Chapter 4 – Library Chronicles (Contains R18)

I'm trying my best to be focused in the rest of my classes, but my brain just keeps replaying the cafeteria incident like it's some kind of traumatic highlight reel.

Selene's smile as she waved me over. The fluorescent lights catching her pink hair just right. Jack's disgusting smirk. Those vile words coming out of his mouth about her—

I grip my pencil hard enough that it creaks, which is definitely just a hallucination because I'm far too weak for that.

Then Luke King, swooping in like the male protagonist of some romance web novel. Dragging Jack away while I sat there like a useless NPC. And finally, that parting gift: Jack mouthing "You're dead" to me as he left.

Fucking fantastic. Really looking forward to that.

"Adam?" A voice cuts through my thoughts. "Care to answer this one?"

I blink, looking up to see a problem written on the board. My eyes scan it for approximately two seconds. "...The answer's 13," I whisper, suddenly aware of a hundred pairs of eyes on me like I'm some sort of zoo animal.

The teacher frowns, checks her notes, then nods grudgingly. "Correct."

Of course it's correct. I could solve this stuff in my sleep. Hell, I’m practically half-asleep right now.

The rest of the day passes in a similar blur.

Despite my distraction, my hand moves automatically, taking perfect notes in my neat handwriting. It's like my brain has two separate processors running simultaneously, one constantly replaying the cafeteria disaster in 4K, the other effortlessly cataloging every single word the teachers say.

Finally, the final bell rings, and I watch Jack stand up from his seat three rows ahead. He heads toward the main entrance, flanked by two of his football buddies.

Fucking great. Sir Dumbass and his merry band of idiots are probably heading off to guard all the exits of the school.

I run through my options. Front entrance: definitely a death trap. Side exits: probably also monitored, knowing my luck. Climbing out a window: would probably work, and it’s tempting, but I'd rather not add "that weird kid who jumped out of a second-story window" to my list of high school accomplishments. Also, with my level of physical fitness, I'd probably just break both legs on the way down.

I sigh, slumping back into my seat as the classroom empties around me. Screw it, might as well get some work done in the library then.

The library is my natural habitat. Beautifully decorated shelves filled with collections of books, the musty smell of paper, and most importantly: no people. It's like a museum dedicated to things nobody cares about, and I love it.

I claim my usual corner computer and pull up my current freelancing project. It's a database management system for some small business in Ohio. The work is boring as hell, but it pays decently well, and the client isn't actively annoying, which already puts them in the top 1% of clients I've worked with.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, lost in the rhythm of coding. This is where I actually feel competent. No social dynamics to navigate, no unspoken rules to decipher, no accidentally making eye contact with someone and then having to do that awkward, little smile thing. Just logic, syntax, and the occasional bug that makes me want to throw the monitor out of a window.

Two hours later, and I'm done. I hit submit and do a brief stretch before switching gears, continuing my work on a side project of my own while waiting for the confirmation email. I’ve been working on an AI stock trading tool that probably won't go anywhere. But when I work on it, I feel like I'm doing something with my life besides surviving high school.

Ding.

"Thank you for your work. Payment of $100 has been sent to your account."

I immediately open up my banking app and watch that beautiful number update. $2,300. I practically have dollar signs in my eyes. If someone walked by right now, they'd probably hear slot machine noises.

"I'm rich!" I whisper to myself, grinning like an idiot.

Of course, "rich" is relative. To most people, $2,300 is like… maybe rent and groceries. But for an eighteen-year-old who's been saving every penny from freelancing gigs? It feels like I've won the lottery. I could buy so many games. So many snacks. Maybe even upgrade my setup.

I check my phone. 7:03 PM. Well, time to start heading home before my sisters start worrying about me.

I'm packing up my stuff when I hear it: a soft grunt, followed by unmistakably wet sounds coming from somewhere in the bookshelves.

I freeze like a deer in headlights. Or like someone who just heard a suspicious noise in a horror movie and knows they should leave, but chooses to investigate, resulting in their gruesome, agonizing death.

No. No way. That's not what I think it is. Maybe someone's just... eating really aggressively? Is that a thing?

Another grunt. Definitely human. Definitely not eating food.

I look around the library. Empty. Just me and whatever's happening in the secluded aisles between Chemistry and Biology. Which feels hilariously symbolic to me.

Common sense says: leave. Walk out right now. Pretend you heard nothing. Go home. Eat dinner.

…But teenage curiosity says: investigate. You might never get a chance to see something like this again.

Guess which one wins?

I creep toward the sounds like some kind of discount detective, my footsteps silent on the worn carpet. As I get closer, I can hear heavy breathing, a muffled moan, wet slurping sounds, and—

I peer around the corner of the bookshelf.

Oh.

Oh.

A senior football player, Marcus? I think? is leaning against the shelf, his head tilted back, eyes closed in what I can only describe as pure ecstasy. And kneeling in front of him is a cheerleader whose name I don't know, her blonde ponytail bobbing in an impressive rhythm.

