#wanted to give them some more loser office worker vibe

[ivvmell]

my first raine

[szkunas]

I’VE GOT YOU COVERED! ౨ৎㅤsatoru gojo

synopsis / premise ♱ㅤwhy are things so expensive? no problem, there is a certain someone who can pay you if you help him with a little problem. your solution is even better, and do you know why? revenge against ex. || PART TWO (with ex geto)

featuring ♱ㅤsatoru gojo (jjk0 / 2017 version) x FEM reader.

warnings ♱ㅤ NSFW ♡︎ ㅤporn with very little plot ! cowgirl ! reverse cowgirl ! petty revenge + accidental exhibitionism ! satoru thinking with his lower head a lot ! loser!gojo vibes ! OUT OF CHARACTER GOJO ! virginity loss ! dom reader / sub satoru vibes ! unprotected sex (wrap it up) + unrealistic portraits of sex ! creampie ! “sugar daddy” gojo (he pays for some of your things) ! geto mentions (and he is a son of a bitch) ! genocide / death mentions (geto) ! reader is a sorcerer, but like nanami, she quit + (add context: she quit during high school to live a normal life, so she got disconnected with jujutsu world) !

honorary mentions (inspirations, please read) ♱ㅤthis post by @/tiedsuccubus. all credits to them!

author’s note ♱ㅤthis one is for you, anon! i tried to add a little plot, i hope it doesn't suck, lol <3 this was a bit rushed, so, i apologize for the low quality. this was supposed to be satire, but i have no idea what was going through my mind. i wrote this using my entire afternoon, tbh.

OKAY, WHAT THE FUCK is going on with the economy.

is your immediate reaction when you look at your condominium bill this month. the water is a fortune, as if your shower is pouring gold now. the gas is so burst that you just wish one of the pipes had exploded ── that way you would suffocate and wouldn't have to stress about paying this damn bill. not to mention market costs and cell phone plans. a pen twirls between your fingers, and your other hand presses button after button on the calculator at your side.

in front of you, on your living room table, a notebook with the costs of the month, that damn letter full of numbers and that damn little symbol, ¥. subtracting the value of your newly acquired measly salary from a dreary office job? what is left is so little that you fear for the future. if inflation increases a little more, you will start to owe. not to mention the rent for the apartment.

“fuck.” your voice is a tired whisper, tinged with soft desperation. and then the fury comes, quick as lightning. your fists clench, and immediately the headache hits the right side of your skull. it makes you want to break something.

it wouldn’t work. plus, you’re so broke, punching things is a really bad idea at the moment.

anger doesn't overcome despair, it deepens it in incalculable ways. like quicksand: the more you struggle, the quicker you sink until you drown. damn you. it’s all his fault.

when our life is hit by misfortune, we like to blame everything around us. god, the heavens, any mystical entity. or a friend, a family member. wall plaster can become your biggest enemy, depending on your mood. maybe even the food from that bad restaurant last night is the target of your contempt. but this time it is not irrational, you are sure that your misery has two culprits: a man and your own clit.

suguru geto was the kind of romance most girls can only dream about. long dark hair, gentle purple eyes and a posture as gentlemanly as an extremely insatiable libido. bringing flowers every week, picking you up from work. a bit jealous — especially about your male co-workers, who he used to call monkeys under his breath now and then.

still, the lack of selfishness, the constant romantic encounters, sweet words and desperate sex were all it took for you to give up a good part of your savings to help him. a personal project, he said, because the sorcerer's salary had gotten worse recently. because of your lack of connection to jujutsu society, first: you believed him. and second: you didn't know he was a highly wanted criminal for killing at least 112 people (and counting).

he said he loved you. that he would marry you, he had a crush on you since his first year. now that he had you, years later, he was so happy he wanted to marry you. but the night you planned to confront him about the money, he didn't show up. no one in the apartment, the money — your money — vanished in thin air, and you called the same number 39 times. 104 unanswered messages until the blocked number was finally deleted. and then some sorcerers came asking questions.

how embarrassing —, explaining how you had no idea your ex was a mass murderer, because you have been away from the society for so long. their conclusion was simple, and logic: he used the funds to aid his cult (apparently, he even has a cult! promoting the death of non-sorcerers. talk about dodging a bullet).

but the investigators left, he was not found, and society owed you nothing. not even a penny was given to you, despite several meetings and appeals. eventually, you realized that a lawyer was another waste of money, and after so much loss, you would have to chase it. and, of course, you moved to the other side of town. closest to your work, and not an address known to your genocidal ex-boyfriend.

a young woman who abandoned them while still in high school, seeking a normal life? here it is, your normal life: a miserable salary, a stupid boss, sexist co-workers and piles of papers that you wish to incinerate.

“fuck.” you repeat, hands grasping your head desperately. damn suguru geto and his stupid cult.

a light bulb goes off in your head when you remember a very important detail about your ex: who used to be his best friend in high school. satoru gojo.

most girls in the jujutsu world have never had the opportunity to cross paths with the satoru gojo, jujutsu society’s most famous celebrity, in person. but you did. many years ago, you are what he would call senpai. but you are no longer a girl, and he is no longer a teenager boy hiding beneath humor — you are a woman, out of the sorcery world and driving dangerously close to debt. and he is... well. he is gojo.

the strongest sorcerer — heir of one of the three clans, special grade sorcerer and the strongest. that man was swimming in money, certainly.

during your relationship, geto was as firm as possible in making sure you weren't contacting old friends from the jujutsu world. you weren't. it was a firm and difficult decision in his life, but any and all links with the cursed energy needed to be cut and removed from his life, like a parasite. who would have guessed that, years later, you would invite a parasite into your home. but that is beyond the point now.

please, please, if there is a god out there, help me here. you beg, grabbing your phone and looking through contact information.

most of your former friends agreed with your distance and respected your wishes. you told them that they could be accepted back into your life on one condition: if they were also in your situation, they would give up sorcery. nanami did. unlike you, he got a successful job, but he returned to jujutsu recently.

perhaps you won’t need to ask gojo, you could try asking kento for help. he certainly would, but...

you feel guilty about the idea of ​​doing this, of asking for help in this way, but going through old text messages, there's one from six months ago that catches your attention.

SIX MONTHS AGO nanami ;ㅤgojo has been nagging me to invite you for the class reunion. i warned him you’re not coming, you never do. but i’ll be sending you his number regardless, or i’ll have a headache about it the rest of the week. tell him to shut up, too, if possible.

bingo.

a little insecurity passes through you. maybe he doesn’t use that number anymore. rich guys like satoru should change their cell phones like someone changes clothes. but your eyes turn to the calculator, the little that will be left paying for everything alone.

you take a deep breath, copying the number into the box after pressing add new contact. you swallow softly when his picture appears on the top, with the name you inputted. satoru gojo.

a small message is enough. after explaining your situation, your thumb hesitates only a second after hitting send. you wait. you wait more, walking around the apartment and already thinking how much you can sell your tv for when you hear it. the soft tim of your phone and the message that appears on the home screen makes your eyes widen.

satoru gojo;ㅤhey, senpai. it’s been a while since i’ve heard from you. sure, we can talk. anywhere you wanna meet?

you can’t help but be nervous. what to wear to meet the biggest jujutsu celebrity, who is your ex underclassman? of course, you expect him to be dressed like a normal person, so you dress like one too (because, since you were seventeen, you’ve been normal).

a black turtleneck t-shirt, a fuzzy coat so the cold doesn’t get to you, and jeans with black boots. it’s simple but beautiful. makeup is your choice, and it’s not very important anyway. just a little reunion where you go,

you’re going to ask for money from your ex-colleague, who you haven’t seen in almost ten years.

you feel a little stupid, sitting at a table in a coffee shop of your choosing. there are so many people around ── a couple sitting at another table, two old men walking out the door, and even two teenager girls overdoing their large order of crêpes. nothing much for the occasional weekend rush. your cell phone rests in your hands, and for a second, the question hits you with the force of a blow from a club: what if he doesn’t come? you haven’t spoken to him in almost a decade, and you just remembered his existence to ask for money. in his place, you wouldn’t come.

but the bell on the store’s door rings and echoes through the store, and your eyes follow. holy. shit.

the gangly high school boy is now a tall man with an undercut. and he’s ripped. wow. it almost makes your mouth water, seeing the way he moves ── as if he were a model or knew the status and presence he has. with confidence and serenity. a far cry from the messy walk you saw what seems like a lifetime ago. satoru looks around, taking in the people, and you quickly wave at him. there’s also a chance he wouldn’t recognize you if you didn’t, but he turns towards you and smiles anyway.

