#swv

You don’t answer right away. The bass from his speaker somewhere across the room rattling the walls, vibrating through your spine. He always blasts music when you fuck, his half-assed attempt to drown out your moans or the squeaky bed springs from the mattress he’s fucking you into, like anyone’s fooled. 

He says it again. Lower this time, dropping an octave. It knots your stomach even when you wish it didn’t.

“No…” You spill out shaky, toes curling, breath catching under his weight. You hate that it’s true. Hate it because part of you thinks it’d hurt less if you had someone else too. But there’s something twisted in telling him he’s the only one who’s touched you. Something that feels like surrender. 

The last time you fucked him was the same day you saw “Baby Girl” light up his phone screen. You didn’t say anything then. Just watched him flip it over too fast, all cool and calm like it didn’t happen. You told yourself to swallow it down, forget about it.

And you did. For weeks. Letting it burn and rot in your gut while you sat on it, too scared to say it out loud. It ate at you until you finally caved and asked one of your girlfriends who she thought she could be. She didn’t even hesitate, pulled up her Instagram like she already knew.

And there she was, real. Skin like glass. Perfect lips. His name in her likes. Your own friends in her comments showing her love. She was perfect, and everything you wanted to be, the kind of pretty you spent checks in Sephora trying to copy. 

You hated her. You hated yourself more.

Your stomach dropped when you saw it: an old post captioned “babygirl,” his kissy-face comment sitting right underneath. You blocked her. Blocked him too. This entire time, everyone knew. You felt so fucking stupid. 

Confronting him then would’ve been the mature thing to do. But you know yourself, you’d have picked a fight neither of you needed, ruined what was supposed to be a chill night. So you bit it back, let the question sit on your tongue, to settle in the pit of your stomach until days bled into weeks.

You ignored his texts, and all the subliminals. Spilled it all to a couple girlfriends who only told you the same thing: drop him. Plenty of guys out here. Ones who didn’t have girlfriends to hide.

But that was then.

And right back in his bed is where you’re at now, and above you is how you like him best. 

His hand tight around your neck, chest heavy against yours, voice low and hot in your ear as he coaxes every moan, tear, and cry of his name out of you, just like he’s about to do now.

“‘Cause nobody fucks you like I do, right?” His voice breaks at the edges, almost tender if it didn’t sound so smug. His thrusts slow, rolling deep, that pace that’s always felt too intimate but wrecks you every single time. 

“Tell me.” He leans closer, pressing like your answer might be the thing that tips him over.

Your brain screams don’t give him that, don’t feed his ego, but your body moves first. It always does with him, giving away to what you rather keep to yourself and not to the boy above you that loves to fuck you just as good as he fucks with your mind. 

And still you find it within you to tell him the truth, “Yes…” 

And bat your pretty little eyes, same one he tells you he loves, open your mouth wide and ready for him to spit, because kissing you wasn’t his thing. 

“I knew you wouldn’t.” He watches you swallow, words dripping satisfaction, each one heavier than the last. “Thought about you everyday.” 

And you hate him for saying it like he means it. Hate how a part of you wants to believe it too. It makes you sick, how you could only ever be his like this, while he’s out there being someone else’s too.

But still, you take it. Swallowing it down along with every hurt feeling he never bothers to soothe, every soft thing he’ll never give you.

He cages you in, arms braced on either side of your head, hips snapping harder. The sound is obscene— sweaty skin slapping against each other, the headboard thudding against the wall. His pace is relentless, dragging you closer to that edge you’ve been teetering on.

You slip a hand down between your thighs, fingers finding your clit in quick circles, desperate for release.

“Fuck….Satoru.” You whine, your voice breaking as the pressure in your stomach coils tight.

“Yeah?” His tone is sharp, breath ragged in your ear. “I’m right, right?”

