Tap Out! | fighter!gojo x reader
Late night at the gym. You, Satoru, and absolutely zero supervision. You're both tired, disgustingly competitive rivals who would rather die than tap out to each other. So what can possibly go wrong with his unhinged idea of strip jiu jitsu?
pairing: Gojo Satoru x reader
warnings: 18+ (mdni!!), explicit sexual content, afab!reader, reader and Satoru are both brazilian jiu jitsu fighters, pwp, rivals to lovers, stripping game, sexual tension, banter, fingering, oral (f receiving), piv, choking, creampie, them doing actual BJJ, lowkey a sweat kink ??, chokeholds, he's lowkey pussy-drunk, light degradation, praise kink, semipublic sex
word count: 6.5k+
a/n: been getting so many bjj horny reels and tts on my fyp and this is the outcome. you're welcome and i'm sorry.
The gym closes at ten. You know this, have known this for the few years you've been a member. Also you have a key because Yaga liked you because you offered to help with inventory three times before, so that's why you now have the key.
It was also the point of you staying this late. You, alone, your own playlist finally blasting through the gym speakers, instead of the ear rape the coaches usually play, while you tortured yourself with some plyo box jumps. Oh well, it wasn't exactly torture, but you understand. Get the quads fired up, dynamic training to get better footwork on the mats.
You were sweating, lungs burning, perfectly in your little sweaty and focused bubble.
You heard the locker room door open. Huh. You landed wrong off the box. Not badly, just startled. You regained your footing and whipped your head around. Did someone forget something?
But it was Satoru leaning in the doorway. He was fresh out of the showers, his hair dripping and falling messily into his eyes, the fresh undercut even more prominent like this, towel slung around his neck.
Between the grappling shorts and the fitted rash guard, it was fucking unfair how hot he looked just standing there. You hated him for it. But that's just between us, 'cause it doesn't change the fact that he was just a cocky jerk.
You dropped your hands to your knees, panting. "The hell you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing." He uncrossed his arms, drying the hair on his nape into the towel. "I was planning on getting some late-night mat work in."
And yeah, Satoru had a key too. That's what you get for being the two best fighters from the same gym. Privileges and all. Though you saw it more like a discipline thing, but different people, different opinions. All that jazz.
You rolled your eyes as you took a sip of your water. "Great. I was planning on closing up," you shot back, fiddling with your water bottle. "So, leave. You had enough time till ten."
Satoru looked at you for a second. Then he looked around the gym — the speakers still on, the plyo box still in the middle of the stretching zone, your bag half open by the wall — and back at you.
"Doesn't look like closing up to me."
You opened your mouth to curse him out like usual. Closed it. Not tonight, he is NOT going to ruin your feng shui. Enough that he manages to do that daily during standard training hours.
"Am getting there," you said with great dignity.
He smiled. Not the big performative one he used to annoy referees and opponents and you. The smaller one. The worse one. "Relax, I'll just work around ya. You won't even know I'm here, sweets."
And then he walked past you onto the mat like the conversation was over, which it was not, you had several more things to say, except he'd already dropped his towel over the rack and was rolling his neck and you were suddenly very busy looking at literally anything else in the room.
Never mind then, you would resume your plyo workout, you still had more sets to go before moving to rope jumping and then you'd be off. And he said you won't even know about him, but it's Satoru we are talking 'bout, so you did exactly one and a half jumps and you could feel his pretty, and ANNOYING eyes on you.
You two had rather interesting dynamics. At first you were crushing on him like crazy — okay, the crush might still be ongoing. But that doesn't change the fact that once you got to actually know him, he turned out to be a massive, cocky jerk with an even bigger ego. Though he was a great fighter, easily the best, well the best in the gym and probably in the entire city, you still couldn't stand him and his big puppy eyes. Ugh.
You turned around.
"What."
"Nothing?" He was doing shoulder rolls now, not even looking at you, lying through his teeth. "Dunno what you're talking about."
