Izuku’s fingers tightened around the ceramic mug of too-sweet hot chocolate, the dorm’s radiator hissing like a steady, anxious breath beside him. He watched Shoto, who was methodically highlighting a dense philosophy text at his desk, the line of his back straight and composed under his soft grey sweater. The question was a live wire in Izuku’s chest, buzzing with every thump of his heart.

“Shoto?” The name came out softer than he intended.

Shoto’s highlighter stilled. He didn’t turn, but Izuku saw the subtle tilt of his head, the one that meant he was listening with his whole being. “Hmm?”

“Winter break.” Izuku swallowed. “It’s in two weeks.”

“I am aware of the academic calendar.” Shoto set the highlighter down and swiveled his chair. His heterochromatic gaze was calm, expectant. A silent invitation for Izuku to continue.

The words tumbled out in a nervous, warm rush. “My mom—she always does this huge thing. The whole house smells like gingerbread and pine for a month. My dad tries to carve the turkey and makes a huge mess. And my uncle…” Izuku’s breath hitched, a fracture so small he hoped Shoto wouldn’t see it. “He’s loud. They’re all… a lot. But I was thinking… I was wondering if you’d want to come? To meet them? You don’t have to. It’s totally okay if it’s too much, or if you have plans with your family, I just—”

Shoto stood. He crossed the small space between them. He didn’t speak, just took the mug from Izuku’s trembling hands and set it on the cluttered desk. Then his elegant, cool fingers were framing Izuku’s freckled face, thumbs stroking the apples of his cheeks.

The touch was an anchor. Izuku leaned into it, his eyes fluttering shut for a second, breathing in Shoto’s scent—clean cotton and winter air.

“Izuku.” Shoto’s voice was a low, warm certainty. “Look at me.”

Izuku opened his eyes. The blue and grey held him, utterly focused.

“I would like to go home with you,” Shoto said, each word deliberate. “I want to eat your father’s messy turkey. I want to smell the gingerbread. I want to meet the loud uncle.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “I want to see the place that made you.”

The relief was a physical wave, so potent it made Izuku’s knees weak. A happy, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of him. He surged forward, burying his face in the soft wool of Shoto’s sweater, his arms wrapping tight around his boyfriend’s narrow waist. “Really?”

“Really.” Shoto’s arms encircled him, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Izuku’s head, fingers threading through the dark green curls. He pressed a kiss to his temple. “I have been waiting for you to ask.”

They stood like that for a long moment, wrapped in the hissing quiet of the room. Izuku’s heart hammered against Shoto’s chest, a frantic rhythm of joy and something else, something darker and warmer that coiled low in his belly. The image flashed, unbidden: not his mother’s kitchen, but the shadowed upstairs hallway. The click of a door.

Izuku shivered.

Shoto felt it. He leaned back, just enough to see Izuku’s face. “You’re cold.”

“No,” Izuku whispered. He lifted his head, seeking Shoto’s mouth. “I’m perfect.”

The kiss started soft, a gentle seal of the promise. But Izuku poured everything into it—the gratitude, the excitement, the secret, gnawing guilt. He opened for Shoto, letting his tongue slide against his, a hot, wet claim. Shoto made a quiet, hungry sound in the back of his throat, his hands sliding down to grip Izuku’s hips, pulling their bodies flush.

Izuku could feel him, the hard line of his arousal even through their layers of clothes. It sparked his own, a slick, immediate heat between his legs. He ground against him, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, and Shoto’s breath stuttered against his lips.

“Izuku,” Shoto murmured, his voice gone rough. His elegant hands slid under the too-big holiday sweater, finding the warm skin of Izuku’s waist. His touch was cool, making Izuku gasp and arch into it. “I have that study group at seven.”

“Cancel it,” Izuku breathed, nipping at Shoto’s lower lip. He couldn’t stop moving, the friction against his clean-shaven pussy through his underwear was a sweet, building ache. He needed more. He needed to be erased by this, by Shoto’s safe, cherishing love, to drown out the other thoughts. “Please. Just for an hour.”

Shoto’s hands stilled on his hips. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Izuku’s. His breath was warm and ragged. “I can’t,” he murmured, the words a soft apology against Izuku’s lips. “I promised Aoyama I’d be there. He needs my notes.”

Disappointment, sharp and slick, coiled in Izuku’s gut, mingling with the unresolved heat. He leaned back, forcing his hips to still. “Right. Yeah. Of course.” He managed a smile, small but genuine. Shoto’s principles were part of why he loved him. He didn’t push.

“After,” Shoto said, his cool fingers tracing the line of Izuku’s jaw. “I will make it up to you.”

“You better,” Izuku whispered, stealing one last, quick kiss before stepping out of the circle of his arms. The absence of Shoto’s body felt like a sudden chill. The need didn’t vanish; it just pooled, heavy and impatient, between his legs. “I’m gonna go shower. Cool off.”

He gathered his shower caddy, a clean towel, and the soft sleep shorts he’d wear after. The walk to the communal bathroom felt long, the corridor silent and echoing. Inside, the air was thick with steam from another occupant. He chose the farthest stall, turned the water hot enough to pinken his skin, and stepped under the spray.