He catches your wrist before you can answer, pinning one above your head. His fingers lace through yours, squeezing tight as he rolls his hips deep, forcing your body to take him, with no escape. He loves this, loves when it’s just him pulling you apart.

“Shit…so wet, baby….” He groans, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down to your cheek. His hips drive in at that perfect angle, hitting up against that sweet spot over and over until your back arches, a sharp cry spilling from your lips.

“…feel so….” 

“….fucking good.” 

His voice starts to sound broken, tangled with your moans. You can feel yourself unravel, that familiar heat surging until you gush around him, thighs trembling as you squirt. He doesn’t let up. His thrusts turning more brutal, punishing, his dick throbbing inside you as if he really did miss you. And like a fool, you start to believe it.

He feels so close, chest pressed against yours, his breath hot against your neck, teeth grazing skin in a way that’s never quite tender. 

The quick snap of his hips drives even deeper, brutal and claiming, treating you like you’re nothing but a warm body, soft, pliant, his for the taking. Sweat drips down his jaw, his hair sticking damp to his forehead, chest flushed red as he moans in your ear, filthy praises spilling out. Singing you how wet you are, how good you feel. 

It’s nothing new, yet you cling to him anyway, nails digging into back, because this is the only way you know how to hold him. The only way you know how to talk to him.

“You still on the pill?” His voice cuts through the haze, low, and strained.

You freeze, heart stuttering. You know what he’s asking. The green light.

You don’t want to think about it. Not about this. Not about her. Not about how shameless it is that he’d fuck you raw with a girlfriend and still try to push it further.

You can’t even remember if you answered. You’re too far gone, mind fogged, body shuddering as he slams into you harder, hips snapping rough until his head tips back and he groans, spilling inside you.

His body shakes against yours, breath catching, as he drops his weight heavy onto you, coming undone. You’re breathless all the same, heart pounding, with every inch of your body aching. It doesn’t take long for his breath to even out, the steady beat of his heart pressed against your chest. You want to move, to get your clothes, to run, but the stillness on his side is polarizing. 

You don’t know how much time passed laying there, but after a while something breaks inside you, a tear slipping quietly. You want to hate him for how he makes you feel, used and wanted all at once, but the truth is you’re addicted to the way he owns you, even if it hurts like hell. 

He doesn’t deserve you. 

You don’t deserve this. 

-⎯⎯

He met you at the right time at a kickback months ago. You been a few weeks fresh out of a relationship and already in between boys you were fucking and barely cared about. The whole night he gassed your head up with compliments and flirtatious jabs, said you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen and couldn’t figure out how he hadn’t met you before. 

When you told him you weren’t seeing anyone, that was all he needed to hear to pull you away, crossed off too much frat oil and weed, into a bathroom upstairs to finger you right on the cold sink countertop. 

It was the first time a guy choked you while screwing, his lips capturing every moan you tried to hold. And when he made you clean his fingers with your tongue, you knew he was the one. Different. 

That was the only time he kissed you, probably too drunk himself to think how it was going to ruin you for any other  man. None of the guys before him fucked you like he did, made you cum so hard, left bruises and bites between your thighs and along your collarbone.

You swore it was nothing serious. Just sex. Just enough to forget your ex. But It didn't take long before you were folding every time his name popped up on your phone. When you tried to move on, test out new dick in hopes of proving yourself wrong, it still wasn’t good enough. 

He loved the way you texted back fast, how you opened your door for him any time, any hour. Loved how you dropped to your knees and sucked him like you worshiped him.

He was the best fuck of your young life so far, just the perfect cure to soothe a broken heart. 

Until the cure started to rot, turning sour and venomous in ways only you could taste.

You knew what it was going to be when you met him, nothing serious, no feelings, just lust, desire, and endless fucking. But what next was the hurt, tears you shed alone in your room, and constant bullshit from the boy that was suppose to help take your mind off the fuck storm that was life and your senior year of college.

