The theater lobby smelled of fake butter and pine-scented cleaner, the fluorescent lights too bright against the dark carpet. Izuku clutched Shoto’s hand, his pulse a frantic bird against his ribs.

“Four together?” Eijiro asked at the ticket kiosk, his smile easy. “Center aisle good?”

“Fine,” Katsuki grunted, his eyes cutting toward Izuku for a split second before flicking away.

Shoto paid, his movements calm and efficient. “The center offers an optimal viewing angle.”

They shuffled into the darkened theater, the previews already blaring. Rows were mostly empty, a scattering of families. Eijiro led, plopping into a seat. “Here we go! Get cozy, guys.”

Katsuki moved in next, his bulk settling with a creak of the theater seating. Izuku’s breath hitched. He followed, sliding into the seat between his uncle and his boyfriend. Shoto sat on his other side, immediately draping an arm around Izuku’s shoulders.

“Cold in here,” Shoto murmured, his lips brushing Izuku’s temple.

Izuku nodded, mute. He pulled his heavy winter coat over his lap like a blanket. On his left, Katsuki did the same, the thick fabric pooling against the armrest between them.

The movie began, a swell of cheerful holiday music. On screen, a cartoon snowman danced. In the dark, under the cover of coats, Katsuki’s hand landed on Izuku’s thigh.

It wasn’t tentative. It was a claim. A heavy, hot weight through the denim. Izuku froze, his eyes glued to the bright screen.

Katsuki’s fingers walked inward, rough and deliberate. He found the button of Izuku’s jeans, popped it. The zipper descended, a sound lost under a burst of movie laughter.

Izuku’s own hand moved on instinct, moving the armrest up and out of the way. He found the hard line of Katsuki’s cock, already straining against his jeans. He palmed it through the fabric, feeling its thick, eager heat.

“You okay?” Shoto whispered, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’re tense.”

“M’fine,” Izuku breathed, the lie tasting like copper. “Just… really into the movie.”

On his left, Katsuki’s hand pushed past the waistband of Izuku’s underwear. Callused fingertips met bare skin, his lower stomach. Izuku jerked, a tiny gasp escaping. He squeezed the hardening length in his own hand in retaliation.

Katsuki’s fingers drove downward, relentless. They pushed through no hair—shaved clean, just how he liked it—and found wet, slick heat. Izuku was already soaked. His hips gave an involuntary twitch up into the touch.

“Fuck,” Katsuki whispered, the word a low, rough vibration meant only for him. His middle finger slid inside, easy, to the knuckle.

Izuku choked back a sound. He fumbled with Katsuki’s zipper, got it open, shoved fabric aside. His fingers wrapped around bare, hard flesh. It was huge, thick and heavy in his hand, the skin silken and hot. He stroked once, from root to tip, feeling the foreskin slide, the bead of wetness at the slit.

Katsuki added a second finger, scissoring them, stretching him open right there in the crowded dark. The stretch burned, delicious and shameful. Izuku’s hand began to move in earnest, a tight, twisting rhythm on Katsuki’s cock, his thumb smearing the pre-come over the head.

On screen, characters sang a carol. Beside him, Shoto shifted, resting his cheek against Izuku’s hair. “This is nice,” he sighed, content.

Katsuki curled his fingers, a brutal, perfect press against a spot deep inside that made white light flash behind Izuku’s eyes. His cunt clenched, gushing, making a wet, obscene sound that was thankfully buried by the movie’s soundtrack. His stroking hand on Katsuki’s cock became frantic, slippery with the man’s own release.

“Gonna cum,” Katsuki gritted out, his voice a strained, animal thread. His thrusting fingers never stopped, pounding into that slick, clutching heat.

Izuku nodded, desperate, his own climax coiling tight and low in his gut. He tightened his grip, stroking faster, his forehead leaning against Shoto’s shoulder as if in affection. Shoto hummed, pleased.

Katsuki came first. A hot, pulsing rush over Izuku’s fist, striping his own stomach under the coat. The rhythm of his fingers turned punishing, driving Izuku over the edge right after. Pleasure detonated, silent and catastrophic. Izuku’s body seized, back arching off the seat as his cunt clenched and fluttered around the invading fingers, a hot gush of release soaking Katsuki’s hand, his jeans and even the theater seat beneath them.

For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the merry jingle from the screen. Katsuki slowly withdrew his soaked fingers. Izuku’s hand fell away, trembling, sticky and warm.