“ah, senpai. sorry. i’m a little late.”

as he sits down, you take a moment to enjoy the view, unaware that he’s doing the same thing underneath that bandana. the coat falls from your shoulders, exposing a little more of the tight way the black blouse hugs you. okay, wow. he’s partially convinced, and you haven’t exchanged a word.

“thank you for meeting me here.” you say.

he shakes his head. “i was more surprised to receive a message from you. thank you. so, you said you were in a difficult financial situation, right?”

your hesitant nod is enough to get a smile from him. in a way, you’re still the older girl he liked in school, who he missed dearly when you were gone. and wow, you’re more beautiful than he thought. gojo never got a picture of him ── damn nanami and his incorruptible ethics, his immunity to bribery made this all harder ──, but he doesn’t need one anymore. after today, he doesn’t intend to forget what you look like.

“i think i have a way to help both of us. if you do me a favor, i can transfer some money to your account right now.”

you raise your eyebrow. okay, that wasn’t unexpected. quid pro quo, after all. no one gets anything for free in this world, and you can’t expect batting your eyelashes and giving gojo a desperate pout to do the work for you. want money? start moving. then you sigh.

“okay. what’s the favor?”

he raises his hand, and smiles softly. “damn, my manners, sorry. don’t you want to drink something? ask for what you want, i’ll pay.” you can’t tell for sure because of the blindfold, but he seems to have winked at you.

satoru and his games, his charm. evasion, in reality. it’s hard to resist, especially since this place seems to have one or two really good options, so you give in. he’s the one making the biggest sacrifice, after all, and why not have a coffee with him?

after defining the orders ── satoru ordered a damn cake and a coffee with extra sugar, and it’s a shock that he hasn’t developed diabetes by this point ──, you settle down in your chairs. casual, smooth conversation. it is good. it had been a while since you talked to anyone in the jujutsu field, afraid that your return or the more intense missions would be the only topic. but it’s surprising how much an old colleague suppresses a great lack in his heart.

while he takes a bite of the cake, and you drink your coffee, his eyes end up following and analyzing. he is surprisingly tall, and appears much more muscular than he was before. his voice is more confident, loose as he chatters. you blink as he returns to the topic that brought you here.

“so, senpai. straight to business. i don’t want to waste the time of a busy woman like you.”

“no, please. i don’t have work to do today. and you don’t need to call me by the honorific, i’m not your senpai anymore. you can just call me by my name now.”

he nods in agreement. “of course, of course. soooo. about my proposal.” satoru takes a deep breath, leaning in, and you immediately follow the movement with your gaze. “you need money, and i need a favor. it’s kind of personnel. it has to do with my clan, business, etc., the details are kind of irrelevant and would bore you to death.”

he stops, and you get a little angry. can’t men get straight to the point? say everything at once? what, he’s a batman villain who wears a question mark to try out riddles now?

“i want you to know,” the toone of them becomes more serious, and less fun. but no less affectionate in any way. there seems to be a deep respect for you, even if you can’t think of any achievements of yours that could have impressed satoru. “that even if you reject it, i will pay you. of course, i’ll pay more if you agree, but i don’t want you to accept it just for the money. i don’t want you to be forced to help me out of necessity.”

okay. one less problem. you will receive it no matter your position in this strange arrangement ── but simultaneously, this reaction causes comfort and nervousness. if he is saying this, perhaps it is a very strange favor, which cannot be mentioned in any way. like those non-disclosure contracts that hide terrible secrets, which you can’t tell to avoid being sued.

“i want you to go on a date with me.”

what?

before you can react, he continues speaking.

“i—i just want a date. a real date, here at the coffee shop or somewhere else. you choose the place, the time, i pay.” satoru hesitates, as if he was nervous. it’s almost cute. the guy could destroy the country with one hand behind his back, but he’s blushing while asking you out. “we don’t have to do anything. holding hands, kissing or— it’s nothing like that. just a date. me, you, somewhere nice and talk. maybe flirt. he knows?”

okay, you didn’t expect that. he laughs a little at his surprised expression, as if he expected this reaction and thought it was cute anyway.

“you don’t have to look at me like that. just say no.” he searches his pockets for a moment, pulling out his cell phone. probably opening his bank app with a sigh. “i’m going to make the deposit, and you can forget that i—”

“no.” his hand grabs his wrist surprisingly quickly. like cat reflexes, or witch reflexes. “satoru. i’m sorry, gojo, i—”

“satoru is fine.” he murmurs, staring at the way his hand grips his wrist. of course he could let go, but why would he?

he’s loving it. the attention of a woman he’s always wanted is like a refreshing drink on a hot day. or the iced, sugary coffee he sips in this cold hell, whatever. you huff and take a deep breath.

“okay, fine. satoru. that’s fine with me, i’ll agree with that after you tell me why. but i do.”

he stops for a moment ── probably blinking in surprise ──, tilting his head to the side. “you know, people from a big clan usually have these arranged marriages. this crap that happens to most of us heirs. but i don’t want any of that. still, they won’t leave me alone until i’m seeing someone, you know?”

“and why exactly don’t you just… hire an actress and be done with it? or flirt with a girl and explain the situation?”

“they want her to be a sorcerer. because obviously they want to.” he lets out a dry laugh, without much humor. “i could ask shoko, but no one will believe it. and i don’t want it to become this big thing. it’s just, it would be nice if it were an actual date too, without an actress and all that. and i can’t really go up flirting with the sorcerer women our age out there, because…”

you lean in gently, trying to listen to his confession better.

“i’m a little inexperienced.”

okay, you’re sure this is a big joke. maybe someone will come out from behind a plant with a microphone and a camera. he doesn’t mean what you think he does, right? the vulnerable tone of his voice makes you hesitate, but the fact that satoru gojo is a virgin is a little surprising.

like, wow. of course geto was more popular with the girls ── manipulative little shit ──, but satoru never lagged behind when it came to flirting. thinking about your ex, a little bitterness runs through you, and the darkest corner of your heart shows. geto really cared about his best friend. his beautiful, charming best friend, who now needs a favor and could be his way out of the deep end.

of course, you feel self-serving, selfish, but you’re both winning. and a part of you is even a little possessive. better with you than some random girl who would criticize him for being inexperienced at that age. your hand moves, and tries to hold his hand.

“want to gain experience?”

satoru stops. he looks at you, clearly analyzing your face to find out if you’re not messing with him. maybe a cruel prank in some way, but no. even almost ten years later, satoru feels like he knows you. you, with your kind and loving soul, would not do that. you wouldn’t dare. he only needs some seconds to decide.

his response is a nod and a few clicks. then, he turns the screen towards you. the amount of zeros almost makes your jaw drop. that is a small value for him? deposit completed.

“your house or mine?”

that’s why you are where you are. sitting on satoru’s lap while you make out desperately on your couch. your house being chosen brought a bit of shame, it’s modest, etc., but he didn’t mind at all. he thought it was kind of cute, and said it loud and clear just to tease you. that brat.

unlike some inexperienced guys you’ve locked lips with (some of them cherished memories, others bitter mistakes you’d love to forget), he’s soft. gentle. he doesn’t do anything that you don’t allow, and much of the initiative is taken by you. he doesn't rush or try to take you immediately.

you press down on his bottom lip with your tongue, before nibbling on it. your hands cup his face as he opens his mouth, letting your tongue slide with his. he threw your coat to the other side of the room the moment you guys walked through the door. satoru can feel the way you lick inside his mouth, and it makes him shiver. his hand grab your waist tightly, although he is trying to be gentle.

your fingers trail through his face, his hair, as you keep kissing — soft sounds of mwah mwah mwah echoing the room, mixed with your heavy breaths and one or two soft moans. you reach for his blindfold, a bit curious, before he brings his hands up to remove it immediately.

“wait— doesn’t taking it off hurt you?” you question softly, and god, if he hears your voice like this one more time, he’s going to lose it.

satoru shakes his head. “not that much. i can handle it. it’s nothing important.” he cups your chin with one hand as he tugs on the bands that cover his eyes. he pulls you back to kissing as he throws them somewhere else.

he wants to see you. bright blue eyes, almost intoxicating, focusing completely on every inch of exposed skin he can see. there is a soft, contained desperation, losing restraint, as his hands walk over your body gently. palming, squeezing softly, touching.

you pull back for a moment, your thumb brushing against his bottom lip. simultaneously, his hand is trailing down your clothed stomach.

“so,” he smirks softly, trying to act as if he’s not a blushing mess. okay, his experience ended here. of course, satoru knows how to give a few kisses, a silly hand or two, but this is where everything gets serious.

he has no idea how to proceed, and no matter how confident he wants to appear, he’s going to depend on you now. to guide him, to take care of him. help him out.

god, your little smirk does things to him. your torso leans in, and he can shiver as your lips press against the shell of his ear. voice sweet, low and soft, like sound velvet.