-⎯⎯

‘Soul tied’ is what the girls on TikTok call it. A crazy, tangled emotional connection between two people that can develop through sex. You heard your girl friends throw the word around when they spoke about the guys they were hooking up with. They’d always laugh about it in an unserious yet still serious way…whining about how they needed to stop seeing those boys and break free from those invisible chains. 

You thought you had one with your ex when after a month passed and you still weren’t over him. But that wasn’t it, it was just that familiar ache of unanswered questions and confusion after getting unexpectedly dumped by the guy you thought you’d make it at least to graduation with.

You knew for sure you caught it when fucking Satoru started to feel like you could be his only girl. But you buried that hope quick when another friend of yours told you she had fucked him too, and so had one her sorority sisters adding to his body count. She told you that shit right after she let you yap away for minutes recapping the night you met him. 

Fucking bitch. 

It hurt like shit to hear, and even more coming from a preppy beach blonde type, dogged up Air Forces, fake Vancleef necklace wearing ass bitch. You don’t put it past her to have already fucked a percentage of the boys on campus, or at least the entire frat house that she invited you out too tonight. 

But you weren’t bitter though. You knew you looked better, damn sure good enough to blend into a place like this, judging by how pressed the guys were to get your attention and pour you more drinks.

You learned one thing for sure that night: never tell bitches your business again.

-⎯⎯

Fucking him on the regular did come with it perks though, like just now, when he hits your phone with a text offering to pick you up with the promise of smoking you out.

You thought the scowl permanently glued to your face would scare him off, fuck the night up. You really did try fixing your attitude before walking out to his car, but it was his dumb-ass “so happy to see you” smile that knocked out any attitude you had in you. And as much as you hate to admit it, you loved being this weak in the knees for him. 

The hood of his car was the stage tonight,  some sketchy spot halfway between campus and the nasty-ass frat house he rescued you from.

Leaning against the hood, the silence felt heavy. Being in his car always made it worse, that mix of cold air blasting, the quiet between you, and nothing to say. Probably why he fucked you so often; because sex was easier than talking.

Sometimes he’d attempt to make some sort of small talk with you, just as he was now as you took a hit from the blunt he packed using a strawberry king palm cone, made sure he had it ready just for you because he knows how much you hate the roughness of the backwoods he smokes. 

You really didn’t care about what he's saying though. More focus on chasing your high and how smoothly the blunt was pulling tonight. By the fifth hit you feel the high start to come over you.

“So, what you ghost me for?” His voice cuts through your thoughts, sharp and lazy.

“Was busy.” You lie, honesty wasn’t what he deserved to hear, not tonight. Not when you know it’ll blow your high and turn into a conversation about what bitches besides you he’s fucking. 

“How are you busy? You’re an art major, don’t you just gotta paint and shit?”

“I’m art history, and I had papers to turn in.” You hold down on a scuff, chest tightening.

“So busy you can't answer your phone?” 

“Yea, too busy. Don’t got a dad that’s gonna let me turn my essays in after the grade books close and not 11:59 on a Friday.” You ash the blunt on the water bottle between your thighs.

Funny how you can remeber a man’s dog name, but he can’t even remember your fucking major. 

“Not wrong about that one.” He smirks, dragging on his own blunt, eyes lazy but sharp. 

He looked good tonight, smells nice too, and you want nothing more than to skip to being shoved in the backseat of his car than to keep chatting about why you went M.I.A over the weeks that you processed what still burns hotter in your stomach than the heat of the smoke in your chest. 

You glance at your own nails instead, an easy excuse to look anywhere else but him. It was barely any light out, him foregoing the dark round glasses he wore in the day time, eye sensitivity or something he told you when you asked. 

You kept your nails long nowadays, told yourself it was because you liked them that way, but the truth of the matter was because he said he liked them too.

So you take a shot in the dark, anything to move past that topic of where you’ve been and why.

“What color should I get next?”

