somerealnerd

  Three months ago, John walked alone across a bridge in the dead of night. He settled onto the edge of the railing, staring down at the river flowing beneath him, its dark water glinting faintly. His short-sleeved T-shirt hung in tatters, shredded down to the colr, barely clinging to his shoulders and exposing his bulky, sagging frame. Across his skin, insults were scrawled in thick marker: “Fat Fuck,” “Man Tits,” and a slew of uglier slurs. The worst gred from his back—“Impotent Pig,” bolded, circled, with an excmation point jabbed after it. Bruises mottled his face, fresh and tender from a recent beating. He let out a long, weary sigh, convinced there was no point in keeping this life going.

  He’d had a good run until he was ten—happy, even. His mom had vanished when he was too young to understand why, but his dad had been a rock, always there for him. Then, at ten, his dad died, and he was left with a stepmother and her daughter, his stepsister. They weren’t outright mean—just indifferent, treating him like he was part of the wallpaper. School was decent enough back then, manageable. But everything changed at fifteen.

  Here, every boy gets their Y-chromosome tested at fifteen, a cold little ritual to check fertility. John’s verdict came back brutal: completely sterile, no chance at all. His stepmom and stepsister shrugged it off, too busy with their own lives to give a damn. The real hell started in high school. His doughy body and that diagnosis painted a target on him. For four years, he was their punching bag, mocked and shoved around, enduring it all just to stumble into his academy life. He thought he’d escaped, thought he could finally start over—until he ran straight into them, the couple who haunted his nightmares.

  The guy’s voice from earlier that day still echoed in his skull: “I own you, you fucking little pig.”

  He couldn’t keep dredging it up; it hurt too much. To make it stop, he climbed over the railing and jumped.

  That was the original John’s life, and it’s the memory and weight the current John carried.

  “Poor kid. Had real tough life,” John mumbled, drifting between a foggy daze and stark crity. The memories shook him deep, a raw ache of sorry for everything the original John had been through.

  “Rest in peace, kid. I’ll make it right for you, live on with your name. Just watch from up there, okay?”

  Just then, a voice broke through the haze at his ear—a young, melodic female tone, bright and clear like a bell cutting through fog.

  “Head Nurse, John Doe’s coming around. He’s pulling through.” Then came the quick tap-tap-tap of footsteps hurrying away.

  John snapped out of the original owner’s memories, a wave of absurdity washing over him. This is supposed to be my fucking reward world, right? he thought. So why the hell did they dump me in such a shitty backstory?

  And John Doe? Seriously? What the fuck? Was that some cosmic joke, a neon sign to the world screaming he was a nobody?

  He cracked his eyes open and sat up slowly, feeling the heft of his body drag at him. A flicker of worry hit—he ran his hands over himself, checking his thing especially, then let out a long breath. Good. Still his own body, just fatter.

  The door swung open, and two nurses stepped in. The first was young, pink-haired—the voice from before—with a body that hit all the right notes: pert C-cup chest pushing against her uniform, hips curved enough to turn heads, legs long and lean. The other, brown-haired and older, was clearly the head nurse, a goddamn knockout—her jugs spilling over her top, heavy and proud, and a wide, juicy ass swaying with every step, barely contained by her tight skirt. What really got John going, though, were their legs—sleek, endless, wrapped in white pantyhose that caught the light like silk, and those nurse shoes showing off heels so perfectly arched they could’ve been sculpted.

  “Yes! This is my reward world!” he crowed silently, feeling himself stiffen without even trying.

  The nurses didn’t miss it. Their eyes locked onto the bulge, sizing it up with clinical stares. John’s pulse kicked up. Just got here and already scoring a pantyhose-legs nurse threesome? This is too fucking good. But their next words yanked the rug out from under him.

  The young one started, “His medical records say—”

  “I know,” the head nurse cut in. “He’s a ‘happy log.’”

  “Happy log” was this world’s snarky nickname for men with total impotence. Low testosterone, low drive—easy to please, always chipper. The “log” part? It’s there, it’s fine, it’s irrelevant.

  Their gnces and chatter doused his buzz like cold water. His excitement fizzled out, and the nurses, figuring they’d misread the situation, shrugged it off, shifting to discuss his condition instead. After a bit, the head nurse turned to the younger one. “He’s your patient now,” she said, then strode out.

  John wasn’t thrilled. This didn’t feel like a reward—it felt like punishment. Unwilling to let it go, he needed to know if this was really his prize. The head nurse was gone, and damn, just her mature, MILF-ish vibe had his heart racing. But the young one? She’s cute too. So, sneaky as hell, he slid a hand behind her and gave her backside a quick pinch.

  Their eyes met. A shrill scream pierced the air, followed by a sp on his face. Then came John’s voice, scrambling, “Sorry, sorry! My hand slipped, I swear!”

  Bullshit, obviously, but in this world, as a “happy log,” it wasn’t entirely impusible. The young nurse just pointed at him, voice tight. “Watch it next time.”

  John’s mood soured hard. This wasn’t his fucking reward world—not by a long shot.

  Then a voice rang in his head:

  [This is a reward world, not a freeuse world, you fucking dumbass!]

  Well, well, well, wasn’t this just the grand, steaming pile of a system that high-and-mighty goddess had promised?

  Yep, his original skill set—gone, ripped out, repced with some new setup billed as basically useless. John didn’t know the half of it yet, how truly worthless it was. But judging by the way it swore up a storm, it at least sounded like it had a few brain cells to rub together.

  “So, what the hell can you do, System Sir?” John cut straight to the chase with the million-dolr question.

  [What do you want me to do? What the fuck do you think I can do? You think I’m here to wipe your fucking ass and sing you lulbies while tugging you to bed like some goddamn nursemaid? Grow the fuck up!]