You glared at him and went back to your own workout, but one jump later and he was still staring a hole through your — not even your head! You could feel his measly eyes on your legs, ass, everywhere. An annoying pervert on top of that.
"Can you, like, stop?"
"I'm not doing anything." His voice laced with lazy amusement, sounding so infuriatingly unbothered, still half turned away.
"You're STARING at me."
Satoru then turned to face you fully and had the absolute nerve to look confused about it. "I'm allowed to look at things. It's a free country. Plus I'm only stretching?"
You blinked at him a few times. He only stared back, looking innocent, fully serene. The most tiresome person alive and he was your rival. Just your luck.
He stopped with his arm stretches as he tilted his head. His damp white hair caught in the artificial lighting and the smirk that crawled onto his face had absolutely no business looking so malicious, so predatory for a late-night gym session.
"Well," he drawled as he took a deliberate step toward the center of the mats. "If you're just going to stand there STARING at me, we might as well roll."
Absolutely the fuck not, your brain screamed. You knew his stats. You knew he had a reach advantage that basically made him a super muscular human spider, and his raw strength was infuriating. Satoru didn't just spar, he dismantled people. You were the person who claimed size difference is never that MUCH of a big deal, but with him you always stood fucking corrected. His six-foot-three frame and his muscular legs were real and unfair and you had brought this up multiple times and he always nodded very seriously and then put you on the mat in under a minute. You had the bruises to prove it on multiple occasions.
So naturally, agreeing to this was a terrible idea. Not because of the power imbalance, just because of his annoying audacity.
"Fine," you heard yourself say.
Competitive streak was a sickness, really. That's why. And you would rather die than back down. Obviously.
You abandoned your tall — okay, moderately tall, okay, manageably tall — plyo box, kicked off your trainers and met him on the mat. Fist bump and stance.
And twenty-eight seconds later, you were staring at the fucking ceiling.
That's all it took. You knew because you were counting, humiliated and furious that you were counting. He folded you like cheap laundry.
Satoru had slipped your initial grip effortlessly, used your own momentum against you, and swept your leg. You had about zero time to comprehend the lack of purchase on your grip and then his arm was hooked under your neck, his hips pinning you in flawless side control, his long legs had yours completely trapped. He was suffocatingly warm.
You slapped the mat three times. "What the fuck, Gojo?!"
Satoru just laughed. Still hovering even as he let you go, close enough that you could still see a few droplets caught in his hairline, and he had the cosmic nerve to look amused.
"Sloppy footwork, sweets."
You furrowed your brow, looking annoyed as you rolled away.
"You good?" He sat back on his heels, checking up on you just in case.
You only glared at him, now more annoyed at yourself than him, as all you could focus on was the scent of his warm skin and his body wash, making your head spin. More than usual.
"Lucky round," you deflected as you stood up, ready to go again. He might have won the fight, but you're not losing the war.
"Then I must have been lucky quite a few months in a row, sweets, but I'll admit," he sighed dramatically, "the size difference makes this a little unfair. Doesn't it?"
But as you answered "duh," something changed in his expression and it was weirdly, infinitely more dangerous than the signature smirk of his before.
Satoru had a plan. A very good plan, a very reasonable plan, a very stupid plan. A very new and dangerous plan that had just flashed right in front of his eyes and had about only two possible outcomes: it working out and finally getting the girl, or him getting his membership revoked and probably even his BJJ registration alongside it. But hey, game is a game. Hate the game, not the player kinda situation.
And you smelled so, so sweet, a mixture of your sweat and whatever body spray you always used. And so forgive him that his horny brain had done something deeply unhelpful, and I'm not going to explain WHAT, and now he was sitting in front of you looking like an idiot.
He cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly so his knees were drawn up, hiding a bit of obvious evidence of his poorly timed lapse in judgment.
"So, let's make this more fun, more daring? Give you the motivation to whoop my ass," Satoru said. His voice was suddenly a little lower, smooth and entirely too cheeky, and you were already fearing what would come out of his damn mouth.
