The airport was chaos, a rolling sea of winter travelers and echoing announcements, but Shoto’s hand was a steady anchor on the small of Izuku’s back. Izuku gripped his carry-on handle like it was a lifeline, his knuckles white. “Okay, so the flight’s only two hours,” he said, the words tumbling out in a nervous stream as they joined the security line. “Then it’s about a thirty-minute drive from the airport. Mom said Dad’s picking us up.”

Shoto nodded, his heterochromatic eyes calmly scanning the crowd before returning to Izuku. “Your parents. Inko and Toshinori.” He said the names carefully, as if committing them to a private ledger. “I’m looking forward to meeting them.”

“They’re gonna love you,” Izuku breathed, leaning into Shoto’s touch for a second before the line shuffled forward. “Um, so at the house. It’ll be full. My dad’s brother, Shota, will be there with his husband, Hizashi—he’s really loud, just a heads up—and their kids, Hitoshi and Eri. Hitoshi’s my cousin, he’s like a brother, really. And his boyfriend Denki will probably be there too.”

He was talking too fast. He knew it. The memory of the shower, of his own hand working under the spray to the forbidden image of his uncle, flashed behind his eyes like a sudden, shameful neon sign. His skin felt hot under his sweater. Shoto’s thumb began a slow, absent circle against his spine.

“You’re nervous,” Shoto observed, his voice low and close to Izuku’s ear.

“A little,” Izuku admitted with a weak laugh. “It’s a lot of people. And my grandma, Mitsuki. She’s… intense. In a good way! Just… loud.” He chewed his lip. “And her son, my other uncle, on my mom’s side. He’ll be there with his husband, Eijiro.”

“The uncle you grew up with,” Shoto said, recalling past conversations. “The explosive one.”

“Yeah.” The word felt sticky in Izuku’s throat. “Uncle Kacchan.”

The childhood nickname tasted different now. It left a residue on his tongue, sweet and toxic. He remembered what he had imagined in the shower, still feeling the cold knife of guilt in his stomach.

Shoto was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the side of Izuku’s face. “You clench your jaw when you talk about him,” he said finally, not as an accusation, but as a simple, observed fact. “Why?”

Izuku’s breath hitched. The line moved again. “It’s nothing. He’s just… a lot. Always has been.” He forced a brighter tone. “Eijiro is great, though! Total sweetheart. You’ll like him. He balances Uncle Kacchan out.”

But Shoto didn’t let go. His hand stayed firm, his presence a silent question in the bustling airport. He didn’t ask again. He just waited, watching the conflict play out over Izuku’s freckled cheeks, in the way his green eyes darted away, full of a shame that had nothing to do with introducing his boyfriend to his family.

The baggage claim doors slid open to a gust of cold air and the sight of his father’s familiar, skeletal frame waving eagerly. Toshinori’s smile was a sunken but brilliant thing. Beside him, Inko bounced on her toes, her green eyes already sparkling with tears. And leaning against the family sedan, arms crossed over his broad chest, was Katsuki.

Izuku’s stomach dropped. The carry-on handle bit into his palm. “He came,” he muttered, the words barely audible over the airport hum.

“Izuku!” Inko rushed forward, sweeping him into a hug that smelled of vanilla and home. “Oh, let me look at you!” She cupped his face, her thumbs brushing his freckles. “You’re too thin. Are you eating?”

“Hi, Mom.” He laughed, the sound tight. Over her shoulder, he watched Katsuki push off the car.

Toshinori enveloped Shoto in a careful, bony hug. “Shoto. It’s an honor. Izuku’s told us so much.”

“The honor is mine, sir,” Shoto said, his voice respectful and warm. He accepted Inko’s hug next, enduring her joyful scrutiny with a slight, polite smile.

Then Katsuki was there. He offered a hand to Shoto first, his grip visibly firm. “Kstsuki,” ’s,” he grunted. “You’re the boyfriend.”

“I am. Shoto Todoroki.”

“Yeah. Heard.” Katsuki’s crimson eyes flicked over Shoto, a quick, assessing scan, before landing on Izuku. The intensity of it was a physical touch. “C’mere, nerd.”

He pulled Izuku into a hug that crushed the air from his lungs. It was all heat and hard muscle, the faint scent of that cologne and something sharper, purely male, filling Izuku’s nose. Katsuki’s hand was a heavy brand between his shoulder blades. The hug lasted three seconds too long. “Missed you, nerd,” Katsuki murmured into his hair, the childhood nickname ‘nerd’ vibrating through Izuku’s chest.