Katsuki wiped his hand casually on the inside of his own coat. He re-zipped his jeans with a soft, final sound. In the flickering light, his profile was a stone carving. “Nerd,” he murmured, so low it was almost inaudible.

Izuku stared straight ahead, feeling the cold, wet ruin in his own pants, the spend cooling on his hand. Shoto’s arm was a warm, loving weight. Eijiro chuckled at something on screen.

The movie played on. No one had seen a thing.

The men’s room door swung shut behind Katsuki, cutting off the lobby’s cheerful noise. The air was thick with disinfectant and mildew. Izuku stood frozen at the sink, cold water running over his sticky hands.

He didn’t look up as heavy boots crossed the grimy tile. He just stared at his trembling reflection, at the shame burning in his own green eyes.

A large hand clamped around Izuku’s bicep, yanking him backward off his feet. He stumbled into the stall, into Katsuki’s solid heat, and the door slammed shut behind them. The lock of the far stall clicked, a cold, final sound.

“Uncle—”

Katsuki’s mouth crashed down on his, swallowing the word. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a reclaiming. Lips and teeth and a desperate, furious tongue. Izuku groaned into it, his own hands flying up to fist in Katsuki’s shirt, pulling him closer. The taste was sweat and salt and the chemical bite of theater soap.

Katsuki broke the kiss, his breath ragged against Izuku’s wet mouth. “You made a fucking mess,” he growled, his voice low and rough. His hands were already at Izuku’s jeans, yanking the damp denim and underwear down to his thighs in one brutal shove.

“You—you started it,” Izuku gasped, his own fingers scrambling for Katsuki’s belt buckle. The leather gave way, the button popped. “In there… with everyone…”

“Felt you gush all over my fucking fingers.” Katsuki’s palm smacked against Izuku’s bare, wet cunt, not in punishment, in possession. The sound was obscenely loud in the tight stall. “Knew you’d be soaked. Knew it.”

Izuku got Katsuki’s jeans open, wrapped his hand around the thick, heavy length of him. He was still hard, still leaking. “You came so much,” Izuku whispered, awed and filthy, stroking him. “All over my hand. In a kids’ movie.”

Katsuki leaned in, his teeth grazing Izuku’s earlobe. “You loved it. Don’t lie, nerd. Your cunt’s dripping right now just talking about it.” He pushed two fingers back inside him without warning, a deep, curling thrust. Izuku cried out, his forehead thumping against Katsuki’s shoulder.

“We’re in a public… oh god…”

“You think I give a shit?” Katsuki’s fingers pumped, rough and perfect. “You think anyone out there knows what a greedy little slut my nephew is? That he squirts like a fountain when his uncle finger fucks him in the theater?”

The words sent a violent, clenching wave of pleasure through Izuku. His knees buckled. Katsuki held him up, pinning him against the cold metal stall wall. “Say it,” Katsuki demanded, his mouth on Izuku’s throat.

“I’m greedy,” Izuku choked out, his hips rocking onto the invading fingers. “I’m a slut. I soaked the seat.”

“How are you gonna explain these soaked jeans to your little boyfriend?” Katsuki growled, his fingers still buried deep inside Izuku’s clutching heat.

Izuku’s head rocked back against the stall. “How are you gonna explain your cum in your coat to your husband?” he gasped back, the challenge raw and breathless.

Katsuki’s eyes flashed. In one brutal motion, he ripped his hand free, grabbed the soaked denim at Izuku’s thighs, and tore. The fabric gave with a sharp, rending sound. He shoved the ruined jeans and underwear down, stripping Izuku naked from the waist down. “Fuck brat.”

He bent, hooked his hands under Izuku’s thighs, and lifted him like he weighed nothing. Izuku’s back scraped against the cold metal wall, his legs spreading wide on instinct. Katsuki’s huge, slick cock nudged against his dripping entrance.

“Look at you,” Katsuki snarled, not sheathing himself yet, just pressing the thick head against him, stretching the first tender ring of muscle. “Naked in a shithole bathroom. My slut of a nephew.”

“Just fuck me,” Izuku begged, his hands clawing at Katsuki’s shoulders. “Before someone comes in. Please, Kacchan—”

Katsuki drove upward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect shove. The stretch was immense, burning, filling. Izuku cried out, a sharp, choked sound swallowed by the stale bathroom air.

“Quiet,” Katsuki ordered, his voice a rough scrape against Izuku’s ear. He began to move, hard, deep pulls followed by punishing thrusts. The wet, slapping rhythm of their joining was obscenely loud. “You wanted this. I followed you in here.”