You chuckled, offended. You didn't need any special rules to want to whoop his cocky ass, but you'd also be lying if you said you weren't intrigued. Or maybe it was just the exhaustion of the day that made you delirious.
And when he explained his oh so fun, more daring rules, he said it like he had not just proposed something completely insane.
"You're disgusting," you sneered, looking around just in case someone heard. No one did. The poor equipment did though — now you'd feel weird walking around your precious and reasonably tall plyo box. "Strip jiu jitsu? What the hell is even that, Satoru?"
Satoru looked around right after you did, sweeping the empty dojo, checking the corners for cameras. He knew Yaga didn't have cameras in here, only at the entrance. You two were the only ones here, so it wasn't even that crazy of an idea. Well, okay, it was. It was a stupidly crazy one, if we're being completely honest, but he just had to shoot his shot — because yes, he was hot, but also only a horny loser, with heavy emphasis on the loser.
"Roll with strip rules." He smiled, and there it was — the absolute worst, most arrogant smirk in his arsenal, the one showing off his little canines. "The loser of the round takes off a piece of clothing."
Every single alarm bell in your head went off at once. You knew exactly what he was doing. This was the most transparent, audacious, thinly-veiled excuse to get you half-naked in the history of the universe. He was an absolute degenerate for not even being able to ask you out like a normal human being. You would say no anyway, trust. You should tell him to go to hell, grab your stuff, and lock up.
"So?"
You hated him. You really, truly did.
The part of your brain that had been training alongside this man for two years, that had never once backed down from anything he put in front of you, that would genuinely rather die than let Satoru Gojo think you were scared of him —
"You're on."
Round One was a bloodbath.
You fought like your actual life depended on it. You were NOT losing your clothes to this absolute degenerate of a man.
Satoru was being infuriating as per usual, playing defense — heavy on the word playing, what a bastard — and clearly holding back just enough to tease you. He was slipping your grips by mere inches, his still-damp hair falling into his eyes as he dodged a sweep.
But then he got cocky, thinking he had you. He shifted his weight too far to the left trying to grab your wrist. But you had operational eyes and saw the textbook mistake, the kind that a guy makes when he's fucking staring at the way your hips are moving instead of focusing enough on his own center of gravity.
So you shot your hips up, locked your legs tightly around his neck, and dragged his arm across your chest, sinking in a picture-perfect triangle choke.
You squeezed, calves burning with the effort, glaring down at him.
Satoru blinked up at you from his trapped position. He didn't even look mad! The jerk actually looked a little too suspiciously proud before his hand came up and tap tap tapped! your thigh three times.
You released him immediately, scrambling back.
"Man, your little perverted game doesn't seem to be going as planned," you teased, pointing a victorious finger at his chest. "Shirt. Now."
Sitting up, he grabbed the hem of his rash guard. And in true Gojo fashion, he took his sweet, deliberate, absolutely criminal time pulling it over his head.
The tight fabric clung to his damp skin, resisting for a beat before he pulled it free and tossed it off the mat.
You tried not to stare at his deliciously carved muscles, the sharp V-lines dipping below his grappling shorts. You really did, but he caught you, and the predatory stupid smile was back in full force.
"Are we going to bump fists for round two or do you need more time?"
You tore your hypnotized eyes away from his abs, crossing your arms. "Shut up and put your hands up, loser."
Round Two went, well, less well.
Every time you tried to establish a grip, your hands slipped against his chest. How were you supposed to grab him when he wasn't wearing anything!
The friction, the disarming heat radiating off him, the way his muscles flexed under your hands — you couldn't really focus. You were cooked from the first ten seconds and you knew it. And worse, Satoru totally knew it too, because he didn't even try to play nice this time.
He was more precise with his movements now, overpowering you with perfect timing, and every hold lasted just a second longer than it needed to. It drove you frustrated and fucking crazy. And when he finally, finally swept your legs and pinned your wrists to the mat, his chest pressed completely flush against your rash guard.
