Chapter 7: The Aftermath
The bass from the speakers was a physical thing, a thick pulse that vibrated up through the scarred floorboards and into the bones of your feet. Izuku let it move him, a slow, rolling sway of his hips as he took a long, deliberate drag from the tightly-rolled joint pinched between his fingers. Smoke curled from his lips, blending with the haze hanging in the air—cigarettes, weed, the faint chemical tang of something sharper. He smirked, eyes half-lidded, as a hand, large and unfamiliar, slid over the fishnet-covered curve of his ass and gave a rough, appreciative squeeze before disappearing back into the throng.
He didn’t even look. It didn’t matter. The touch was a punctuation mark in the night’s long, run-on sentence of sensation.
He was a spark in the dim chaos. The sheer black crop top did nothing to conceal the swell of his tits, the dark nipples visible and peaked against the fabric. The miniskirt was a mere formality, riding up with every step to reveal more of the fishnets beneath. He never wore underwear. It was a rule. A promise.
“Fuck, look at you,” a slurred voice breathed near his ear, beer-hot breath washing over his neck. Fingers, clumsy and eager, found the hem of his top and slipped underneath, pawing at the soft, heavy weight of his breast. Izuku arched into the touch, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he took another hit. He turned his head, meeting the glassy eyes of some guy with a fading frat tattoo. He let the guy knead him for a moment, enjoying the brutishness of it, before shrugging him off with a wink and a swivel of his hips.
“Get yourself another drink, sweetheart,” Izuku purred, his voice dripping with false sweetness. “You’re gonna need it.”
He moved through the living room, a sea of grinding bodies and spilled liquor. A girl was on her knees between a man’s legs in the corner, head bobbing steadily. On the stained couch, two men were tangled, one fucking into the other with a slick, rhythmic slap. Izuku watched for a beat, feeling a familiar, hot throb between his own legs. He liked watching. It was almost as good as being touched.
His circuit took him past the large, floor-to-ceiling shelves that divided the living room from a makeshift den. And there, he paused, the joint freezing halfway to his lips.
Shouta.
His dad was braced against the side of the shelving unit, his hands white-knuckled on a wooden shelf, his head bowed. The muscles in his broad, tattooed back corded and shifted with each deep, driving thrust from the man behind him. Crusher. The name was literal. He was a mountain of a man, taller and thicker than Shouta, skin slick with sweat, his own tattoos—coiled serpents and anchor chains—rippling with the force of his movement.
“That’s it,” Shouta’s voice was a low, rough scrape, almost lost in the music. “None of that pussy shit. Fucking give it.”
Crusher grunted, a sound like gravel shifting, and slammed his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. The shelves rattled, a few empty bottles clinking together. Shouta’s body bowed, a sharp gasp torn from him. He turned his head, his profile sharp in the flickering light from a nearby lava lamp. His eyes were black and distant, his jaw tight. He saw Izuku. His gaze locked onto his son’s, held it. There was no shame, no surprise. Just a cool, acknowledging darkness. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips.
Izuku felt his mouth go dry. He brought the joint to his lips, inhaled deeply, letting the burn in his lungs ground him. He held Shouta’s stare as Crusher pulled out almost all the way, the thick, wet length of his cock glistening in the low light, before ramming back in with a brutal efficiency that made Shouta’s arms buckle for a second. A low, guttural moan escaped Shouta, his eyes squeezing shut before opening again, still fixed on Izuku.
It was a show. A lesson. A shared vice.
“Like what you see, pretty boy?” Crusher growled, noticing the audience. He didn’t stop moving, his pace relentless, the sound of skin on skin a wet, rhythmic counterpoint to the music.
“He always likes the show,” Shouta managed, his voice strained but edged with that familiar dry irony. “Don’t you, Izuku?”
Izuku finally exhaled the smoke, a slow, steady stream. “You look busy, Daddy,” he said, his own voice a little huskier than before. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
Shouta’s smirk widened. “You’re not. Crusher here was just complaining about the view. Thinks I’m too tight tonight.”
“Fuck you,” Crusher snorted, delivering another punctuating thrust that rocked Shouta forward. “You’re always tight. Like a vise. Bastard.”
Izuku laughed, a light, airy sound that felt alien in the rawness of the scene. He took one last look, drinking in the sight: the powerful, helpless roll of his father’s hips meeting each drive, the sheer animal function of it. It made the heat in his own belly tighten, become a demanding ache. He gave a little finger-wave and turned, melting back into the crowd.