“you want what’s underneath, baby?”

he nods softly, dropping his head to the side and panting softly as you pepper kisses down his neck. “yeah. y–yeah, i do. please.”

the sound of your laugh makes his stomach flutter, and satoru bites his lip gently, suppressing a hiss. he’s nearly ── actually, really would be a better word ── sure that you’re sucking hickeys on his neck. branding him as yours as your lips suck purple bruises over that pale skin of his. the strongest sorcerer, melting in a puddle as you start to grind your hips slowly.

the friction is soft. very unsatisfying, but it makes you both groan nonetheless. you can feel him, already hard beneath you, and you’re certain he can feel the way you pulse and throb all over him, as well. quid pro quo. two-way street. what is done, what is paid, or any other expression of the sort.

you roll your tongue over some of the hickeys you left behind, and he groans. actually groans a bit loudly. you have the feeling gojo is not someone used to holding back his noises for any reason ── besides, it’s not like he’s got any experience to understand how loud his volume is in bed.

but you’ll have fun helping him discover it. what a good senpai you are. aiding an underclassman when he’s in trouble.

one of his hands grabs your hips, and he pants softly.

“you’re teasing me,” he runs his tongue over his lips, wetting them. he’s sweating. it’s the middle of the winter, and satoru is sweating.

“couldn’t help it, sorry,” you trail up your kisses to his jaw, the corner of his mouth, until your lips press to his again. a silent apology made in the sound of lewd kissing. he tugs at your shirt, a bit desperately, and you want to tell him to have patience.

your heart’s deepest desire right now is to ruin this man. turn him into a needy mess, who can’t live without you or your touch. spend hours edging him and teasing him with kisses, touches, licks—

but he groans again, and you’ll decide that’s for another day. you will go easy on him, you’ll be gentle. it’s the poor thing’s first time, and you don’t want to destroy him. yet.

“okay, baby, okay.” you chuckle against his mouth. the way he tries to lick you, touch you, it’s like he’s afraid this is one of his dreams. that, any second now, this will all be over and he will be alone once again. you will disappear and he will have no one. but you are there precisely to prove that this is not true.

you lean back, grabbing the hem of your shirt and pulling it up. satoru doesn’t even try to hide his staring ── and how could he? without the blindfold, he can actually see you as much as he can feel you. your body is a sight he will never forget. one of your hands trails down to his belt, tugging on it. satoru gasps, surprised.

“now, undress and answer me something, ‘toru.” he pauses, his eyes moving up to stare at you ── your face, he means. “here, or my bed?”

the decision takes less than a second.

“here. don’t make me wait anymore.” satoru groans loudly when you unclasp your bra in front of him, and his hands immediately move up. you smack them away and his lips part in shock.

he stares daggers at you, slightly offended you’re keeping something so good from him. his lips curve into a pout and you have to resist the desire to kiss him again. “what?” he asks, trying to find out what he has to do to gain access to paradise (also known as your body).

you nod your head, and he lets out a soft oh, helping you lean back for him to undress. satoru stops moving completely as you bring one hand up and runs it through his hair.

“good boy.”

damn. that gesture was so— affectionate, genuine. sweet and lovely, your personality and how he believes is your taste as well. and the nickname? lord and heavens above, it does something to him. the thought makes him sure anyone would need a winch truck to get you off him now. he’s not letting you go.

you undo the buttons of your pants, lowering them slightly, then it all. satoru plays with the hem of your panties as you readjust on his lap, looking down. well, okay, there’s a big surprise expecting you there.

his hard cock, between your legs, the head just barely two inches below your belly button. you can feel yourself shivering as you swallow hard, and the sound makes satoru look up. he looks, slightly insecure. which is probably the normal reaction for when a guy is having his first time and the woman keeps staring at his dick. but you’re quick to cup his face again.

“hey, hey. it’s fine. i’m just trying to make sure. you want this?”

he nods immediately. “of course, but if you don’t—”

“satoru, we’ve been over this. i want this. i want you.” he sees the way your eyes roll, and he partially expects he can make them roll differently soon enough.

hearing the words earn a small smirk out of him, even if they make blood rush to his face, cheeks and groin altogether. you’re about to lean in to kiss him again, to soothe his worries before you two begin, when you hear a soft sound. riiiiiiip.

you gasp, smacking his arm lightly. “satoru!”

“i’ll buy you another. i’ll buy you as many as you want, just stop teasing me.”

you sigh. you should be mad that he just ripped your panties off you ── literally ──, but he looks so flushed and desperate you can’t say no. he shivers as your hands trails down and hold his shoulders, and your hips lift up.

you look down at him, hugging his head close and sighing at the way he kisses your neck and collarbone. even if you’ve already messed up enough because of your provocations, some foreplay never harmed anyone.

satoru genuinely whimpers when you start grinding against him. slow, but surely, your hips drag softly up and down. his red tip catches on your clit, and you both hold your breaths for a moment. you look at him ── him. not the strongest sorcerer, not a weapon or just a rich playboy who you’re fucking around with. just satoru. his face flushed, breathing heavily, and staring at the ceiling of your apartment.

then you sink down on him with no warning at all, and you both hold each other tighter. he’s moaning loudly and slowly as the feeling of your pussy around his walls ── practically melting already ──, while you’re hissing because of the stretch. it’s not that uncomfortable. you just need a few minutes to adjust yourself, caressing his arms. apparently, he needs to adjust, too.

he throws his head back, nearly hitting your forehead with his, his eyes a bit wide. gojo looks dumb already, and you haven’t even started properly. he rests his head against your shoulder, holding your hips against him. by the angle, you can tell his eyes are focused on the way your cunt hugs his cock.

“ah— haaah. it’s in— it’s inside...” he mumbles, and his voice sounds so heavy and drown with lust, you really believe you broke the guy with only that.

you pet his hair, whispering gentle praises in his ear. good boy. you’re doing so good, satoru. so good for me.

“i’m going to start moving now, okay? get comfortable.”

your wish is his command, and he leans back against the couch. your hips move up, slamming back down. he gasps, and you smirk. then again. again.

the movement becomes repetitive and messy as you repeat the motion to find a pace that suits you both. satoru is spilling out every curse he knows beneath you, guiding your hips weakly with his hands. you bite down your bottom lip, nearly melting as well. gojo hisses at your fingernails sink into his skin, carving half-moon marks on his broad shoulders.

“oh my god, oh my god,” he blabbers out, barely able to think. you’re not much better. his head keeps hitting that spot that makes you see starts, and you’re honestly more using him like a personal dildo than thinking about the money you’ll get for this.

“you’re killin’ me. you are— genuinely, h-honestly trying to kill me. fuuuuuck.” he throws his head back against the couch, whimpering.

“stay. still.” you murmur, leaning in to glue your chest to his. the way you arch your back just slightly as you fuck yourself all over him is driving satoru insane. he has to catch himself nearly three times not to burst immediately.

he’s panting like he ran a marathon, desperate eyes wide and glassy with tears. it feels so good ── you have no idea of the tremendous power you have over him right now and at all times. the way you clench around him nearly makes him drool.

satoru holds your waist more gently, trying to help you. he tentatively moves his hips up, and your eyes snap open. his hand trails down to the curve of your ass, and he rests his chin against your shoulder, peeking over it to watch it.

“pussy is so good, i can’t── i can’t breathe.”

you laugh mockingly, biting down your lip again and humming. the way you kiss his forehead, as if he became a dumb toy for you to use as you please. he wants you to take all his money, he’ll go bankrupt in a second if he can have this everyday.

he doesn’t notice he’s saying it out loud until his abs clench. satoru calls your name desperately, repeatedly, trying to warn you his body is burning, yearning for you.

“i’m going to, i’m going.. i’m going to cum so damn hard. ohmygod. can i cum? can i, please? just, let me, let me, please, i need to—”

you press another kiss to his cheek, breathless yourself as you move up and down, back and forth. rolling your hips against him as he thrusts up desperately.

“it’s okay. it’s okay, baby, i’m right behind you.”

the way you say baby is melting his brain, he swears it.

satoru starts shaking ── scared by the intensity of his orgasm, he starts shaking his head. his eyes narrow, and he throws his head back with a groan.

his abs clench again, and all his muscles burn as he spills it all inside you, painting your insides white. fucking into your pussy like a madman and hugging you closer while gasping.

you’re so close you barely notice that he’s saying something to you. repeatedly. one of your eyes close, and you moan softly in his ear as your own orgasm washes over you.

for an inexperienced guy, he’s an experience you would repeat without gaining a cent, certainly.

“one, two, zero, seven──” he’s babbling, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. “three, five, six, six— fuuuck, back pocket, on the left.”