The air left your lungs in a heavy rush. Only because he was obviously really heavy —
Ah. Your old friend. The ceiling.
He hovered, a wicked gleam in those stupidly pretty blues, waiting. You didn't even fight the pin. No point in it. And there went your hopeful plan of not giving up any piece of clothing…
You tapped.
Satoru immediately sat back on his heels, extremely satisfied, crossing his arms. He didn't need to say a word — the expectant, cocky tilt of his head said it all.
You sat up too. Grabbed the hem of your rash guard, pulled it over your head and tossed it to the edge of the mat.
Sports bra. Grappling shorts. That's what was left, and that's what would stay on. The cool gym air hit your heated skin, feeling weirdly exposed.
You lifted your chin, refusing to break eye contact, trying to project unbothered bad bitch confidence. "Happy?"
His eyes were a bit darker than they were a moment ago as they shamelessly dropped from your face to your chest, to your stomach above your waistband, and then slowly back up. Could he be any more obvious? It gave you this weird tingly feeling all over.
"Happy," he said through his lashes, and raised a hand.
You bumped fists.
Round Three meant war.
Something had shifted in the air and you both felt it, the pretense of this being a normal spar completely gone. You were fearing how this session would end, but not necessarily mad about it ending any way. But you were mad about your bruised pride and your rash guard coming off, so you fought sharper this time around. Watching every one of his damn movements like a hawk, turning the anger into focus. One dodge here, one grab there, and you caught him in a rear naked choke with his own momentum and squeezed until he tapped with zero ceremony about it.
Satoru peeled himself off the mat, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his grappling shorts right away, sighing very obviously fake, and pushed them down, which left him only in a pair of black boxers.
And you WERE going to ignore the very obvious outline of something you had already been ignoring since the last round when he pinned you down. You risked one look though, just to check why the fuck it looked so — okay. Moving on. Glad you would not have to do anything with it, because you were going to win the next round, win his little pervy game overall and go home!
Until you lost Round Four in fifteen seconds and we are not discussing it.
What I will say is that fighting a man in only his boxers when you are also mostly undressed is not a cognitively accessible activity and anyone who says otherwise is lying.
So now you were standing in the middle of the mat in only your sports bra, cursing yourself for why the fuck you had decided to put on your old underwear with teddy bears on them today. But hey, who would have thought that your hot jiu jitsu rival was actually a pervert who would corner you in an empty gym and bully you into stripping for his own entertainment!
"Cute," he smirked, oh so obviously eyeing your lap, though you weren't entirely sure if he meant the panties.
"Shut up," you snapped, feeling a furious blush spread all the way from your cheeks down, down, down to your clothed cunt. It was sweat. It was JUST sweat.
"Fists up."
Round Five was not jiu jitsu anymore. Let's just call it what it was — a desperate scramble for survival.
The pretense of technique went completely out the fucking window. At this point it was an excuse to grab, to hold, to drag your bodies against each other, both slick with sweat, making grips impossible anyway. You were fighting to keep your precious dignity intact. He was fighting to get you naked.
You scrambled for leverage and did the one thing you'd promised yourself you wouldn't do. You pulled guard.
He swept you clean in no time, rolled you onto your back, and suddenly he was above you, your wrists pinned either side of your head, his hips settled between your thighs. And he looked so frenzied he was unconsciously pushing into you, his erection pushing the wet fabric of your panties against your folds. Wait. Since when were you this wet? And apparently you were THAT wet, because the slick had penetrated through his boxers too, judging by the half-lidded look he was giving you.
Your heart started to hammer even harder. Now hyperaware of the minuscule roll of his hips, how he was holding back but failing, as he just couldn't help himself anymore. The heat between you becoming unbearable.