My brain immediately blue screens. This is... I mean, I knew people did this, obviously, but in the library? At school? There are books here! Show some respect for accumulated human knowledge, you disgusting animals!

“I should leave. I need to leave.” I think to myself while staying incredibly still and enjoying the show.

[R-18 Warning!]

I stand there for approximately fifteen seconds, my brain short-circuiting between horror, fascination, and a weird third emotion that's probably just jealousy with extra steps.

I focus on the cheerleader. She's a pint-sized bombshell, probably around five feet tall, her ponytail is swinging like a golden pendulum. Her full red lips part around his six-inch cock, already glistening with her saliva, smeared with crimson kiss marks from her lipstick. God, she's worshipping it, kissing the shaft tenderly, tongue flicking the tip, her mouth tracing veins that pulse under her touch. The air smells faintly of her fruity shampoo mixed with something muskier, more primal.

She teases him, lips brushing the head, her hypnotic eyes glancing up mischievously through her lashes. Then she dives in, deepthroating him right away, her perky C-cup breasts are jiggling in her tight top with each bob of her head. Her massive ass and thighs ripple as she bounces, the fabric of her skirt riding up, revealing soft, bouncy flesh that begs to be grabbed. Marcus grunts softly, eyes squeezed shut, fully lost in the wet, rhythmic suction, the sloppy sounds she’s making are echoing across the shelves like a forbidden symphony.

My own pants tighten as I feel myself hardening, heat rushing to my groin. It's hypnotic: the way her ponytail dances, her unwavering enthusiasm as she slurps and gags lightly, her saliva dripping down his length.

But then Marcus's eyes begin to flutter open.

Oh fuck… Abort. ABORT.

I back away slowly, carefully. Once I'm clear of the aisle, I speed-walk toward the exit. Then, I'm running, well, my version of running, which is more like aggressive fast-walking, until I burst through the library doors and eventually the school doors, into the cool night air.

I bend over, hands on my knees, panting like I've just completed a marathon instead of aggressively walking for barely thirty seconds. My lungs are staging a protest. While my legs have filed a formal complaint.

"Jeez," I wheeze. "They... they were definitely violating some school policy."

Once my heart rate returns to something resembling normal. I straighten up and look at the sky. It's clear tonight, filled with countless brilliant stars that are visible despite the light pollution from the city. It's beautiful, really.

"Why can't I be hot and charismatic?" I mutter to the universe, because apparently I'm the kind of person who enjoys conversing with the sky now. "Why couldn't I just slide some points over to my appearance? Just reallocate my stats, you know? Take five from intelligence, add it to appearance. I'd still be the smartest guy in school."

As if in response, lights suddenly streak across the sky.

I blink. "Weird. Was there supposed to be a meteor shower today?" I don't remember seeing anything about it online, and I'm chronically online, so that's saying something.

More lights flash past, bright and eerily beautiful. For a moment, I let myself imagine that some cosmic being is actually listening to me. That there's some deity up there taking notes, acting like a divine waiter, preparing to grant my wishes like I'm the protagonist of some wish-fulfillment fantasy novel.

Well, might as well go all in. If I'm going to embarrass myself in front of the universe, I should at least be thorough about it.

"I wish I could be as attractive as Luke," I say, feeling ridiculous but committing anyway. "You know what? I'm not capped at three wishes like with a genie, right? Then I might as well ask for more: I want to be rich. I wish that I was tall and handsome. But, I want to keep my intelligence. No, scratch that, I want to be even smarter. And I want a massive cock. And I want Selene to fall in love with me."

I pause, considering. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Actually, why stop there? I want to be able to get any girl I want."

One of the lights suddenly breaks formation, dropping out of the sky.

Directly towards me.

"Oh, fuck. Did I make whoever's listening angry? Was there a wish limit? Did I break some kind of cosmic terms of service?"

The light gets bigger, brighter, faster. I react instantly, starting to run away from the impact zone. Once again, I don't manage much more than a fast walk… Curse these weak-ass legs! But it doesn't seem to matter, my eyes widen as I watch this cosmic middle finger do an abrupt turn while continuing to hurtle towards me.

…

Well, I guess this is it. This is how I die. Killed by a meteor because I asked for too much from the universe.

The light slams into my back while I’m moving.

I brace for impact, for pain, for obliteration, for whatever happens when you get hit by a space rock traveling at terminal velocity.

Instead, I feel... warmth?

It spreads through my body like I've just stepped into a hot bath after being out in the cold. It’s comforting, almost pleasant. Not at all what I expected from what I assumed was my imminent demise. My legs give out, and I crumple to the ground, that warmth spreading from my chest to every corner of my body. My consciousness begins to fade, everything getting fuzzy around the edges, when suddenly...

Everything goes dark.

My last conscious thought is: Well, at least death by meteor is a pretty badass way to go out.