He washed quickly, efficiently, but his hands lingered. The soap slipped over his small, sensitive breasts, his thumbs brushing the large, puffy nipples. They tightened instantly, a sharp, sweet ache. His breath hitched. He told himself he was just rinsing off. But his hand drifted lower, over the soft curve of his belly, through the neat triangle of dark green curls he kept meticulously shaved.

His fingers found his clit, already swollen and throbbing. A soft, shocked gasp escaped him, swallowed by the drumming water. He wasn’t thinking of Shoto. Not of his gentle, cherishing touch. The image that flashed behind his closed eyelids was two years old, saturated in summer heat and the scent of roses: his uncle’s wedding.

Katsuki had stood at the altar, a portrait of fierce, contained power in his tailored suit. But his crimson eyes, sharp as broken glass, had cut across the crowded garden—and found Izuku. Held him. Through the vows, through the kiss, through the applause. That gaze hadn’t felt like a familial glance. It had felt like a brand. A possessive, silent claim that had made the back of Izuku’s neck prickle with a sweat that had nothing to do with the sun.

Now, under the punishing hot water, Izuku’s pussy clenched, empty and dripping. His fingers worked his clit in tight, frantic circles, his other hand braced against the slick tile. He thought of those red eyes raking over the dress he’d worn, over the shape of his body. A low, guilty moan vibrated in his throat. His thighs trembled.

It was wrong. It was filthy. Uncle Katsuki had just married Eijiro. He was family. The shame was a cold knife in his stomach, but it only made the heat between his legs burn hotter, wetter.

The image seared itself behind his eyelids, perfect and depraved: the shower door sliding open with a violent rasp, steam billowing out, and Katsuki filling the space. All hard muscle and damp ash-blond spikes, those crimson eyes blazing with a hunger that wasn’t familial at all. He wouldn’t speak, not at first. He’d just step under the spray, clothes and all, the water plastering his black tee to the thick slab of his chest. His large, calloused hands would find Izuku’s hips, pinning him to the cold tile.

“Look at you,” Katsuki’s voice would be a gruff, wet rasp in his ear, vibrating through Izuku’s very bones. “All worked up over nothing. You think about this, don’t you? Think about your uncle’s cock?”

Izuku’s fingers became a frantic blur on his clit, his breath sobbing out in time with the pounding water. In his mind, Katsuki’s hand replaced his own, rough and demanding, the pad of his thumb circling with a brutal, knowing pressure. “It’s filthy, what you want,” the fantasy-Katsuki growled, his other hand gripping Izuku’s throat, not to choke but to hold, to claim. “Gonna fuck this sweet little cunt until you forget your own name. Until you only answer to mine.”

The words were a lightning strike down his spine. Izuku’s back arched, his small breasts pressing against the slick tile, his pussy clenching around nothing, dripping, aching, so empty it felt like a scream. He imagined the thick, hot crown of his uncle’s cock notching against him, the stretch he knew would burn, the impossible fullness.

“Say it,” the voice in his head demanded, a bark layered with dark promise.

“Uncle Kacchan,” Izuku whimpered into the steam, the forbidden title a prayer and a curse on his lips. His thighs trembled violently. A pressure, alien and immense, built deep inside him, a coiled spring in his belly he’d never felt before. It wasn’t the usual cresting wave. This was a dam about to break.

He flicked his clit harder, faster, a desperate, punishing rhythm chasing the phantom stretch, the phantom voice. The world narrowed to the slap of water, the imagined scent of Katsuki’s cologne cutting through steam, the crude, possessive words echoing in his skull.

It hit him without warning. A sharp, piercing clench, then a release that was less an orgasm and more an eruption. A hot gush of fluid, different from his usual slickness, pulsed from him, striking the shower floor with a distinct, pattering sound. It kept coming, a shocking, helpless flood that made his legs buckle. A raw, broken cry tore from his throat, lost in the downpour.

He slumped against the wall, panting, shuddering. The intense pulses faded into aftershocks. He looked down, dazed, at the water swirling around his feet. Evidence, already vanishing down the drain. He’d never… that had never happened before. His body had betrayed him in a whole new way, for a fantasy so wrong it made his stomach turn.

The heat of the fantasy evaporated, leaving a chill that penetrated deeper than the water ever could. Shame rushed in, cold and greasy. He’d just come, harder than he ever had with Shoto, thinking of his uncle. Thinking of his uncle’s voice, his uncle’s hands, his uncle’s cock. The guilt was a physical weight in his gut, heavy and sickening.

With a trembling hand, he reached for the faucet and twisted it hard to the left. The hot water died instantly. A shocking, needlesharp cold cascaded over him, stealing his breath. He gasped, his skin prickling into gooseflesh, his sensitive nipples tightening into painful points. He needed to freeze this feeling out. To scour the phantom touch from his skin, the phantom voice from his ears.

He stood there, shivering under the icy spray, eyes squeezed shut. But the cold couldn’t reach the heat still pooled low in his belly, a stubborn, traitorous ember. It couldn’t erase the memory of that explosive release, tied forever to a pair of sharp crimson eyes. He was clean, physically. The shower had washed everything away. Yet he felt dirtier than ever.