The way he held your wrists with one hand, streeetching you out, as the other snaked to your waist, feather touches hiking up dangerously close to the band of your bra, making your breath hitch. He started to lean down, eyeing your half-open mouth, you eyeing his — almost, just almost getting lost in his touch. Literally reconciling with the jarring fact that you might be the loser after all, mentally handing him your panties for him to do whatever he wanted with them, for all you cared.
But then you realized. He hadn't secured your legs.
He was too busy pressing himself into you, desperate for contact, to actually remember to pin your legs.
"Well, looks like the size difference won after all. You don't have to tap now — we'll do enough tapping right after—"
You batted your eyelashes up at him, distracting him from the fact that the reason you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist wasn't exactly to make the friction rougher.
He shifted his weight, smirking, taking your movement as accepting your loss like the good sport he is, rutting into you instead — already thinking about the far better win, tapping you out from the inside, filling your pussy so, so full of his cum. Clearly satisfied you'd complied with whatever the hell he was thinking, leaning down further, licking his lips —
And that was his fatal mistake.
You loosened your arms in his grip, letting him think you had completely given up resisting. Then, using that split second where he was entirely focused on his self-imposed slow-mo of leaning toward your lips and the delicious friction of your hips pressed together, you struck. Unlocking your ankles from around his slutty waist, you planted one foot on the mat, humped your hips right back at him, bridging, and trapped his forearm.
You pushed and before he could close the distance, you flipped him onto his back. Now he was the one staring at the ceiling.
"The fuck—"
You scrambled up and sank a kimura on his arm before he could recover, your weight pinning him to the mat.
He tried to shift. You squeezed your knees tighter. He tried to roll. You dropped your weight down completely on his straining dick and watched his jaw go tight.
His chest heaving, a deep furious red flush creeping up his neck and over his ears as he stared up at you in absolute, mortified disbelief. The strongest fighter in the gym had just practically lost because he couldn't keep it in his pants.
"Sweets—"
"Nuh-uh." You rolled your hips against his, slow and deliberate. And it was nobody's business whether that part was strategic or desperate. "Now your boxers, Satoru."
His eyes widened, fucking bewildered that you'd just used his own rules against him. Not that he didn't want to get rid of the boxers finally — you could tear them off his aching dick for all he cared — he'd only envisioned HIM saying a similar phrase while having YOU in a kimura underneath HIM instead. And he refused to lose. Because not even physical torture would force him to tap this crusty ass mat right now. His arm could fall off first.
So he rolled into it.
Into the pressure, toward you. He managed to get his knee under him, lifting both of you slightly, and shoved. The kimura lock broke and then he was moving, fast, catching you before you could counter, flipping you back to square one.
He pinned both of your arms behind your back, making you arch into him as he looked absolutely feral. Pupils so dilated you couldn't see any blue anymore, and he was so close, so close his damp bangs were tickling your forehead.
Both of you panting like hell. Your eyes wide because what the fuck just happened. He'd broken out of your submission lock. Him and his freaking strength. His arm was already aching from the escape he'd absolutely feel tomorrow and did not currently care about at all. He hoped there would be more things aching tomorrow morning anyway.
He searched your face and your flushed cheeks told him every answer he wanted.
"Can't give you my boxers if I didn't tap, sweets. And since I made such a great comeback—" the eye-crinkling smile had absolutely no business being that devastating, "—I'll take both your bra and panties. Please 'n thank you."
"That's—" you sputtered, heart hammering wildly against your ribs. "T-that's TWO items! I did not TAP yet, you didn't win this round, you're violating the established rules of—"
He kissed you to shut you up.
Hard.
And it apparently worked, which was the most humiliating part, because one second you were mid-argument and the next your brain was sooo full of him.
He kissed like he fought, like he had a point to prove and all night to prove it. One arm pinning yours under you, simply lifting you from underneath to free your hands, confident you wouldn't be fighting anymore.
Your hands immediately went to his slick hair, pushing him closer as he laid you back on the mat. You bit his lip on principle. He made a sound low in his throat that you felt in your sternum and kissed you harder for it, one hand sliding up to your jaw while the other finally snaked under your sweat-drenched bra and slid his fingers over your peaked nipple.