“Let me see?” He reaches out, inspecting your nails while holding his blunt between his lips. “White. With those little gems you always do.” 

“White gets dirty.” You say, scrunching your nose. Oil pastels would stain them in no time.

“Then I dunno, blue then.” 

Blue. Same color as…

“It’d match my eyes.” He wiggles his brows, teasing.

Right .

“You want me to get blue?” 

“Do it. I’ll pay for ‘em.”

“You really gonna pay for my nails?” You look at him like he’s lost his damn mind.

“Yeah. Baby blue. I’ll Cash App you now if you really do it.”

“And what if I just take your money and spend it on something else?” 

“That would just be you coming into a couple dollars then.” 

“A couple— oh you’re…” You catch yourself, fixing your tone. “...nails like these run me damn near a hundred. And that’s without the extra shit I get.” You scuff out. Gaudy nails like yours damn for sure didn’t cost a couple dollars. You liked them long and french tipped with gems and hand drawn art. 

He pauses, figuring out what to say next but coming up blank. You thought you had him with that, because what do you look like letting him pay for your nails, you weren’t begging for a hand out.

Then that twisted little smile creeps across his face, the one he gets right before he says something fucked.

“I put gas in my car every week and smoke you out every time I see you. What, you think I don’t have money now? Or you just too good for someone else to pay?”

Stupid was how you looked, mildly shocked but not surprised something like that could come out his mouth. He always had a terrible one on him, but you weren’t going to let him talk to you crazy. 

“Fuck you put money in all your bitches hands now?” You side eye him fixing your voice to try to sound as nonchalant as possible. You know, business talk since we’re pocket checking now. 

“You’re the first to complain.” He says, eyes locked on you, taking another hit, nearing the roach.

Your stomach twists when he looks you dead in the eye and says, plain as day, “You’re used to broke boys. Stop fucking ‘em and it might surprise you.”

That sets your whole body on fire, like swallowing the sun.

“Take me home.” You say with the bluntness of a demand and not a request, you don’t need this bullshit and you weren’t touching him tonight either, he blew it. 

“What?” 

“I said, take me home.” You can’t be near him, not with his smart ass mouth lighting matches in your gut, threatening to set off everything you’ve been holding in for weeks, the kind of shit that’ll have you screaming if you stayed a second longer.

“The fuck— why?” 

“Satoru, I said take me home.” 

“If you’re too lit, just chill in the car-"

“Take me the fuck home.” You snap, you never spoke to him like this before, and him being the person that he is, probably isn't going to take it sweet, but fuck it. 

“Already said the door is open.” He fires back, eyes freezing over.

You swear he secretly hates you with how fast he can switch. 

“And get in the back since you want to act like I’m your Uber now.” 

You didn’t intend on starting a fight tonight, god knows it has been brewing in you since finding out all the messy shit he was hiding…or more like messy shit he didn’t make clear. Messy shit that you had to go full on blues clues asking people around and searching for. 

You expect him to start the car and drive off without a word. But instead, he turns to you, and you flush despite yourself.

“You really think I’d make you sit back there?” He smirks. He got you again and like a fool you let him. You don’t answer, looking everywhere but on him.

“Baby.” 

No.  

“Look at me.”

No.  

His hand moves to lift your chin up. 

You still don’t. Can’t .  

“Baby girl…” 

Your stomach knots up. 

“....quit being sensitive.” 

“I’m not.” You grit out.

“Then stop playing and come sit up front.” He drops your chin, moving to start the car. You do as he says, hopping over the middle console. 

“I’ll really pay for it.” 

“I don’t want your money.” 

“Just my dick then?” He reaches over, sliding a hand between your thighs. 

“Yup.” You say, making it pop. 

Even with all that shit that happened at the party, all his smart mouth and attitude you gave right back, you still ended the night giving him what he wants. Still crawling over the console. Still melting when he slides a hand further up your thighs and whispers—

“Then get in the back.”