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Ishimaru has spent most of the day fretting about meeting the Crazy Diamonds. Apart from the gut-wrenching fear that they might beat him to death or something (which he knows is unreasonable), it feels a bit like meeting your in-laws for the first time. Mondo has assured him – repeatedly – that everything will be fine, that they’ll love him (or at least not hate him), that they won’t mind that he’s a guy, etcetera. Ishimaru is not convinced. Therefore, when they pull into the parking lot of a run-down warehouse – Ishimaru clinging to Mondo’s torso on the back of his bike with a lot less dignity than he’d like to think – his nerves are still on fire. He carefully dismounts the motorcycle, allowing Mondo to jump off in a much smoother motion. The parking lot is full of big, flashy bikes; Ishimaru doesn’t know anything about cars or motorcycles (despite Mondo’s fervent attempts to teach him) but he’s sure they’re very impressive. And expensive. He gingerly avoids them as they walk to the door. When he stops in his tracks just outside the entrance, Mondo smiles at him in an uncharacteristically gentle way. He can hear loud conversation and laughter inside. Mondo leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, and Ishimaru can’t help but smile nervously in return. Mondo pulls the door open and enters the locale, with Ishimaru trailing behind him like a child.
He has seen cleaner men, and better dressed ones. Of course they all sport the same long coats, embroidered with slogans and the gang’s name, and their hair is in varying degrees of ridiculous styles. Pompadours are apparently all the rage in their social circle, though none are as impressive nor as unreasonably huge as Mondo’s. After a lot of coaxing Ishimaru has agreed to dress down – a meticulously ironed school uniform perhaps doesn’t fit the dress code – but he’s still in a white shirt and dark grey slacks. The gang members quiet down as they see them approach, and Mondo makes his way to the empty space at the front of the crowd. Ishimaru can only follow. He keeps his eyes on Mondo’s back and pretends not to see the stares and sneers from all around him. Instinctively he stiffens; pulls himself up as tall as he can (which is admittedly not very), feels his arms go rigid against his sides, walks like a soldier. When Mondo stops, he settles into place behind him, still standing to attention. Facing the crowd, he can’t look away from their harsh eyes. Mondo brushes his knuckles against his shoulder, making it look like an accidental bump, and surveys the men before him.
“Let’s skip the fucking chitchat.” Ishimaru swallows a reprimand for the expletive. “Guys, this is Kiyotaka Ishimaru.” He pauses. “My boyfriend.” If his voice quakes, if he sounds nervous, only Ishimaru notices. A buzz of murmurs rises from the crowd, and Mondo silences them with a glare.
“If you harm a hair on his head,” he continues, “I will tie you to my bike and drag you across town ‘til there’s not an inch of skin left on your body. Got it?” The words are a furious growl, and there is a noise of agreement from the gang members.
“Hey boss,” cries a tall, imposing man near the front. “Why don’t you take him for a spin?” The crowd laughs. Ishimaru shivers in what he tries to tell himself is fear, and Mondo fidgets.
“Yeah, come on,” a muscle-bound man with a buzzcut yells. “Bet he’s a better ride than that bike of yours!” More laughter, accompanied by rude gestures and obscene catcalls. Mondo half-turns his head to look at Ishimaru; his eyes are pleading. Ishimaru feels himself relax. He knows Mondo wouldn’t lay a finger on him without his permission, which makes it easier for him to give it. He’s listened to Mondo’s rants enough times to know how much pressure the gang puts on him to constantly prove his dominance. With a small, secret smile, Ishimaru nods at him and steps forward to stand next to him.
The crowd cheers loudly and ogles him. Instantly he feels his ears go an embarrassing shade of red as he realises what he just agreed to. Still, as long as none of the others touch him, it’s not so different from what they do at home, is it? But it is. It is such a completely separate thing that, when Mondo positions himself behind him and reaches around to unbutton his shirt, his breath hitches and he averts his eyes. Unfortunately the only thing he has to look at instead is a group of hungry-eyed bikers, so this turns out to be a fairly unsuccessful strategy. At the cries “hurry up!” emanating from the crowd, Mondo growls, grabs either side of the shirt and rips it apart, sending the remaining buttons flying. Ishimaru yelps; Mondo leans in and whispers “I’ll buy you a new one.” Being looked up and down by the gang members, he feels painfully inadequate. He’s fit enough, but he’s not buff the way Mondo is, and the few hairs on his chest are downy and pathetic. He tries to cross his arms for some measure of modesty, but Mondo takes hold of his wrists and holds them down as he nips at his neck, tongue flicking out to lick the fresh bruises. Ishimaru whines, and it echoes in the vast room. His eyes widen as the crowd whoops and cheers. Mondo releases one of his wrists in favour of pinching his nipple; his rough, calloused fingers rub the sensitive flesh, and Ishimaru shivers. His cheeks are hot and flushed. As Mondo’s hand strays lower, nails scraping his pale stomach and finding the waistline of his trousers, a spark of excitement jitters up his spine. He tries to push it down; this is something he’s doing for Mondo’s sake, not because he wants to. He is making a sacrifice.