He then lifted you and started pulling the fabric off your body.
"Satoru," you panted, resisting. "Don't! I haven't tapped, so nothing is coming off yet!"
"You can't be serious right now," he nipped at your jaw and stopped, grabbing one of your hands and tapping it against the mat himself.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The hell?! Quick and absolutely unbothered.
"There. You tapped."
"That's NOT — that doesn't COUNT, you physically moved my—"
And before you could finish he had your bra over your head, lowering himself to mouth at your nipple, but you shoved at his chest on instinct. Rude.
He stopped and looked up at you from where he'd landed. Not exactly off you. More like south of you.
The smirk he gave you from down there was straight up diabolical. "Okay then," he said pleasantly. "Can't say I wasn't invited."
"Satoru." You tried to pull him back up. "I'm dead serious, it's disgusting, I'm sweaty, this is not—"
He pressed a single kiss to your inner thigh and wasted no time hooking his fingers into the flimsy waistband of your already ruined panties.
"Exactly," he said, and pressed his face right against your core, licking against the fabric. And Holy fucking shit, you could feel the warmth of his tongue even through the soaked cotton and your pussy spasmed before he'd even done anything properly. Talk about embarrassing.
He practically tore the fabric off and wasted absolutely zero time. One second he was eyeing your pretty, blushing cunt and the next he was nose-deep in your slick. No rhythm whatsoever at first, just inhaling you in, tasting you — and god fucking help him, because you tasted so, so sweet. If THIS was how you tasted sweaty and supposedly "disgusting," he would devour you fine dining style every single. damn. evening.
He attacked your clit as one hand kept you pinned by your hips, while the other came to either rescue or double the assault, depending from which angle you looked at it, dragging lightly up and down your inner thigh at first, tickling, making you squirm, before sliding up to play with your wet folds.
"S-Satoru—" the only thing you somehow managed as he licked into you mercilessly, up and down, up and down, from your hole to your clit and back. Fucking hell, you stood corrected — he didn't kiss like he fought. He ate you out like he fought.
"Mmm?" he hummed into you, sucking at your folds, cheeks hollow, the vibrations going straight to your core.
"C-can't make me naked when — nggh — when you still have your boxers on."
Honestly, bravo. Truly. Remarkable sentence construction given the circumstances.
He pulled back just enough to look up at you. Lips slick and eyes absolutely feral.
Shook his head. Girl… Then hooked his thumbs into his waistband and shoved his boxers down without breaking eye contact, kicking them off somewhere.
"Better?" Rhetorical. Because god, it was better — his tip already aching from the friction, slick and twitching with pre. He pumped himself once, just for the show, while you stared dumbfounded.
You nodded like crazy and he settled right back. Now free, he stroked himself to the taste of you.
This time his other hand fully joined in — while he dismantled your swollen, twitchy clit with his smart mouth, he took two fingers and pushed them into your walls with no ceremony. Doing exactly what his tongue had done before, stroking, tickling on the inside. Up and down. Up and down.
It was maddening how well it worked, how fast you got wetter, so much slick pooling in his hand and dripping onto the mat beneath you. Your hands found his hair and you arched into it helplessly.
Oh, how good it felt — him not only destroying your fighting dignity but doing this too, with his mouth alone. Skilled man through and through.
You were so wound up from the entire night that it didn't take long. Embarrassingly not long. Your thighs shaking either side of his head, fingers twisting in his hair —
Satoru groaned into you, the sound hot and vibrating, pushing the orgasm even deeper as he tried to catch every drop, his tongue lapping at your entrance — eyes rolling back, yours and his —
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Satoru, so completely lost in the sauce, tapped out from eating you out.
He looked up at you with literal heart eyes. Almost as wrecked as you were. Flushed all over, watching you come down from the high — the prettiest sight he'd ever seen. You had no idea, no idea, how many times he'd imagined you ruined like this.