“what?” you murmur, leaning back. what is he talking about?

satoru needs a whole minute to compose himself, and you touch his cheek, wondering if he’s okay. he looks at you while leaning into your palm, shivering.

“back pocket on the left.” he breathes heavily. “my credit card.”

your eyes widen. “satoru. what? i can’t take your credit card!”

gojo feels as if you’re about to be pulled apart from him, you both sweating. he came so much, and he’s still inside, wondering if a bit is going to come out. he looks up at you with a soft, weak smirk.

“what are you talking about, princess? i mean it. it’s yours to spend as you wish.” he winks at you, looking at the mess he’s made in between your legs. satoru leans in, his lips brushing against yours as he whispers. “if you let me do that again, i’ll get you a card for yourself. how does that sound, princess?”

you chuckle, kissing him once, twice. wrapping your arms around him. “you don’t have to. i would do it for free.” you pause. “change that password, by the way. your birthday is easy to guess.”

satoru pouts, rolling his eyes as your face turns to look over your shoulder, at the balcony. the curtains are closed off, for sure, and for god’s sake, you live on the fifth floor. no one could just climb up here, but you felt watched. he pinches one of your nipples, and you snap your head back to look at him, tugging at his hair.

“ow.” he mumbles. “what are you doing, anyway? if you’re not interested in a second round, you can tell me, it’s okay.”

“nothing, sorry. just being paranoid.” you turn around, pressing your back against his chest. you both groan again, and you can feel his cock growing hard inside you once more. “i’m very interested, satoru. let’s get you some more experience.”

as he grabs your hips again with a smirk, a curse takes flight from your balcony. it looks like a macabre and bloody owl, whose eyes could be windows or televisions for anyone who knew how to look through them.

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE, I APOLOGIZE FOR ANY MISTAKES.ㅤthank you for reading! <3

[headingalaxys-spicy]

I am curious now since we seen Alpha!America with both a Omega and Beta darling... How about Yandere!Alpha!America with a Alpha!Darling? Maybe a temperamental and fierce one at that? That sounds like ahilarious disaster wating to happen.

Oh, you just want to watch the world burn, don’t you?

So do I.

Yes, a Yandere! Alpha America with an Alpha darling is like pouring gasoline on a fire.

When America meets his Alpha darling and tries to use his usual moves that would normally work on an Omega or a Beta (sometimes) would only outright annoy the Alpha darling.

She would still be staring at her phone trying her best to give off ‘Please f off vibes.’

When that does work and he persists.

*WHACK* America will suddenly have a bloody nose.

“Look jerk I have a job to do that has nothing to do with you. If you’ll excuse me.” You run out of the elevator you were trapped in with him and get on your General Peacekeeper attire. You had enough of him and his BS he may have been on the same power level just in a different department but you were tired of his dumb sh!t he bothered you with Every. Single. Day.

Some of his Alpha co-workers will tease him about liking an Alpha General or be concerned as to why he’s so obsessed with another Alpha….. And one that could really whomp on him at that.

Said General Alpha may get a slap on the wrist from her superiors but nothing more than that since she had a great deal of power in society and granted maybe even a little more than America.

“Just try to lighten up on him he means no harm and your attractive and all.” The President tries to reason with Y/N but she’s having none of it.

You scoff in disbelief. “Then that loser of an investigator can get a subservient Omega to bother and attend to his ….needs…..” You say in disgust. “I will strangle him if he tries to capture, flirt, give me gifts or any of that. Tell him I said he can get bent.”

“I mean you can get bent over my leg~” The man that you wanted to choke appeared in the office to turn in REQUEST TO CAPTURE documents.

“Here you go President you’re going to need these. I wanted to bypass all the others since it wasn’t working and I kept getting rejected before by the General of the Peacekeepers” He turns his blue eyes to look at you with a sweet simple with a hint of malice. “I wouldn’t read those out loud since my target is standing 2 feet away.”

Them were fighting words.

“YOU BA$TARD! STOP BEING A HINDRANCE TO ME AND CATCH A FVCKING HINT!” You proceed to taser him. America proceeds to fall to the floor in pain and is unable to move his body for a few moments.

Alpha darling will storm out of the room angry as all heck. Ready to snap Alpha Special Agent America’s neck.

America will leave the darling alone for while after being sent on paid leave to recover physically but also to heal his bruised ego. While General Peacekeeper Alpha darling got a boost to her pay for having to deal with the headache that was the head of the Investigations department. He won’t get fired of course but this does mean that this Alpha man is now plotting your downfall so that Alpha darling will have no choice but to lean on him.

“Oh Y/N just because you’re an Alpha doesn’t mean you can’t be mine.” He hums to himself as he types away on his computer that had access to Top Secret files and was fully encrypted.

[whitehotharlots]

Previewing the 2024 Democrat Primary

Within a couple weeks of his being sworn in, just about every person on earth will wish Joe Biden was no longer president. Sure, the few surviving John B. Anderson voters will be thrilled to see 4 years of crushing austerity and half-assed attempts at Keynesian stimulus. But most people will begin dreaming about a brighter future.

Good news! The 2024 Democratic primary field is going to contain dozens of options. Bad news! They are all going to be disgusting piles of shit. 

The “top tier”

While it’s too early to do any handicapping, these are the candidates the media will treat as having the most realistic chances of securing the nomination. 

Kamala Harris

Kamala did not win a single primary delegate in 2020. This is because she dropped out before the first primary, and that was because no one likes her. She has no base beyond a few thousand of twitter’s most violent psychos. Her disingenuousness approaches John Edwards levels: any halfway incredulous person can see immediately beyond her bullshit. She has no principles whatsoever, and while that may be par for the course for Democrats, she lacks even the basic politician’s ability to intuit anything that might, hypothetically, constitute a principle. 

Even better: she is an awful public speaker. She sounds like how a talking dog would speak if he were just caught stealing people food off the kitchen table. She communicates in weird grunts and faux sassy squeaks, which is how she imagines real black women sound like, but something about her is unable to sell the bit. She begins her sentences in halfhearted AAVE, stops and panics halfway through as she realizes that maybe this sounds fake and offensive, and then reminds herself oh wait, no, this is okay since I’m black. This doesn’t happen once or twice per speech. This is how every single sentence sounds. 

Kamala is like Nancy Pelosi in that no sketch show will ever impersonate her correctly, because anything that came close to authenticity would be considered far too cruel. This might benefit her in the primaries, as she exists in the minds of Democrats as someone and something she absolutely is not in reality. Nominating her would be like allowing your child’s imaginary friend to attempt to drive you to the store. 

Andrew Cuomo

Easily one of the 50 worst people alive, Cuomo has a solid chance because Democrats, same as Republicans, are unable to differentiate between electability and self-serving ruthlessness. Cuomo used the deadliest public health crisis in American history as a pretext for cutting Medicaid and firing 5,000 MTA workers, and his approval rating increased. New York Dems are little piggies who love eating shit. If we assume that the political media will continue their habit of refusing to discuss the legislative history of right wing Democrats, Cuomo might well cruise to the nomination and then lose to literally any human being the GOP nominates by an historic margin. 

Joe Biden

The party loves him because he is a right wing racist. “Progressives” tolerate him because black primary voters over 40 supported him, and their opinion is supposedly a magic window into god’s truth. Everyone else can tell he is manifestly senile. I don’t put it above the DNC to pick a candidate who is in horrible health, dying, or even dead--whatever the financial sector wants, they’ll get. But I would be shocked if his approval rating is above 39% by mid-2023, and by that point deep fake technology will be advanced enough they’ll put out a very lifelike video in which the Max Headroom version of Joe explains he’s proud of his accomplishments--that budget’s almost balanced already--but, man, I gotta abd--I gotta abdica--, uhh, I gotta, I, uhh, I gotta move down, man. 

Wild Cards

These candidates would have all have a chance if they ran, but they could all much more easily retire to Little Saint James off of kickbacks they’ve gotten from Citibank and I.G. Farben. 

Rahm Emanuel

Rahm is going to receive some hugely influential post in the Biden administration. Let’s say he becomes Secretary of Education. His signature achievement will be replacing all elementary school teachers with Amazon’s Alexa, which saved the taxpayers so much money we were able to quadruple the number of armed police officers we put into high schools. This will give him several thousand positive profiles on network news programs and the near-universal support of the Silicon Valley vampires who will own 99% of the country by the time Biden’s term ends. They will use their fancy mind control devices to convince geriatic primary voters that Rahm’s the one who will bring Decency back to the white house. His candidacy will be the paragon of wokeness, as expressing concern toward the fact that he covered up the police murder of a black guy will get you called a racist. 

