Slightly modified for GUROchan; Shen Woo/Shingo Yabuki.
Bit of puke love never goes amiss.
Work on fighting game M/M requests is in progress!
---
He'd taken some pretty horrible shots in his time, but nothing compared to laying flat on his back with legs spread wide and a Battle God looming over him.
There was no backing out. This what what he'd asked for, what he'd folded money into another man's hands for and what he blushed and squirmed and cringed over, right down to the sickening detail of bruises staining a pale, smooth stomach. Shingo Yabuki was appalled with himself. Watching from the sidelines broke his heart and made his throat knot up horribly; front-row seats at the stadium for friends of the Japanese team (they hadn't asked him along this time, since Kyo was back... How disappointing. Watching was never the same as being down there!) made sure he could see the action up as close as it could get, especially as the unforgiving fists of a tanned god crashed against his opponents with the painful smack of leather that reverberated all the way down through the young man's bones and pooled at his crotch.
It wasn't that he didn't like girls. He had to remind himself of this. He reminded himself over and over and over of Yoshie and how cute she was, how prudish she was, how uppity she was, how she crossed her legs and arms and refused to get down on her knees to suck him off. She was flustered if he tried to kiss her, stop it, I haven't had any gum this afternoon, god, I don't stink, do I? Forever concerned with how she tasted and how she smelt, hot sweat and masculine musk bore down on him and a mixture of cigarettes, mouth-breathing and adrenaline invaded his mouth with a sloppy clash of teeth that he laughed off. Those big, hide-bound hands had the young man by the hair, hide-bound thighs were all around him and held him against the wall in the dingy hallway beneath the stadium, his words breathy and violent in the moment.
"A beat and a fuck? Aren't you just a sick little faggot? You're gonna tell me why I should waste my time on you, little boy," In a flash, he'd swung he and the young man around, wedging Shingo in the pit of his arm, between rock-hard bicep and chest, the scent of exertion clouding the boy's head with aching lust that shouldn't have been. Tough hands rose to wrap around the forearm that held him in place. "Y'know what my name means?"
"G-God," He stammered, cheeks going darker by the second. "I-It means Battle God, s-sir,"
"Yeaaaah, that's it. I'm gonna hit you and you're gonna thank me. You're gonna ask for another. Then, when you've had enough, you're gonna spread your legs and I'm gonna breed your ass so hard you won't even be able to limp back to your fag mates. You can only dream of being this fuckin' tough, Yabuki, you're goin' to see what a real man's made of!"
It was just what he'd asked for, though he supposed Shanghai's finest talked to all his partners that way.
The first strike came to his face. Something crunched under the sheer force of that fist and Shingo's head jerked aside, his body following it as he stumbled backwards down the slight slope of the hall before catching himself. He held his nose and removed his hand to see sickly red blood blood over his fingers, soaking into precious gloves. The slightly faded material was dyed sickly black, his head spun and wheeled, until he looked up to the vicious man's feral grin.
"Th... Thank you!"
"Good boy."
The blows sped up slowly, but surely, the young man's body throbbing dully, his thanks spurring the other on in pauses. He dished out hell, burning, piping-hot hell, which made Shingo whimper and moan, though the pain dripped downwards in droves, the bulge in his trousers swelling more and more, the sight of his own blood riling him- he was blood-horny, sick to the stomach, retching when the inevitable punches came to his midsection. "Again... Please..." He rasped. His god answered his prayers, a solid knee rose bile that splattered to the floor and made him groan, the sour taste burning his mouth and throat with such acridity that he could never get used to. The knee again, again, again, made him cough and splutter, spitting smooth acid and energy drink to the sound of amused laughter. "Tha... n.."
Just what he asked for.
"The fuck you doing?" Mock-anger made the boy wince through his coughs, a surge sent him sprawling to the ground and kicks rained down, moving him unceremoniously down the hall until the wrath of God paused, boy flat on his back, stained crimson and beaten. He was a mess. Shining force was dull, the pain painted over his face heartbreaking and too cute for words. A groan rolled from bloody, broken lips cut open on his own teeth, a shattered sound of agony as he shifted, his legs opening... Tight jeans were no use in concealing the shameful erection that made him shake in embarrassment.