Izuku froze, then melted, then stiffened again, a cascade of traitorous reactions. His face pressed into Katsuki’s black tee, feeling the solid wall of his uncle’s chest. “H-hey, Uncle Kacchan,” he stammered, pulling back too quickly. His skin was on fire.

“Car’s packed tight,” Toshinori announced, blissfully oblivious. “I think we can all just barely fit.”

They shuffled in. Inko rode shotgun, chattering back at Shoto about holiday recipes. Toshinori drove. The back seat was a conspiracy of adult male bodies. Shoto slid in first, leaving the middle. Izuku followed, his heart hammering. Katsuki folded himself in last, his thigh immediately pressing the full, warm length of Izuku’s from hip to knee.

“Sorry, squirt,” Katsuki said, not sounding sorry at all. He threw his arm across the back of the seat, his fingers accidentally—or not—brushing the nape of Izuku’s neck. “Told ‘em we should’ve taken two cars.”

“It’s fine,” Izuku breathed. He was hyper-aware of every point of contact: the rough denim of Katsuki’s jeans, the heat radiating through his own corduroys, the solid weight of that arm settling behind him. He sat ramrod straight, trying to lean toward Shoto, but the geometry of the car forced him back into Katsuki’s side.

“So, Shoto,” Inko chirped from the front. “Izuku says you love cold soba. I’ve never made it, but I found a recipe!”

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Midoriya. You didn’t have to go to the trouble.” Shoto’s voice was calm, but his heterochromatic eyes were fixed on Izuku’s profile, noting the flush, the rapid blink of his lashes.

“Nonsense! It’s no trouble. Katsuki, sweetie, did Eijiro bring the ham?”

“Yeah, he’s got it. And the pies. The idiot bought four.” Katsuki’s thumb moved, a tiny, absent stroke against the collar of Izuku’s sweater. Izuku’s breath caught. He stared straight ahead at the headrest in front of him.

“Four pies is excellent,” Toshinori chuckled, merging onto the highway. “My brother and his crew get in tomorrow.”

“Y-yeah. Uncle Shota and everyone.” Izuku’s voice sounded thin. He felt Katsuki’s gaze on the side of his face, a slow, heavy drag.

“Good. It’ll be a full house.” Katsuki’s voice was a low rumble, meant for his ear alone in the crowded car. “You gonna survive, nerd? You’re wound tight.”

The question was casual, but the hand behind him flexed, fingertips pressing briefly into the tense muscle of his shoulder. Izuku’s mind flashed, white-hot and unbidden: the shower, his own hand, the fantasy of *this*—of being manhandled by those same large, calloused hands. A bolt of pure, shameful heat shot straight to his groin.

“I’m fine,” he whispered, his throat dry. He chanced a glance at Shoto, who was watching the exchange with that quiet, unreadable focus. Izuku forced a smile, desperate to seem normal. “Just… excited.”

Izuku leaned into the touch. The movement was minute, a slight, unconscious tilt of his head that pressed the sensitive skin of his neck more firmly against Katsuki’s resting fingers. He felt the calluses there, rough and real.

Katsuki’s thumb stilled. The absent stroke became deliberate, a slow, grinding pressure against the knotted muscle. “There you go,” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost lost under Inko’s cheerful chatter from the front. “Knew you were wound tight.”

“I’m not,” Izuku whispered, even as his body betrayed him, sinking back another fraction of an inch into the solid heat of his uncle’s side. The his corduroys growing damp in his seat.

“Liar.” Katsuki’s breath stirred the curls at his temple. “You’re vibrating. Like a plucked string.”

Shoto’s voice cut through, cool and clear. “Izuku.”

Izuku jerked, his eyes flying open—he hadn’t realized he’d closed them. “Y-yeah?”

“Your mother asked if you wanted her to make katsudon tomorrow, or if you’d prefer it on Christmas Eve.” Shoto’s heterochromatic gaze was a calm, unblinking lighthouse in the dim car. He’d seen the lean. He’d heard the whispers.

“Oh. Um. Either. It’s all good.” Izuku’s face burned. He tried to sit forward, to put space between his shoulder and Katsuki’s chest, but the arm behind him was an immovable bar.

“Christmas Eve,” Katsuki declared, his thumb making another slow circle. “Builds anticipation.” His fingers drifted down, tracing the prominent knob of Izuku’s spine through his sweater. “Right, nerd?”