Rahm has a bonus in that Jewish men are now Schrodeniger’s PoC. When they are decent human beings, they are basic, cis white men who are stealing attention from disabled trans candidates of color. When they love austerity and apartheid, they become the most vulnerable people of color on earth and criticizing them in any way is genocide. No one will be able to mention a single thing Rahm has ever done or said without opening themselves to accusations of antisemitism, and that gives him a strong edge against the rest of the field. The good news is that an Emmanuel candidacy would result in over 50% of black voters choosing the GOP candidate--which, I guess that’s not really good but it would certainly be funny. 

Gavin Newsom

Newsom is every bit as feckless as Cuomo, but he doesn’t put off the same “bad guy in an early Steven Segal movie” vibes. He will mention climate change 50 times per speech and no one will bother to mention how he keeps signing fracking contracts even though his state is now on fire 11 months of the year. If anything, this will be spun into an argument about how he’s actually the candidate best suited to handle all the water refugees gathering on the southern border. Look for his plan to curb emissions by 10% by the year 2150 to get high marks from Sierra Club nerds. He’s also a celebate librarian’s idea of what constitutes a handsome man, so he’ll have some support from the type of women who claim to hate all men. 

Larry Summers

I mean, why not? Larry, like most members of the Obama administration, has politics that are eerily similar to those of Jordan Peterson. In normal circumstances, this makes a person a dangerous fascist who should not be platformed. But if that person has a D next to their name this makes them a realistic pragmatist who has what it takes to bring suburban bankers into our tent. If current trends in Woke Phrenology continue apace, Larry’s belief that women are inherently bad at STEM will be liberal orthodoxy by 2023, and his dedication to the Laffer Curve could see him rake in massive donations. Seriously, I’m not kidding: cultural liberalism is now fully dedicated to identity essentialism and balanced budgets. Larry is their ideal candidate. If he were black and/or a woman, I’d put him in the very top tier. 

Jay Inslee

Unlike Newsom, Inslee’s attempt to crown himself the King of Global Warming won’t be immediately derailed, since his state is only on fire because of protestors. This, however, poses a different problem. He’s going to be a good test case for the Democrat’s uneasy peace with the ever increasing share of the electorate who become catatonic upon hearing a pronoun. On the one hand, you need to take their votes for granted. On the other hand, they’re not like black people or regular gays: most voters actively, consciously despise wokies, and associating yourself with them will ruin a campaign even in deep blue areas. There’s still gonna be riots in a year. Biden’s gonna announce the sale of all our nation’s potable water to the good folks at Nestle and some trans freak named Sasha-Malia DeBalzac is going to use that as an opportunity to sell their new pamphlet about how it’s fascist to not burn down small businesses. No matter what Inslee does in response, it’ll end his career. 

AOC

I’m not one of those “AOC is a secret conservative” weirdos, but I am aware enough of basic reality to know she has zero chance of coming close to the nomination. The right and the center both regard her as a literal demon. The party is already blaming her for the fact that a handful of faceless Reagan acolytes failed to flip their suburban districts even though they ran on sensible pragmatic proposals like euthanizing the homeless. The recriminations will only get more unhinged when the Dems eat shit in the 2022 midterms. She will be a Russian, she will be white male, she will be a communist, she will be a homophobe: any insult or conspiracy theory you can name, MSNBC will spend hours discussing. Her house seat challenger will receive a record amount of support from the DNC in 2024 and it’ll be all she can do to remain in congress.

Larry Hogan

Don’t be dissuaded by the fact that he’s a Republican. Larry is the DNC’s ideal candidate: a physically repulsive conservative who owes his entire career to appealing to the most spiteful desires of suburban white people. He’s an open racist in a material sense--if you’re old-school enough to think racism is a matter of beliefs and actions, rather than the presence of cultural signifiers--but his is the beloved “never Trump” style of racism that Dems covet. He’s also a Proven Leader who thinks the role of government should be to finance the construction of investment property and give police the resources they need to run successful drug trafficking operations. Few people embody the Democrat worldview more than Larry. 

The Losers Bracket

These people will have at least a small chance due solely to the fact that the Democrats love losing. They have lost in the past, and in the Democrat Mind that makes them especially qualified.

Joe Kennedy

The man looks like a mushroom-human hybrid from a JRPG. Trump proved that physical hideousness need not doom a presidential bid, but a candidate still needs some kind of charm or oratorical abilities or, god forbid, a decent platform. Joe aggressively lacks all of these things. A vanity campaign would be a good way to raise money and perhaps secure an MSNBC gig, so Joe might still run. 

Mayor Pete 

I am 100% convinced that Pete’s 2020 run was a CIA plot meant to prevent working class Americans from ever having a chance of living decent lives. I am also 100% aware that Democrats are dumb enough to enthusiastically support a CIA plot meant to prevent working class Americans from ever having a chance of living decent lives. If we have some sort of military or terror disaster between now and 2023 the Dems are sure to want a TROOP, and wait wait wait you’re telling me this one is a gay troop? Holy hell there’s no way that could lose!

Stacy Abrams

Never underestimate the power of white guilt. She lost the gubernatorial race to Gomer Pyle’s grandson, and her spiritual guidance of the Dems saw the party lose black voters in Georgia in 2020. Nonetheless, she is regarded as a magic font of fierceness within the DNC. She might stand a chance if she can establish herself as the most conservative non-white candidate in the field, but there’s going to be stiff competition for that honor.

Elizabeth Warren

Liz is probably angry that the party so shamelessly sold her out even after she was a good little girl and sabatoged Bernie’s campaign for them--yet another example of high ranking US government officials reneging on their promises to the Native American community. Smdh. The fact that this woman hasn’t been bankrupted a dozen times over by various Wallet Inspectors genuinely astounds me. So Liz is probably going to run again, and her campaign will be even sadder the second time around. 

It might surprise you to hear this if you don’t work at a college or NGO, but Liz diehards actually do exist. She’ll get even less support this time because there will be no viable leftist in the field for her to spoil, but she’ll still hang in long enough to make sure the very worst possible candidate beats out the second worst possible candidate. Maybe she’ll fabricate a rape accusation against Sherrod Brown. Maybe she’ll spend her entire allotted debate time doing a land acknowledgment. With Liz, anything is possible--so long as it ends in failure. 

Amy Klobuchar 

Amy was the most bloodthirsty of the 2020 also rans. She will double down on the unpopular failures of the Biden administration, explaining that if you weren’t such a selfish idiot you’d love the higher social security retirement age and oh my god are so such a moron you think you shouldn’t go bankrupt to get a COVID vaccine? There’s a non-unsubstantial segment of the Democratic base that’s self-hating enough to find this appealing, but it won’t be enough to make her viable. 

Martha Coakley

She lost Ted Kennedy’s senate seat to a retarded man who was pretending to be even more retarded than he actually was. Then she lost a gubernatorial race to a guy who openly promised Massachusetts voters that he would punish them for electing him. Her record of failure is unparalleled, making her perhaps the ideal Democrat standard bearer for the twenty twenties. 

[rjmorrisonuniverse-blog]

Nolan and the One-Hook Day

1. NOLAN

 What a shit storm of a day.

Distilled angst, chain of events, cosmic joke funnel, harpoon of the gods.

I know as I sit near him that I will have to throw the best punch I have ever thrown; one with technique and violent finality. I'll have to lift up from the chair, slide it back as I tell him "I'm going for a piss", and deliver the perfect right hook that begins from my heel and gains muscle torque up the calf, thigh and buttocks. I'll pivot with it as I rise and all my years of practice should unconsciously find that sweet spot on his jawline. I have to throw for a kill.

One chance or else big trouble.

Even I know that you don't get into punch-ups with massive off-duty cops.

One knockout hook, and an expedient exit through the side door on the far end of that pool table. It has to be soon, before the after work crowd shows up and this shit-hole becomes witness city. Before the pork behemoth gets even nastier and I run out of time. You bet your ass the pig reference is intended; this guy has the face of a swine. Mammoth jarhead on a stump neck with beady red rimmed eyes and nose vascularity that bespeaks years of hard drink. His voice is gravel, whisky phlegm and flat hard, and his salt and pepper goatee has an ugly way of framing an unsmiling mouth.

Motherfucking pig, prick, douchebag.

 I guess we should backtrack some. My name is Nolan. You don't need the surname, so get over it right now. I work for a metal stamping plant, and we make mostly automobile fenders. The job pays well but the environment is a hell on earth; a gargantuan space lit by low sodium lamps that hang forty feet above the floor. Two-storey tall machines that thump and roar like monsters starved for metal and perhaps human flesh, and a long shift there with earplugs inserted and legs taking shock after shock wave is about as otherworldly a job as I've ever had.