A solid boot lashed out, hooked slightly upwards between his legs.
The boy jerked, eyes widening, legs curling upwards and as the second and third hit, his stomach lurched, only for his limbs to be forced back down to the floor. His shaking was convulsions as he burnt from the balls outwards, the tears of pain in his eyes welled so much more than he wanted them to and before he knew it, a broad hand was squeezing him, body keeping legs apart as the pressure was far too much. He retched again, only for the remaining contents of his stomach to choke him, force his head aside to get it out before he drowned. Coughing it up, there was nowhere for it to go but his hair. His God tortured him with his desires, the big, bad motherfucker hard himself at the sight of his pain, at his mouth opening and closing, trying to beg him to stop--
The button of his jeans was wrenched open, the zip pulled down harshly for those hands bearing the skin of another animal to move upwards, over the boy's strong frame roughly, to get a lay of the land. Good enough. It felt good, to have some power under his fingers, that submitted so willingly. It made him feel bigger, badder, the biggest, baddest son of a bitch this side of Iori Yagami before his rough castration of flame. He was the best. This kid thought he was the best. He stood, to drag one of his followers' large, well-built legs from his jeans, then from his underwear (black briefs, cute stuff), bearing his sore cock and balls to the conditioned air of their hallway and knelt back down to take him in his hand. A few jerks had the boy whimpering and arching into his touch, a sight that made the God throb with need and throw everything else aside. He'd been asked to beat him, use him and abuse him, shame him, just long enough for him to feel... Shit. The older man was getting misty-eyed as he unbuckled his heavy belt and shuffled battered jeans down his thighs, gaudy chains jingling, just enough to get his cock out; thick and imposing, just like the rest of him. He hauled the bare leg up onto his shoulder, spat onto two fingers and slicked the boy's hole just enough, then himself.
It hurt. His God was not gentle with him in the slightest, but the long, low, growling moans meant he was enjoying their rough rutting. More spittle was added, his pace hard and heavy, like nothing he'd ever felt before- plastic was no match for the fierce beast. Each stroke was more of a ram, right where it made the boy sob with ecstasy, the broken sounds dripping from his mouth sticky with blood and adoration, a name that wasn't forming properly, even when climax struck unexpectedly soon, the attention from a man he worshipped quietly, guiltily from a distance all far too much of an overload and his stomach was sticky with sweat and spunk, the sensations he was still forced through all too much, it was all too much for him to handle--
"Fuck!" The God of Battle's seed was fucked into, then out of the boy, a mess as he withdrew and set the limb back down.
For one so young, he was strong and virile, certainly. There was nothing proclaiming this boy to be anything less than a man, physically- the excess fat of youth was thinly-spread, making sharp edges of hip bones soft and smooth, the shape a joy for the older man to run his hands over, before travelling upwards, getting a good feel for abdominal muscles that heaved beneath him, the red impact sites preparing themselves to turn purple and angry. The boy's chest was sculpted along with his incredible arms... How the fuck did he get them so big already? That was training, dedication, a love of his sport, adoration of the older men that took him in as one of his own, promises that he'd be great... Shingo was a good kid. He was kind. He was sweet. He'd never hurt a fly, unless it had filled out some forms to get a number and a slot in a tournament. Big, warm, brown eyes cracked open through tears of agony to behold the tanned, shapely man whose warm leather hands felt oddly comforting... And he smiled. Shakily, as if he weren't allowed to, he smiled.
His lips moved without sound, but his God knew his prayer.
Thank you, Shen Woo.
He helped Shingo back into his clothes and took him back to his hotel room. He helped clean him up, bundled him into his bed and took his own shower.
When Shingo woke up, the roll of money he gave the older man was on the table with his gloves.
He cried more than a little.
