instruction, Izuku scrambled. He practically tore the corset laces, fingers fumbling. He didn’t care about modesty now; he needed the barrier. He yanked on his discarded shorts and panties, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably. He grabbed the oversized t-shirt, pulling it over his head like a shield, covering his breasts, his stomach, the evidence. He sank onto the edge of the couch, pulling his knees to his chest, a small, shivering ball.
Hizashi watched him, his earlier bravado completely evaporated. He shifted his weight, subtly adjusting the bulge in his sweatpants, his eyes darting nervously between Izuku and Shouta. The silence stretched, broken only by the tinny sound of the vintage radio playing a forgotten jazz standard.
"Right," Hizashi said, clapping his hands together, the sound flat. "Well! That’s sorted then. Bunny costume: operational!" He tried for a grin, but it looked strained. He started gathering the costume pieces, stuffing the satin corset haphazardly back into its glossy box. "Gonna… gonna put this away."
He moved towards the hallway closet, his steps quick and slightly jerky. As he passed Shouta, who hadn’t moved from his lean against the kitchen counter, Hizashi paused. He didn’t look at his husband. Instead, his hand darted out, a quick, furtive movement. His fingers brushed over the front of Shouta’s dark sweatpants, palming the heavy outline of his cock through the fabric. A sharp intake of breath from Shouta, barely audible. Hizashi’s touch lingered for a fraction of a second, possessive and demanding, before he whisked past and disappeared into the hallway.
Shouta’s jaw clenched. His knuckles were white around the coffee mug. He stared at the empty space where Hizashi had been, his dark eyes burning with a sudden, banked heat. The carefully constructed wall of indifference had cracked. Izuku, curled on the couch, saw it – the intense focus, the raw wanting that transformed Shouta’s resigned expression into something fiercely primal.
The closet door clicked shut. Shouta pushed off the counter. In two long strides, he was at the hallway entrance. He didn’t follow Hizashi immediately. He turned his head, pinning Izuku with that dark, scorching gaze. There was no apology, no explanation. Just a look that held centuries of understanding and a single, unspoken command: Stay.
Shouta vanished into the hallway. Seconds later, the unmistakable sound of their bedroom door slamming shut echoed through the apartment. Not angry. Final. Deliberate.
The slam seemed to unlock Izuku’s frozen muscles. He uncurled slightly, straining his ears. The radio’s gentle saxophone felt obscene now. Then he heard it. Muffled, but clear. Hizashi’s voice, high-pitched and gasping, not in pain, but in that particular breathless way he only ever was with Shouta. "Fuck! Shou! Yes!"
Izuku crept silently from the couch, drawn like a moth to the forbidden flame. He padded down the short hallway, the worn floorboards cool under his bare feet. Their bedroom door was shut, but not fully latched. A sliver of warm light spilled onto the hallway runner. He pressed himself against the wall beside the doorframe, heart hammering against his ribs. He couldn’t see, but he could hear.
The sounds were visceral, raw. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, fast and hard. Hizashi’s gasps, punctuated by sharp cries that dissolved into desperate moans. "Oh god, oh fuck, Shou! Right there! Don't stop! Fuck your pussy, fuck it! Harder!"
Shouta’s voice was a low, guttural growl, words fragmented by exertion. "Take it… fucking take it… that greedy cunt… soaking… mine…"
The sounds painted a brutal picture. Shouta pounding into Hizashi with relentless force. Hizashi’s throaty screams, the wet squelch of penetration, the creak of their bed frame protesting the violent rhythm. Izuku closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool wall. His own body, moments ago wracked with shame, was responding treacherously. Heat pooled low in his belly, a familiar ache blooming between his legs. He could almost feel it – Shouta’s thick cock driving deep into Hizashi’s wetness, the way Hizashi’s DD-cup breasts would be bouncing, the raw power in Shouta’s thrusts.
"God! Shou! I'm gonna… gonna cum! Fuck! Make me cum! Please!" Hizashi’s voice was a ragged sob.
A harsh grunt from Shouta. The slapping sounds intensified, became almost punishing. "Cum… fucking cum on my cock… show me…"
Hizashi’s scream was raw, primal, tearing from his throat. "YES! SHOU! FUCK!" It dissolved into high, keening whimpers that shook with the force of her climax.
The rhythmic pounding didn't stop immediately; Shouta drove through it, his own breath coming in harsh rasps, drawn out Hizashi’s pleasure. Then, a final, deep thrust, accompanied by a guttural groan that vibrated through the door. "Take it… fucking take it all…"
Silence. Heavy breathing. The rustle of sheets.
Izuku swallowed, his mouth dry. His own hand had crept under the hem of his t-shirt, fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his shorts, finding the damp silk of his panties. He traced the slick, swollen lips of his cunt, his middle finger circling his clit, mimicking the rhythm he’d just heard Shouta set. The friction was delicious, shamefully amplified by the sounds still echoing in his head – Hizashi’s ecstasy, Shouta’s possessive growls. He pressed harder, biting his lip to stifle a moan.
Inside the room, the silence deepened, broken only by the slowing cadence of their breathing. Then, Hizashi’s voice, thick and sated, murmured something too low to catch. A soft rumble from Shouta – maybe a word, maybe just a sound of contentment. The bedsprings creaked softly as they shifted.
Izuku’s finger moved faster on his clit, the coil tightening low in his belly. He pictured them tangled together in the aftermath, Shouta’s cock still buried deep in Hizashi’s well-used cunt, Hizashi’s breasts pressed against Shouta’s chest. The image, combined with the memory of Shouta’s burning gaze before he’d followed Hizashi, of his command to stay, sent a jolt through him. He shuddered, a small, silent gasp escaping him as his own climax washed over him, sharp and sudden, leaving him trembling against the wall, fingers sticky, the muffled sounds of his papas' intimacy still hanging heavy in the quiet hallway. The party costume, the earlier humiliation, the confusing mix of arousal and shame – it all felt distant, irrelevant noise against the undeniable, consuming reality of the bond reverberating through the closed door.