Is it any wonder I amped up my mixed martial arts training and aimed at the UFC?

Lunch breaks at A.G. Simpson were hilarious, as the zombies filed into the cafeteria in various states of exhaustion, depression, hangover, debt, disillusion. Even there, with the long bank of windows that overlooked the main work area below, the fucking lighting was brutal. In your face harshness, bad food, a sickly mint green high gloss paint on the cinder block walls... I mean, no amount of overtime could justify my being there and ONLY there to make ends meet. I remember a painting crew that was hired to spray the ceilings and recoat the washrooms, and those guys were freaked OUT by the vibe. They took their breaks in the cafeteria too, cursing themselves for not bringing their own food to the job, bitching about the watery vending machine coffee, and more than a dozen times asking us "how the fuck do you stand working here?"

So, given my size and mindset coupled with a love for man-to-man conflict resolution, it was a no-brainer for me to embark on a little side action in the octagon. I started as a gangly kid with the amateur boxing and proved a quick study with natural power in each hand. Even with the headgear and twelve ounce gloves I was knocking people out cold, and sparring partners too. I always seemed to have that mean in me, but as lady luck, that rotten bitch, would have it... I was a "cutter". If I didn't knock his ass out in the first couple of rounds, sooner or later I'd be bleeding. Bottom lip, bridge of nose, and for a brief stint in the pro circuit, both eyelids. I was an undefeated slugger fighting out of a loser gym, punching for power and lantern jawed, but that goddamned skin of mine  pushed me toward MMA combat, and that was fine by me. I didn't like my fellow man as a rule, and most days, hitting him made more sense than conversation.

I started out lucky, through a cousin who was being trained in the Pat Miletich camp, and found myself under the tutelage of the great man himself. I could list details about the intensive training that mixed kickboxing and Jiu-jitsu, Pat's karate methods and a stripped down version of Thai boxing that seemed best suited to my power... I could talk about the first dozen fights in Iowa, all victories by knockout in the first round.

I was busting my hump at the metal stamping plant all day, training five nights a week, and taking fights for shit money anywhere they would put me. Eventually I was given an opportunity to match up against a name opponent, even though his career was on the downward spiral, and representatives from the UFC were ringside. That was one motherfucker of a highlight reel knockout, let me tell it. My six foot four two hundred fifty pound hammer was primed to drop and I don't mind saying that poor bastard was knocked out during the stare down. Stoked? Homicidal.

The first thing he attempted was a leg kick, and in missing, he presented me with a clean shot at his mandible. I saw his eyes go all wide and wild just as I uncorked a sweet left uppercut and felt that indescribable delicious shock of connection when it exploded on the sleep spot under his chin. He was out before his head bounced off the canvas, and even today the debate continues about what killed him; the punch or that heavy landing. My celebrations ended when I saw that he wasn't getting up, and by the time the stretcher arrived I knew it was serious. I won't lie to you. I won't say it chewed me up inside that my opponent died a week later. These are gladiators and they go into it fully aware of the dangers. Highly skilled, trained to the nth degree, all it takes between two combatants in that arena is a nanosecond of error and somebody's lights go out.

Permanent injury, career ending injury? Not common, but I wasn't a common hitter either. Maybe we can thank my father for that. Every opponent wore his face and I don't throw to win. I throw to injure.

I was told that a contract was being drawn up for me in the aftermath of that fight; that all the way up to Dana White's office, the name "Nolan" was being spoken as the next money magnet. Then that poor bitch died and the contract offer was postponed until the media hornets nest died, too. I was pissed, maybe even a little at myself, and for sure at the man whose physically abusive ways had forged the fires that shaped me.

Two weeks later, I busted up one of Miletich's top young prospects during a heated sparring exchange, and that was the end of my UFC dream. Back to the zombie show at A.G. Simpson I went, and no amount of prying from fellow workers would get me to talk about just how close I had come to fame and financial freedom. Fuck it, fuck them, and fuck dreams. That became my mantra, and I withdrew into a mean sonofabitch's shell. Nobody messed with me back then.

Well, not until I took on that part time gig as a bouncer at Bunny's strip club. That was where I met Sherry-Ann.

  2. SHERRY-ANN

  Here in the bottom of the barrel tavern, I motion to the waiter for two more pints and listen to the gravelly voice of the big prick sitting at the corner of the table. He's talking about his failed marriages, the failings of the judicial system, the failure of society to appreciate what he does for a living. Failure? I'll show the motherfucker failure. Then, as the waiter sets down two more pints, I hear off-duty pig's speech beginning to slur.

"You shoulda been a cop". He fixes his cold eyes on me, looking at my down-to-the-wood hairstyle and clean cut features. He's bitching about the career path and in his next beery breath he's pitching a sale.

"My woman wouldn't have anything to do with me if I was a cop", I tell his stump of a face while Sherry-Ann drops the needle down on some distant memory that plays a song of sex and rage. Pig-mug leers into his ale, and I glance down at the broad knuckles across my right hand, square and knobby and designed for pain delivery. I had been forming a fist as he bitched about his marriages, and now I force myself to flatten out the fingers on my thigh.

 You may have thought that Sherry-Ann was a stripper, based on my mention of the club where I watched the door and floor. Nothing against the girls inside who worked the laps for money, but I would never date a peeler. I fucked a couple of them when I first took the job because they were practically throwing it at me. These all-American clean cut features of mine would have been enough, but toss in some nasty scar tissue and my indifferent conduct, and it was shooting fish in a barrel time. I don't pretend to understand the mind of a woman, but there is a fundamental truth about their being attracted to rough men. They may not love us in a lasting way, but a lot of them want us between their legs.

My first weekend on the job, on the Saturday shift, this feature dancer "Savannah" kept taking her breaks in the entrance lobby, near the door and near me. Nothing wrong with my meat radar, and I knew where the harpoon was headed. This joint, "Bunny's", was a rough place in a nasty part of southside downtown. Blood spatter on the sidewalk out front was common, and in time a lot of it was extracted by yours truly in the doing of his job; I always thought it funny how these down and out motherfuckers could find money for beer and lap dances. How many of them had wives and hungry children at home?

Some of them came in looking for trouble, pissed off at the world, and I took pleasure when reducing their dietary needs to soup. The owner of the place didn't give a shit how we did our duty, as long as the money came in and the cops stayed away and the girls were kept happy. So, when Savannah finished her final three song set of the night, instead of taking private dance requests she asked me if I would join her for a drink. Rose, the owner, cleared it with "Night's almost over... long as you keep an eye on the room."

Savannah and I shared a small table near the entrance door, and she did most of the talking while I admired her rack and scanned the patrons. Her body language was nothing less than a carnal invitation, with those shapely legs spread and her hand coming up often to touch my bicep, forearm, knee. A vacant, giggling, augmented and needy blonde caricature.

Shift finished, I invited her back to my two-bedroom apartment for a few more drinks and some good hard fucking, but on the way out the back door I first saw Sherry-Ann and she laid a burn job on my mind. She was leaning forward to talk to a potential client through the driver side window, and I caught sight of long-honed legs flowing up into a tightly rounded naked ass calling to me beneath her hiked black skirt. Statuesque, easily six feet without the twat-for-sale boots, and when she heard the back door squeal open and slam shut she turned for a second to shoot me and my companion a hard appraising look. The street lamp threw a sleazy orb over her beautiful features, with that young Margot Kidder sneer, too much lipstick and tumbling waves of ludicrous wig-red tresses tickling the mid back.

Untamed; that was the immediate impression. Lanky and dangerous and maybe a little crazy, and the kind of bedroom ride that was sure to be a roller coaster. We experienced that intense time-stand-still-eye-lock and I felt the kinetic energy between us that stayed with me all through the next two hours of sex with Savannah. That final climax, doggie style with her face pushed into the back of my sofa and her hands braced against the wall... that was another woman's bird I was basting. A woman I was determined to meet at the next opportunity. I remember drama-Savannah's look of injury when I handed her cab fare at four in the morning and bluntly told her I needed to sleep alone. She tried to protest and I gave it to her straight - "We both got what we wanted tonight, and now it's time for you to piss off."

 "You really shoulda been a cop, I'm telling you."

I nod as if in agreement, look at the clock above the bar and realize that I'll have to do my thing soon. Sherry-Ann will be expecting me home from work, completely unaware that my day is an official shit-storm only beginning to hit the fan. The huge man sitting with me lifts the pint of ale to his mouth, still glaring my way over the rim, and I see his police-issue service revolver sitting snugly in its shoulder holster. The open front of his brown suede jacket, the bulging stomach, massive arms barely contained by sleeves, and a pungent body odor of sickening complexity.

This doomed fuck doesn't have a clue that I followed him here.