The touch on his body now felt different. Sharper. More urgent. He didn’t just want to be groped; he wanted to be used. He let himself be guided, a hand on his waist steering him toward the darker hallway leading to the bathrooms. The guy was older, maybe forty, with a weathered face and eyes that looked like they’d seen every corner of a bad deal. He didn’t speak, just pushed Izuku against the wall next to a closed door, his mouth descending on Izuku’s neck with wet, sucking bites.
“Yeah,” Izuku encouraged, his head thumping back against the drywall. He spread his legs, hiking his skirt up. The man’s hand shoved the fishnet aside, two fingers plunging into his cunt without preamble. Izuku cried out, not in pain, but in relief. “Fuck, yeah. Just like that.”
“Soaked,” the man grunted against his skin. “Little fucking slut, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea,” Izuku panted, grinding down on the intruding fingers. He could still see the image of Shouta, braced and taking it. He wanted that. That emptiness filled.
The man fumbled with his belt, got his jeans open. His cock sprang out, thick and already leaking. He spat into his hand, slicked himself roughly, and lined up. There was no question, no pause. He drove into Izuku in one long, burning push, sheathing himself to the root.
Izuku’s eyes rolled back. The stretch was exquisite, a bright flash of sensation that wiped everything else clean. The man set a brutal, jackhammering pace, slamming him into the wall with each thrust. The drywall dented behind him. Izuku wrapped his legs around the man’s hips, his fishnet-clad ankles locking, pulling him deeper. He raked his nails down the man’s back, felt the sweat-slick skin under his palms.
“Harder,” Izuku begged, his voice a broken whisper near the man’s ear. “C’mon, fuck me harder, you bastard.”
The man complied, his breaths coming in sharp, animal grunts. One hand gripped Izuku’s thigh, the other tangled in his long, curly hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. Izuku let himself be manhandled, his own pleasure coiling tight and desperate. He looked over the man’s shoulder, down the hall toward the living room. He could just see the edge of the shelf, the shifting shadows of the two figures.
He came with a choked, shuddering gasp, his cunt clenching violently around the cock pounding into him. The man followed a few thrusts later, a deep groan ripping from his chest as he pulsed inside Izuku, hot and deep. He stayed there for a moment, buried, his weight pinning Izuku to the wall, before pulling out with a wet, soft sound.
He stepped back, tucking himself away without a word, wiping his hands on his jeans. He gave Izuku a long, appraising look, from his messed-up hair to his gaping, used cunt, then turned and walked back toward the party.
Izuku slid down the wall a few inches, his legs jelly. He adjusted his skirt, a slow, deliberate movement. He could feel the man’s come already starting to leak out of him, a warm trickle down his inner thigh. He smiled. Pushed off the wall. The ache between his legs was a good ache, a satisfied throb.
He needed a drink.
He found the whiskey bottle from the coffee table, now almost empty. He tipped it back, the liquor burning a clean path down his throat. He lit a new joint from a passed candle, the sweet smoke calming the last tremors in his hands.
From his new vantage point, he could see the shelves clearly again. Crusher had Shouta turned around now, bent over the lower shelf. Shouta’s arms were splayed out, holding onto the edges. Crusher was fucking him from behind, one massive hand splayed on the small of Shouta’s back, the other wrapped around his throat, not choking, just holding. Possessing. Shouta’s face was turned, his cheek pressed against the wood. His eyes were open, watching the room, watching the party continue around them as if they were just part of the furniture. His expression was one of profound, detached immersion.
Izuku wandered closer, drawn like a moth. He leaned against a nearby armchair, smoking, drinking, watching.
“Close,” Shouta grunted, the word barely audible.
“Yeah?” Crusher’s voice was thick. “You gonna come just from getting your ass wrecked? You dirty fuck.”
“Maybe.” Shouta’s hips twitched back, meeting a thrust. “Stop talking and finish.”
Crusher’s rhythm faltered, grew jagged, then piston-fast. His grip on Shouta’s throat tightened. A raw, stripped-bare sound was torn from Shouta, part groan, part sob, as his body went rigid, his own cock jerking and spilling against the underside of the shelf. Crusher hammered into him through it, his own release following with a series of deep, pounding shoves and a muffled curse against Shouta’s shoulder.
They stayed like that for a long minute, joined, breathing harshly in the humid air. Finally, Crusher pulled out. Shouta pushed himself upright slowly, a slight wince crossing his features before the usual calm mask settled back into place. He reached for a half-finished beer on a higher shelf, took a long swig, and turned, leaning back against the unit as if he’d just finished a casual conversation.
Crusher tucked himself away, slapped Shouta on the shoulder—a strangely companionable gesture—and lumbered off toward the kitchen.