Still, already he notices how much rougher than usual it is. It’s probably for show, for the benefit of the gang, but he’s ashamed of how much it’s turning him on. Mondo unbuttons his slacks, pulls down the zipper and lets them fall to the ground. His white y-fronts are bulging tellingly, and the gang members wolf-whistle and laugh. He feels Mondo exhale sharply against his neck – there’s that possessive streak – so with his wrist still being held, he flexes his fingers upwards to brush the palm of Mondo’s hand soothingly. He is rewarded with a kiss at the nape of his neck, as well as a feather-light touch to the front of his underwear. His hips buck of their own accord. Mondo releases his wrist and tugs his underwear down with both hands. His dick isn’t as big as Mondo’s, but he’s fairly sure it’s adequate; there is a collective chuckle from the crowd. He’s painfully hard, and the thought that every single one of these strangers can see how horny he’s getting from being toyed with in front of them makes his face burn with hot shame. He presses his lips together and does his best not to moan as Mondo slowly strokes him off. He feels him nip at his earlobe and squeeze his ass.
Abruptly the strokes stop, and Mondo’s hands slide up to his shoulders. He is pushed down to his knees as Mondo stands behind him. He feels like a dog on a leash, staring up at the leering men. Someone tosses something to Mondo, and when he looks up he sees it’s a small plastic bottle of lube. Their eyes meet for a second; then Mondo fists a hand in his hair, makes him face forward and forces him onto the floor. He gasps as his cock brushes the cold concrete. His cheek is pressed into the (not particularly clean) ground, but he’s turned in a way that still permits him to see the crowd watching him. He sees, very clearly, the grins on their faces when Mondo keeps a hand pressed to his head and uses the other to push his ass into the air and spread his legs. It’s the most humiliating posture he’s ever been in, and it makes his heart race and his cock ache. When Mondo’s fingers push into him – two at once – they are coated in slick, cold lube. He must’ve been liberal with it, because it drips between his legs and onto his balls. He moans and writhes as Mondo finger-fucks him roughly, spreading him open. He doesn’t even care about the laughter and jeering, except for the horrible part of him begging for more of it. Mondo pulls his fingers out and Ishimaru hears him unzip his pants; he clenches his jaw against the shame and lifts his ass higher, drawing riotous laughter from the crowd. There’s a pause where he doesn’t see or hear anything happen – then there is the delicious pressure of Mondo’s dick against his ass, and he enters him to the hilt in one thrust. Ishimaru cries out; despite the preparation and the generous amounts of lube, the thick erection stretches him to his limit. Mondo shifts against him and then pulls out nearly all the way, only to slam back in. There are a few slow, tentative thrusts, then Mondo picks up the pace and Ishimaru lets out a strangled moan because Jesus Christ he has never been fucked this hard in his life. He sees the gang members cheer with every thrust. He moves his hips; rocks back against Mondo’s cock and hears him moan. He knows he’s being loud, but he can’t bring himself to care. His erection is painfully neglected, but still it only takes a couple of minutes for him to come, spilling onto the concrete floor. His orgasm is met with a round of applause and whoops from the laughing audience.
Ishimaru hopes against hope that Mondo doesn’t notice how much quicker he was this time; how much easier he came in front of a crowd, being violently screwed in plain sight of gang members he’s never met. It only takes Mondo another minute or two; he can feel it in the heaviness of his thrusts and the shortness of his breath. At the last moment he pulls out, and to cheers and laughter he comes in shivering spurts across Ishimaru’s ass and lower back. Ishimaru feels his legs give in, and he falls into a shivering pile. He breathes heavily against the floor. He is sticky and sweaty – his own semen on the concrete is now smeared over his stomach – and when Mondo leans over him to kiss his cheek and whisper an apology, he grins wearily and closes his eyes.