But his imagination hadn't done it justice. No. No. No. Not even close. You were lying warm and wrecked, chest heaving, everything on display, right in the middle of your gym and all for him. He felt like a pervert every time he did imagine this — during your spars, during watching you work out or stretch. When he had you locked down, your pretty face always so close, yet so far — how he always wanted to throw you on this damn mat and just pounce without ceremony, your pretty eyes looking down at him just like they did now. Feeling like a massive perv, sporting a stiffy every time you two accidentally dry humped just to try to win the roll. But he owed his perverted side a massive, massive debt for the hail mary that got him here.
You caught your breath and looked him in his possessed eyes. He was back on his heels, cock aching against his stomach, leaking so much you weren't sure if it was precum or if he'd just come on his own.
You sat up and shoved him back.
Tap out is tap out. Gotta follow the rules. The bastard didn't even do it on purpose! It was just an automatic biological response. But hey, he wasn't going to resist if it meant you on top of him.
Wasting no time, you straddled him, dragging your slick heat all over his lap, his cock sliding right through your folds as you stroked your thumb across his mushroomy tip.
Satoru dropped back onto his forearms and threw his head back, throat exposed, jaw tight.
You took your time on purpose. Rolling your hips just enough to feel him twitch against you without giving him what he wanted, dragging your slicked pussylips along his shaft, watching his throat work as he swallowed. His hands found your thighs and gripped but he didn't push — just held on, knuckles white, letting you set the pace and hating every second of it.
"You're doing that on purpose," he said to the ceiling. "But god, please don't stop, you feel so warm against me."
"Doing what?" you asked innocently, rolling your hips, showcasing your superb leg control.
He lifted his head and looked at you. The expression on his face was genuinely pained, but probably the prettiest thing you'd ever seen on him. "Don't."
You smiled. "Dunno what you're talking about," you mocked, and let his cock settle right at your entrance.
"Buut since you tapped so graciously, I guess I'll take the win." And sank down.
His fat tip stretched you ooopen, your walls pulsing around him, drowning him in.
His forearms gave out. Flat on his back now, one hand pathetically thrown over his face, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, holding himself back from dragging you all the way down.
"Fuuuck, sweets—"
You felt yourself running out of room and he wasn't even halfway in! His hilt bullying its way in, barely fitting, your thighs shaking — superb leg control, my ass. Your pussy crying for help when you felt him kiss your cervix and still asking for more room.
Satoru looked up at you from under his arm and you could hear the smirk even from there. "Need help, big girl?"
"I don't need—"
You sank all the way down. Out of spite. Completely out of spite.
The sound you made was embarrassing. The sound he made was worse — punched out of him, his whole body going rigid, abs clenching.
Then he laughed. Low and delighted and completely smug, the fucker, even now as he finally had your pretty pussy around him. And that's perhaps why you gushed around him like craaazy.
He stopped laughing, solely focused on the warmth, the softness, the wet heat of you.
You looked at him half gone and started to move. Rolling your hips slowly, but his slightly curved cock hit the right spot with every rotation, stealing every damn breath from your lungs.
He made a sound you were saving for later and his hands gripped your hips mean. You rolled your hips, his grip unforgiving, searing the skin underneath, and watched his eyes flutter. You felt so, so thoroughly powerful for about thirty seconds —
And then he rutted up into you from pure instinct, the movement felt in your freaking womb, and your pussy fluttered around him without warning, thighs locking, your whole rhythm falling apart. The sound you made was something between a wail and a whimper and you refused to acknowledge whatever it was.
His eyes went dark. "So, so cute," he chuckled, watching your flushed cheeks and cute little ‘o’ coming out of your pretty open mouth.
And what happened in the next ten seconds — him sitting up, his cock bullying your cervix even further, his arm snaking around you —
"Come 'ere, baby."