A full-body shudder wracked Izuku. He bit his lip to stop a sound. His pussy leaking a damp spot onto his boxers. He was grateful for the winter coat bundled in his lap.

“Katsuki, dear, don’t crowd him,” Inko said without turning around, her motherly radar pinging on some frequency of discomfort, though she missed the source entirely. “Shoto must think we’re savages, all packed in here.”

“Not at all,” Shoto said. His hand found Izuku’s knee, a firm, grounding weight. “It’s familial.”

The word hung in the air. Familial. Katsuki’s fingers went perfectly still. The heat of his thigh against Izuku’s seemed to intensify, becoming almost punitive.

“Yeah,” Katsuki grunted after a beat too long. “Familial.” He didn’t move his arm. He didn’t break the contact. He just stared out the window at the passing dark, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek.

The car fell into a heavy silence, filled only with the hum of the engine and the rustle of Inko reorganizing her purse. Izuku sat crucified between the two points of contact: Shoto’s steadying hand on his knee, and the branding heat of his uncle’s body along his entire right side. The shame was a cold rock in his gut. The arousal was a live wire, sparking from every place Katsuki touched him.

He was leaning into the touch. He was. And in the shadowed backseat, hidden by coats and darkness, no one could see the truth of his body, pussy dropping with the wrong heat.

Izuku's hand fumbled in the dark space between their thighs, fingers stretching until they brushed Shoto's knuckles. He didn't grasp; he pressed his palm flat against Shoto's hand, a silent plea for anchor.

Shoto turned his hand over without hesitation, threading their fingers together. His grip was cool, solid. A tether to reality. "Better?" he asked, his voice low.

"Yeah," Izuku breathed, the word trembling out. He focused on the points of connection: Shoto's smooth skin, the slight pressure of his rings. Not the other heat, the one seeping through his corduroys from Katsuki's relentless thigh.

"Good." Shoto's thumb stroked the back of Izuku's hand, a slow, soothing rhythm. "Your mother was asking about the sleeping arrangements."

Inko twisted in her seat, her kind face soft in the dashboard glow. "Yes! I realized we never confirmed. Shoto, dear, you'll be in Izuku's old room with him, of course. Katsuki, you and Eijiro are in the guest room right next door to Izuku’s room. Shota and Yamada with Eri in the guest room downstairs. Hitoshi and Denki are on the pull-out in the den. And Mom in the guest room next to ours.”

"Cramped," Katsuki grunted, his arm still a heavy bar behind Izuku. His fingers, which had gone still, now began a slow, idle tracing of the seam of Izuku's sweater at the shoulder. "Like a can of sardines."

"It's tradition," Toshinori chuckled from the driver's seat, utterly unaware of the current tracing a path toward Izuku's collarbone. "The house is meant to be full."

Izuku held himself impossibly still, a statue of conflicting signals. One hand cleaved to Shoto's, a claim of love and future. The other side of his body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming where his uncle touched him. The rough pad of Katsuki's finger dipped beneath the sweater's neckline, scraping lightly over his clavicle.

"Uncle Kacchan," Izuku whispered, a protest that sounded like a gasp.

"Hmm?" Katsuki's voice was pure, feigned innocence. His finger didn't retreat. "You got a stain here, nerd. Ink."

It was a lie. Izuku knew it. The touch was proprietary, a branding. His pussy clenched, a hot, wet pulse of betrayal. He squeezed Shoto's hand tighter.

"Is the house very old?" Shoto asked, his gaze fixed on Izuku's flushed profile, his question a deliberate pivot, a lifeline thrown into the charged air.

"Old and creaky," Katsuki answered for him, his finger finally retreating, only to settle heavily back on Izuku's shoulder. "Floorboards groan. Pipes sing. You hear everything."

The idea landed like a stone in Izuku's gut.

"That sounds… atmospheric," Shoto said, his tone neutral, but his heterochromatic eyes were sharp, analyzing the way Izuku had gone rigid at Katsuki's words.

"It's a nightmare," Katsuki said, but there was no heat in it. It was a low, intimate rumble, for Izuku alone. "You'll see."

The car turned onto the familiar tree-lined street. Home. The tension didn't break; it condensed, thickening the air in the backseat. Izuku didn't let go of Shoto's hand. He couldn't. It was the only thing holding him to the person he was supposed to be.