Shouta’s eyes found Izuku immediately. He took another drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Enjoy the scenery?”
“It was alright,” Izuku said, pushing off the chair and sauntering over. He stood in front of his father, close enough to smell the sex and sweat on him. “Looked a little rough.”
Shouta shrugged, a fluid roll of his shoulders. “It’s supposed to be rough. That’s the point.” His dark eyes flicked down Izuku’s body, noting the new bruises blooming on his neck, the slight tremor in his hands, the damp patch on the inside of his fishnets. “You didn’t waste any time either, I see.”
“You taught me not to.” Izuku’s grin was bratty, triumphant. He reached out, tracing a finger over a sprawling tattoo on Shouta’s damp chest. “You’re a mess.”
“So are you.” Shouta caught his wrist, not hard, but with a firmness that stilled him. “You’re shaking.”
“Adrenaline,” Izuku said, but his breath hitched.
Shouta studied him, that patient, calculating look in his eyes. He released Izuku’s wrist and instead cupped his son’s cheek, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. It was a shockingly tender gesture amid the grime of the evening. “You’re chasing it too hard tonight. Even for you.”
“Says the man who just got railed by a human bulldozer in public,” Izuku shot back, but he leaned into the touch.
“I know what I can take,” Shouta said, his voice low. “I know where the line is. You…” He trailed off, his thumb stroking again. “You’re trying to blur it out. What happened?”
It was the wrong question. It was the right question. Izuku’s bravado cracked, just a hair. He thought of the kitchen that morning, the awkward silence over lunch that had stretched into something tense and unspoken. He thought of the way Shouta had looked at him when he’d spilled the perfume—not angry, just distant, like he was assessing a problem he hadn’t anticipated. He’d been quiet all day. And Shouta’s quiet was always louder than his shouting.
“Nothing,” Izuku muttered, pulling his face away. “Just bored.”
“Bored,” Shouta repeated flatly. He let his hand drop. “Fine.” He pushed off the shelf, his movement fluid despite the obvious stiffness. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere less… populated.” Shouta snagged the nearly-dead whiskey bottle and a relatively clean glass from a nearby table. He didn’t wait for an answer, just started moving toward the back of the house, knowing Izuku would follow.
They ended up in a small, cluttered laundry room, the hum of the house’s boiler a dull, mechanical heartbeat. Shouta closed the door, muting the party to a dull throb. He poured the last of the whiskey into the glass and handed it to Izuku. Then he leaned against the washing machine, crossing his arms. The light was a single bare bulb, harsh and unforgiving, highlighting every bruise, every smudge of sweat and come on both of them.
“Talk,” Shouta said.
“About what? The merits of different lubes?” Izuku took a gulp of whiskey. It tasted like ash.
“About why you’ve had three different dicks in you since you got here, and you still look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”
Izuku glared at him. “You’re one to talk. Crusher’s fucking print is probably still on your throat.”
“I’m not judging,” Shouta said, and he sounded genuinely tired. “I’m asking. You’re my kid. I know when you’re just having fun and when you’re trying to set yourself on fire to see how hot it gets.”
The words hung in the hot, cramped air. Izuku stared into the amber liquid in his glass. The high from the weed and the sex was fading, leaving a brittle, anxious edge. He felt raw. Exposed in a way that had nothing to do with his clothes.
“I heard you,” Izuku whispered finally, not looking up. “On the phone last night. After I went to bed.”
Shouta went very still. “What did you hear?”
“Enough.” Izuku’s voice was small, losing its practiced sluttish bravado. “The shipment. The… complication. You said ‘no loose ends.’ You said it was handled.” He finally looked up, his black eyes wide and young. “You were talking about the Yakuza guy. The one who was asking too many questions about your routes. The one who… disappeared.”
Shouta’s expression didn’t change. It was like watching a wall being built, brick by brick, in real time. The patience was still there, but it had frozen into something impenetrable. “That’s not your business, Izuku.”
“Isn’t it?” The anger flared, hot and sudden. “When it’s in our house? When I hear you in the kitchen, your voice like that? When you come home smelling like bleach and something else? It is my business! You’re all I have!”
The last part came out as a shout, ringing in the small room. Izuku was trembling again, properly now.
Shouta pushed off the washing machine. In two strides he was in front of Izuku. He didn’t touch him. Just loomed, his presence filling the space, a terrifying, absolute anchor. “Listen to me,” he said, each word a chip of ice. “That world stays where it is. On the other side of the door. What I do is so you can have this.” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the party noise, the clothes, the freedom, the endless supply of everything. “So you can be a spoiled, bratty little slut in fishnets without a care in the fucking world. That’s the deal. You don’