3. PARENTING

  A week after I first laid eyes on Sherry-Ann's lanky goods, I was on duty at Bunny's with a sense of excitement that I hadn't felt in a long time. The shift was uneventful, and when I went through the back door, there she was at the end of the block with another chick. I thought about walking over to her, but decided to roll up in my Grand National. It was a hot night and she was sweetly tucked into a pair of high-riding denim shorts and a tight red t-shirt with black boots at the mid-calf; straight platinum blonde wig. I saw her eyes move from her companion as I rode up slowly, window down.

What a fucking body. Built for cock of Nolan. I can't explain the power of the attraction, and I had never considered paying for sex even once in my life. She just had that sneer, defiance, youthful strut and a physique to match. I'll admit that I had a soft spot for the ladies of the night, because my mother had been one, and I hate on pimps and everything they represent. Sure, I had some Travis Bickle in me, and Sherry-Ann was my Jodie Foster.

"Looking for a date?" her upper lip curled at the corner, and then I could see her remembering me from the weekend before. She smiled as I stopped, and her girlfriend took a long look through the windshield before casually strolling around the corner out of sight. "Hey, I remember you, stud."

Long story short, we did a little negotiating and she got in the car. I drove around the block and parked in behind Bunny's near the fire escape and garbage bins. Very romantic. Turned out that Sherry-Ann was new to this stroll, and didn't fuck. She was oral only, and I had to wear a jimmy hat Her old man was a biker-type who also had a piece of the action in the very club where I worked; a few girls who took on after hours customers at his command. He'd taken a shine to his newest meat, and didn't want Sherry-Ann riding any cock but his. I was as stiff as a fucking girder when she started stroking me through the dress slacks, but when I tried to enjoy her tits she moved my hand away gently, bending to unzip me and set the crowbar free. As soon as she started rolling that goddamned rubber over the head I could feel myself losing the erection.

"This isn't how I want it" I told her flatly, and she froze, raised herself back up and looked me long in the eyes. I remember thinking that I knew her from somewhere, maybe another life, and for the first time in my thirty four years I felt that I wanted something intensely. Her. "I wouldn't mind grabbing a coffee somewhere for half an hour, for the same money, if that's cool."

We started that way, and for weeks I would take her to a seedy twenty four hour diner near her stroll, to learn about her life and tell her about mine. Both of us were survivors of violent childhoods, but her father was nothing compared to the evil piece of shit that was mine. Her dad was heavy into the booze, gambling, and spousal abuse. My father was the angriest most self-entitled rage-aholic in existence, and from my first childhood memories it was his fists that marked my growth.

That prick verbally abused my mother and took sadistic pleasure in kicking the shit out of his only child. As I grew into a large teenager, the beatings escalated in duration and ferocity. He never told me why he hated me, but I knew instinctively that my life had been an accident... a miserable wait around that cocksucker's reality. As Sherry-Ann and I shared these sad stories over coffee, we could feel a mutual caring develop between us, and I always had that sexual hunger for her.

In time, she trusted me enough to explain that she wanted to get away from "Roy", who was becoming increasingly demanding and violent. He'd brought in another girl from the bus terminal, and that was his new top bitch. Sherry-Ann had to start earning like the other girls, and when she told me that, I took care of the situation for her. I spent a couple of weeks in hiding, watching for this fucker, and quickly enough I was able to figure out his schedule. He'd roll around just after the sun went down, in a beat up blue panel van, and again after three in the morning to collect the pussy rent... I waited for the Thursday of the third week, told Sherry-Ann exactly what I planned to do, ignored her warnings and pleas, and when Roy showed up later that night for his money...

Nolan came out of the shadows across the street. Roy was in the driver's seat, window down, in conversation with one of the other girls and I casually walked around the back of the van to push his bitch out of the way with my right hand before looping a short left hook into the center of his face; it had brutal follow-through and Roy's head whiplashed before he hit the bench seat sideways. Two of the girls started running away, but Sherry-Ann stayed for the show. I yanked open the door and grabbed a generous handful of beard and long hair, pulled the semi-conscious Roy back to a sitting position. The blood was cascading out of what remained of his nose, down his shirt and vest, all over the money he had dropped into his lap. I gave him a good shake and his eyes rolled open, tried to focus, and before he could attempt anything I drove a hateful straight left into his open mouth, putting him OUT. I loved the sight of him sagging back to a lying position in a grotesque slow motion of jaw-hanging gore. "Sherry-Ann is with ME from now on" I shouted into the cab, and who knows if he heard it or not...

"Call an ambulance for this piece of shit, and let's go get your things." An hour and two pieces of luggage later, Sherry-Ann took refuge in my apartment. A roach-infested den of depression and about as dead end as it gets for a pretty young runaway of twenty three. We had sex for the first time that night; a two-way act of consumption that I won't ever forget. We felt like we knew each other far beyond those few weeks of talking, and her forthright way of telling me how to fuck her, how to do the things that she needed done, the way her sexy mouth formed a leering curve when she came so hard and violently around me. It would be a long time before she heard it, but when I called in sick the next morning, I was sure I could love her.

Roy? He hadn't seen what hit him. I heard that he lost most of his upper and lower plate, had to have his nose reconstructed, and a few weeks after that night he and his women vanished from Bunny's and the block. Sherry-Ann settled in with me, took a waitressing job, and we fell into a year-long calm spell... I had saved almost all of my earnings over the past eight years and we made plans to get a house together outside the city core. We had a friendship and the sex was ferocious, but there were hurdles to overcome. I helped Sherry-Ann quit the glass pipe, and she helped me open up.

 Which brings me back to this nameless drinking hole and the large man sharing a scarred wooden table with me. Brings me to a heartbeat of hate, and the day that marked the history of Nolan with a river of tainted blood.

 4. SHIT, MEET THE FAN

 A Friday that began like any other, with the five thirty alarm. Sherry-Ann's warmth against me under the sheets, and the new anticipation of weekend reward in my life. I gave up the bouncer gig at the strip club to spend weekends with my woman, and for the first time ever I had days to look forward to during the workweek. Long lazy mornings in bed together, watching television, having sex, lost in conversation... me, the short fuse with lots on his mind and little to say. Simple, beautiful hours.

That Friday I ate my breakfast alone then walked quietly into the bedroom to kiss Sherry-Ann on the forehead as she slept. Me, the guy who told himself he would never give a shit about anyone... she was asleep on her side, dark brown hair fanned out across the pillow. I ran it through my fingers to make myself believe again that this amazing change had come to my existence, and then left to make the half hour trip to the A.G. Simpson metal stamping plant. I first noticed the horizon of fire when I made the turn into the industrial park on Laird avenue; jet black smoke billowing upward to form the devil's cloud cover, licked from below by a massive wall of flame. I hit the gas and felt my guts sink into the comfortable abyss of my usual state of being, knowing what I was going to see at the end of the avenue, reaching for the radio as I saw the rows of cars lining each side and stopped by a phalanx of police cruisers, ambulances, and fire trucks. The all-news station was on the scene and I learned that a huge explosion had ripped through my place of employment, killing four workers and injuring dozens of others.

"Jesus H. Fuck!" I pulled over and parked on the strip of grass adjacent to the two lane blacktop, got out to watch the blaze. Co-workers either sat in their cars or stood around in groups, shaking their heads at the sight of the apocalypse before them. A couple of them acknowledged me with nods, but most of them ignored me. I told you before, people tended to avoid me and I like it that way. I asked a couple of the guys what they knew, and nobody had shit for info other than the explosion happened just before dawn. Fuck me, I kept thinking, there goes work for a while. Maybe for good if the place is gutted.

I went back to the car, sat and watched the show, and after a couple of hours it occurred to me that I should just go the fuck home to be with the only person I cared about before she went in to work her half day. All the way back toward the small house we were renting, my mind was in a fog that reminded me of the worst of times during my childhood. My sixteenth birthday, when the man who called himself my father arrived to take me out of school because my mother had overdosed on heroin. Waiting in the hospital as she fought her last battle, he found a way to blame me, and that night after her death the beating he dished out had me fearing for my own life. I fought him back for the first time, and even though I hurt that motherfucker, he got the best of me and I spent two days in my room bruised, battered, and determined to leave. Two weeks later, he went in to work the night shift and I escaped. Some day I'll tell you about those first few months... I did things to survive that no one should resort to. If not for my mother's sister, I wouldn't be here today to break deserving skulls.