“I didn’t—” Izuku’s denial turned into a broken moan as Katsuki angled a thrust that crushed a spot deep inside him. “Oh god. Yes.”

“You did.” Katsuki’s breath was hot on his neck. “You’re a greedy fucking mess. Soaking every seat I put you in. Dripping for your uncle’s cock while your fiancé holds your hand.”

Izuku’s climax built fast, a tight, coiling tsunami. His cunt fluttered around the thick invasion. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna squirt again,” he panted, terrified and elated.

“Do it.” Katsuki’s pace turned frantic, animal. “Make a bigger mess. Let me feel you gush all over my fucking dick.”

Izuku came with a silent, seizing shudder. Pleasure erupted, white-hot, and a hot rush of fluid spilled out around Katsuki’s driving cock, soaking both of them, dripping down the stall wall. Katsuki groaned, a raw, helpless sound, and followed him over, pulsing deep inside with a final, grinding thrust.

They stayed like that, locked together, breathing ragged synchronicity into the damp space. Katsuki’s forehead rested against the metal beside Izuku’s head. Outside, a toilet flushed.

Katsuki’s hands gentled on Izuku’s thighs, a slow slide to his hips. He didn’t pull out. He just held him there, spent and joined, for three more breaths in the sudden, ringing quiet.

Izuku kissed him then, a slow, deep press of lips that tasted like salt and surrender. It was tender, loving, a fragile thing in the grimy stall. Katsuki stilled against him, then his mouth softened, returning it with a care that made Izuku’s chest ache.

They broke apart, breathing the same air. Katsuki’s gaze dropped, his eyes tracking down Izuku’s body still pinned against the wall. He saw the torn seams, the shredded denim hanging from Izuku’s thighs like a crime scene.

“Fuck,” Katsuki breathed, the curse soft, almost reverent. “I ripped your fucking jeans apart.”

Izuku looked down. The evidence was undeniable. “They’re… ruined.”

“Right here,” Katsuki said, his voice a low rumble. He gently withdrew, his cock slipping free with a wet, soft sound. Izuku whimpered at the loss, the sudden empty ache. “I’ll run home. Grab you some pants. Be back fast as I can.”

He hooked his hands back under Izuku’s thighs and lifted him with careful strength, lowering him until he was seated on the toilet seat. The plastic was cold against his bare skin. Katsuki knelt in front of him, his own jeans still open, his spent cock lying heavy against his thigh.

They both watched as the mess inside Izuku—Katsuki’s release, Izuku’ own slick—began to drip, a slow, warm trickle that fell into the toilet water with soft, distinct plinks.

“Look at that,” Katsuki murmured, his thumb catching a stray droplet on Izuku’s inner thigh. He didn’t sound triumphant. He sounded awed, and tired.

“Shoto’s gonna wonder where I am,” Izuku whispered, his hands trembling where they rested on his own knees.

“Let him wonder.” Katsuki leaned forward, his forehead pressing against Izuku’s sternum. He stayed there for three long breaths, his spiky hair tickling Izuku’s chin. “I’ll be quick. Don’t move.”

“Kacchan…”

“What, nerd?”

Izuku’s fingers threaded into Katsuki’s hair, blunt nails scraping his scalp. “Nothing. Just… hurry.”

Katsuki pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. He tucked himself away, zipped his jeans with a decisive sound. His eyes, crimson and sharp, scanned Izuku’s wrecked form on the toilet—naked from the waist down, torn clothes, skin flushed and marked. “You’re a fucking disaster.”

“You did it,” Izuku said, and it wasn’t an accusation. It was a fact.

“Yeah.” Katsuki’s jaw tightened. He shrugged out of his own coat, the heavy fabric smelling like him, and draped it over Izuku’s lap. “Cover up. I’m leaving the stall unlocked. If anyone comes in… you’re taking a shit.”

“Charming.”

A ghost of Katsuki’s usual smirk touched his mouth. He leaned down, caught Izuku’s chin, and kissed him once more—hard and fast. “Don’t miss me too much.”

Then he was gone, the stall door swinging shut behind him with a soft creak. Izuku listened to the heavy bootsteps cross the tile, to the main door opening and closing. Silence, except for the drip from his own body and the distant, tinny soundtrack of the movie from the lobby.

He sat in the cold, under the weight of Katsuki’s coat, and waited.