Hand in your hair. His mouth on yours, kissing you filthy, spitting into your mouth, and as you tasted him all over your tongue, all salty and sweet and so perfect —
His other arm came around your throat from behind, hips still rolling, slick all over his and your inner thighs, and then he flipped you.
You ended up stomach to the mat, him behind you, his chest pressing into your back, arm locking you in the most wicked chokehold imaginable.
"There," he said against the back of your neck, pressing a wet stripe of kisses up your spine. "Be a good girl and finally stay, will ya. No more games. We clear?"
His voice alone was making goosebumps break out all over your skin. His cock rolled against your ass as you arched into him from your locked position, hands digging into the mat beneath you.
"Mmm," — you didn't know if that was supposed to answer his question or a reaction to his cock slipping back into you from this angle.
The new depth made you cry out into the mat. Nowhere to go. Nothing to push against except him, everywhere.
"My black belt champ has n-nothing to say except pathetic little whimpers?" He blew a hot gust of air against your ear. "Where did all that attitude go?"
Your hips only met his halfway anyway.
His hips found a rhythm and it was relentless. No more teasing, no more playing, just him taking you completely apart on the mat. His arm around your throat cutting off just enough air to make you see little stars, his mouth assaulting your neck and shoulders, leaving bite marks one after another, shamelessly licking the sweet sweat off your skin.
You couldn't even feel humiliated about your mouth falling open, drooling right onto his forearm, because you could practically feel him in your stomach, dragging against your walls with every thrust.
Cocky bastard that he was, he pulled back just far enough to watch himself — completely drenched in your slick, his own mixing with yours — before rutting back in like he was spellbound by it.
You grabbed his forearm and held on, because he was genuinely fucking you into the mat and you stood corrected, again, for the absolute last time tonight. This man fucked like he fought.
He pressed his lips to your temple.
"Tap out, baby," he murmured. The absolute nerve.
You held on tighter. No matter how thoroughly you were getting split apart on his thick cock right now, you were not giving him that satisfaction.
Satoru didn't push it. Your walls fluttering fast around him gave him the answer he wanted anyway. You were close.
And close you fucking were — him with the meanest chokehold, your back arched so deeply that every thrust hit a hat trick. G-spot, cervix, g-spot again. Overfilling you completely as you milked him so, so well.
The coil in your stomach pulled tighter and tighter —
"T-Toru," you drawled, your cheek pressed into his big bicep. "I — I can't—"
"You milk me so well, sweets, let go for me," he said against your ear.
And it was either his words or the way his arm flexed under your neck making you totally bleary-eyed, or the way his cockhead kissed your womb one last time — but you came haard.
His name wrecked in your throat, your whole body shaking through it, walls clenching so hard around him that he choked on a curse against the back of your neck —
"Fuck — sweets, I'm—"
And he followed practically right after — embarrassingly fast, but you couldn't blame the poor guy at this point. He'd been giving himself pathetic handies after every single practice because your training shorts always fit you so freaking nicely. He was honestly surprised he hadn't come earlier just from the sight of you. This felt like a fucking dream come true. He buried himself so deep you felt every single pulse of it, grip going white-knuckled, hips stuttering through it until he emptied out with capital E.
Completely sweat-slicked, he collapsed against your back, both of you absolutely destroyed on the nasty gym floor. He released you from the chokehold, palm moving to rest against your cheek instead, supporting your heavy head.
He pressed one single kiss to the side of your neck as he shifted.
"Soo," he said eventually, voice raspy and spent. "I guess you really won this one too." And you giggled at that.
Satoru helped you turn over to finally face him again. His softening cock slipped out and the frothy mess spilled out of your hole before he could stop it with his fingers.
"Well, the mat is kinda ruined," he scrunched his nose, eyeing the absolute state below you both. "Yaga will be mad big times at you."
"Me?! Why me?!"
"Well, last time I checked, you were the one closing?" he said it so saccharine sweet, planting a kiss to your forehead as he cradled your head.
And well. He kinda had you there.
You tapped out.
── Dividers from cafekitsune!