A half block away from the house I could see a car in the parking pad. A rusty Pontiac Laurentian, dented along the passenger doors and crusted with dirt. What the fuck? I glanced at my watch and it came from the stomach up to my throat; a sick knowledge of a thought that I stopped from forming... without realizing it I was on the brake and slowing. Ten in the morning on a day I'm not supposed to be here until five thirty. She goes to work at twelve, comes home before five. I put the car in reverse and backed up to park against the curb about a dozen houses away from mine, killed the engine and sat in silence. I watched the car in the driveway, looked at the front of the bungalow that framed the inevitable act of betrayal that life had in store for guys like me. For the first time in nearly twenty years I didn't take immediate action. I couldn't, man. I was paralyzed with a cold sweating fear, choking on a feeling like being trapped in a plunging elevator. There was no rationalizing in the car that morning as I sat there watching and so certain that Sherry-Ann was in there destroying us with another man who was soon to pay a price beyond reason.

Almost two hours went by, in a blur, before I decided to leave the car. I strolled over to the house, slowly and not feeling anything I can describe. I was thinking about a movie that I'd seen called "Into The Night", where the main character played by Jeff Goldblum comes home early to find his wife screwing someone. As I walked between my place and the neighbour's, around the side to the back bedroom window, my mind went numb. I always knew that God had put me here in this body for a lifetime of getting fucked. Life is a better fuck than pussy. Life is a twenty four and seven joystick, motherfuckers.

Our bedroom windows bottomed at eye level. An air conditioner filled the lower section of the far pane, so I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass of the east frame... the blinds weren't dropped all the way down to the sill and I was able to make out the two shapes on our bed. The bottom of the bed faced the windows, giving me a clear enough look at his big legs and ass as he pumped his erection into her. I felt a scary chill of calm for a moment, watching his balls move back and forth as he rode that beautiful pussy and blocked her from my view through sheer bulk. The sight of her long naked legs, one bent upward and one straightened, and a small hand gripping the blankets... that started the tears and I turned away quickly to walk back to the car.

Those were the longest two hours of my life, longer even than the wait for news about my mother that afternoon in the hospital. I'm not a smoker, so I sat and chewed gum in silence, waiting and getting used to the idea that once again, the dream is over. Fuck life, fuck love, and fuck dreams. Welcome back to reality. You fell for a whore, asshole. She's been turning tricks on the side all this past year and you bought the Hallmark card version of what it should have been and isn't. Last Friday had been a good fucking day that lasted clear through until the following Monday, and THIS one is the end of the world as you know it. Job, woman? Fuck you. Gone.

 The bartender, myself and this half drunken off-duty pig, plus six others who sit at the bar on the far side of this shit-hole. Four hours ago I watched this man leave my house through the front door, as though it were his, and casually get into his old Pontiac. I gave him a decent head start and then followed him across town into the city core. He parked in front of a tired brownstone on the south side, got out and lumbered up the stoop past a sign that read "short term rentals available", and I parked further up the street and did some more waiting. Him first, her later. I couldn't believe it and yet it made perfect sense. I'd deal with him, then Sherry-Ann would get one chance to explain this to me. Just one. I turned to lean against the driver's door, stretched my legs out across the seats, flexed my fingers, and watched the front door of that brownstone. When I made the decision to stop waiting he emerged from the building wearing the same clothes, and I followed him to the fucking dive that now serves as the shit-storm epicentre.

I gave it fifteen minutes before I entered the nameless hole. It took my eyes a moment to adjust from bright afternoon to damaged liver gloom, and the smell of piss and old beer and sweat that hit me like a swinging back-fist. All eyes turned at my entrance, but he was hunched over a pint and facing away from the front door and was the only one not to see me come in. I went straight to the bartender and asked him in a low voice what "that guy over there" was drinking, ordered two pints, and walked the length of the room to his table.

I set the pints down in the middle of the tabletop and pull out a chair around the corner from his, and he looks first at me and then the beer. Back at me, eyes widening as I lower myself and bore lasers into his pupils. "Still a cop?" I slide one pint toward him and raise mine up for a good swallow. He doesn't answer right away, staring me in the face, sizing me up, lost in something... "YOU shoulda been a cop" he mutters. "I followed you here" I tell him right away, let it soak in for a moment. "From the place where I'm staying?" he runs a huge hand through his goatee and greying hair. "No, from my place... the factory where I work is burning today."

He nods slowly, looking down into his beer... "been looking for you, son."

"I've never been your son, mister. I have the scars to prove it."

"I heard you left the city to stay with your aunt for a long time... " his voice trails off in memory. "So you found out where I live, dropped by for a friendly visit, did you?" He smirks a little and I almost throw the bomb right then, but it isn't the right time... I'm throwing for a kill, remember. I play it like I don't mind that he found me, and of course he has no idea that I saw him fucking my woman... no idea that as I sit here getting psyched up to stop his motherfucking heart, my own has been smashed. "So here I am, sir. What can I do for you?" he smirks again.

And it goes like that for nearly an hour, as this beastly childhood force sits next to me and attempts to... what? Atone for something? Correct the damage that he inflicted on his only child? I sit here and listen to his talk about the difficulty of losing my mother, and the failed second and third marriages. I let him ramble through his anger, and I hear nothing but an older version of the gigantic negative force that took all of my potential and crushed it into a compact life-hating machine. I can't even come up with one iota of pity for this prick, and now it's Sherry-Ann I'm thinking of as I glance again at the wall clock and decide it's time. How she could betray me... us... like that, and with THIS of all monsters.

"Tell me something" I interrupt his self pitying rant about spineless judges. "How much did you pay?" He looks at me stupidly, one bushy eyebrow lifting. "For Sherry-Ann this morning" I raise my voice a notch. "What did that cost you?" His hand comes up with the pint as he says "I didn't pay" and I slide the chair back, start the hook from my hip as I rise and pivot to throw thirty five years of poison through my torso and shoulder and forearm and fist as a projectile unlike any I've ever unleashed. Instinctively aimed for his heavy jawline as he tries to react too late, jerking beer over the rim of his glass when I land it and envision my knuckles removing his lower face. The jolt of it through my arm is like an orgasm and he and the chair hit the floor as though a wrecking ball has swung into the tavern. I'm not even looking at the others in the room, and in one chain of events I squat to look at his hanging jaw and the teeth that he is pushing out of his mouth with a bleeding tongue.

The cocksucker is still conscious but the force of the hook has probably broken his neck. I've never seen a head swivel like that. I grab a handful of vest and start dragging him across the floor as the witnesses just begin to realize what has happened, maybe not even giving a damn in a place this rough. I drag the piece of shit across the floor and his face is hitting the legs of chairs, his arms are limp. The bartender yells "hey! take that shit out of here" and I feel a nasty smile crack my mouth. The door near the pool table has one of those metal bars on it that you push, so I lift up my prey with both hands and ram his face into it. Outside in the late afternoon sunshine I can see that his fucking head looks like a shotgun suicide, and his breath is heavy and blood thick. There's a big blue garbage dumpster around back, and I drag him face down by the vest collar, hearing his gun scrape along the asphalt, feeling the swelling along the top of my hand. 

I prop him up in a sitting position against the dumpster and step back to deliver a looping head kick to his temple. His skull whiplashes and he hits the parking lot on his right side. I feel myself nod in agreement, then finish him off with a short toe kick to the throat. From the moment I first hit him to the lifting and tossing of his body into the dumpster I have been outside of myself. I take one final look at his imploded features and spit on them, dropping the metal lid down on the fucking garbage.

Do you think the blades of the fan are now filled with shit? No. There's just one more detail to cap my Friday to end all Fridays. I drive back to my house, just ahead of rush hour traffic. My hand is swollen and cut where I clipped his teeth. My mind is a seething pit of rage and fatality. I don't care about a fucking thing at this point other than to have Sherry-Ann look at me with her gorgeous eyes and talk me out of this crescendo. Tell me it was a moment of weakness, of old habits dying hard... tell me what you have to but tell me everything will be okay.

I pull into the driveway, enter the house, and see that she is home early. Her purse and shoes and waitress outfit are all in the living room. The house is silent and I walk quickly down the middle hall toward the last room on the left where she is lying in bed with her eyes wide open and the belt from her bathrobe knotted up around her neck. My breath hitches in my chest. I turn on the ceiling light. The bedsheets are on the floor, the pillow case beneath her spattered in blood, the tip of her tongue is showing between bloody lips. I nod again in agreement with the universe. Nolan is getting cosmic-fucked now. How DARE I fall in love? Who am I to change what I am?

In an echo of my earlier gesture that morning, I bend over Sherry-Ann to kiss her forehead, then close her eyelids. No tears now. I pack one piece of luggage, turn off the bedroom light, and get into the car to head for the nearest automatic teller. I'll get a hotel room and tomorrow I clear out my savings. Nolan blows this town forever. I'm on a mission now, and before I'm finished people will know about me from coast to coast.

Every lowlife motherfucker in every shitty part of every city has it coming, and I'm the delivery boy.