  The system’s voice spat pure venom.

  John wasn’t one to back down, though. A hundred years in that magic world had sharpened his tongue to a fine edge. “Oh, I see—a babysitter with a potty mouth. Should I get you a pacifier to match, or do you just suck at everything naturally?”

  Hey, these two foul mouths were damn near a perfect match.

  The bickering dragged on for a solid half-hour, only fizzling out when both ran dry on fresh insults. John circled back, exasperated. “Alright, cut the bullshit. What can you actually do?”

  [I can talk like a human.]

  “And then what?”

  [That’s it.]

  “Oh, go fuck yourself, you worthless piece of shit.” John felt the high-and-mighty goddess had screwed him over again.

  The system let out a loud ha-ha-ha, a grating cackle that rattled his skull, then spilled the real deal: it wasn’t just some chattering junk heap—it was a smug, overstuffed vault of this world’s wildest know-how. Maps of cities he’d never seen, recipes for food he couldn’t pronounce, spells to summon sultry succubi with a snap, moves to snap bones with a flick, blueprints for guns that spat glowing rounds—all packed in there, ready to roll. Catch was, he’d have to crack it open and figure it all out himself—no hand-holding, no easy rides.

  Okay, not that bad. Way less useless than it sounded.

  Still—in my fucking reward world, you hand me a smug study-buddy? Screw that goddess sideways.

  The doctor ordered John to chill at home for three months before dragging himself back to the academy. Stepping inside, he got it—this pce was a damn icebox with wallpaper. His stepmother, Catherine, was a total wet dream—huge rack busting out of her clothes, hips and ass so thick it jiggled like a tease every damn day. His stepsister Chloe wasn’t far behind—breasts stacked high, legs and curves begging for a look. But both treated him like dirt. No “How you holding up?”—just icy gres or a quick sneer if he was lucky. John smirked to himself, John’s dad hit the jackpot with that stunner and her sexy kid, but I’m nothing to them. He caught his chubby ass in the mirror—fb everywhere—and muttered, Gotta fix this, man. Still, this was his reward world. Cold or not, they’d be his eventually—he wasn’t passing up that kind of heat.

  He had bigger pns. These three months were about getting his game on—for women, for screwing around, for owning this life. Old John left some cash tucked away, enough for his needs. He jumped into the system’s fight tricks—sweat pouring, running till he hacked, fists banging wood till it splintered. The gut shrank, muscles tightened up. He wasn’t here to lug old John’s baggage—he’d be his John, lean, sharp and ready to roll. Mirror showed a different face; he grinned, Now we’re talkin’.

  Miko—Mrs. Hudson—was the one he couldn’t shake. The widow next door was a goddamn bze—curves that could stop a man dead, those timid eyes tugging at him like a leash. She barely kept it together, her and her 20-year-old daughter crammed in a worn-out apartment—paint peeling off the walls, floorboards creaking under every step. Too many jobs wore her down, dark smudges bruising the skin beneath her gaze. Still, when John’s gut rumbled, she’d look over with that soft, “Made too much—you hungry?” First time he saw her move, hips rolling as she set the table, his brain lit up: Gotta have her, now.

  He started swinging by—patching leaky pipes, lugging sacks of rice up her rickety stairs—letting his hand graze her hip “by chance,” grinning sharp when her face fred red.

  Weeks dragged on, and Miko’s face started working its way under John’s skin. Those eyes—worn out from too many sleepless nights, yet so damn gentle and beautiful—caught him off guard every time. It was like she could peer straight into his messed-up soul, peeling back the yers he didn’t even know he had. He was starting to like her, not just for the obvious reasons—though, hell, she had plenty of those—but for that quiet strength she carried, that soft warmth she offered him without even trying. The way she’d looked out for him, even back when he was just a doughy nobody, stuck with him.

  The cash he’d got gave him some swagger. He tagged along with Miko to her gig at a dingy corner diner, his gaze lingering on her every move as they shuffled ptes. She’d mutter about her daughter’s tuition, stress creasing her brow, and he’d slip her a wad of bills, pying it cool: “Borrowed—pay me back whenever.” Truth was, he didn’t give a damn about seeing that money again. It was a cheap price for the way her eyes flicked to his, for that hushed “thanks” that hit him somewhere deep. She was a good woman—better than most—and the fact that she’d been kind to him, fat John and all, made her worth it. After closing, they’d slump against the counter, sipping bitter, cold coffee. He’d lean in close, catching the faint tang of her sweat—a mix of hard work and something primal that set his blood racing. It always left him restless, hungry, aching in ways he didn’t need to spell out.

  But just as he was gearing up to take things further with Miko, Rick barged into the picture. The diner’s boss had been drooling over her for months, pawing at her whenever he got the chance—moves she’d always slipped out of like a ghost. Lately, though, he’d clocked how tight she was getting with John, and it lit a fire under his greasy ass. Rick was a walking sb of meat—face pocked and sagging, belly spilling over his belt—and after closing one night, he zeroed in on Miko while she tidied up in the kitchen. He pinned her against the wall, his voice a guttural rasp: “Been saving up a whole month just to fuck you good today.” His hand snaked toward her waist, thick fingers groping. Miko recoiled, panic fshing in her eyes, but she didn’t scream. She couldn’t—not when this job was a lifeline, not when she’d die before letting John see her like this, humiliated and small.

  John had been around long enough to smell Rick’s bullshit from a mile away. He’d been itching to bury the guy, just waiting for the right moment. When Miko didn’t show up for their usual coffee, dread kicked him in the gut. He didn’t think twice—charged straight for the kitchen.

  He saw red. Miko was his woman, and his only—and Rick was a dead man walking.

  The bastard didn’t even flinch when John stormed in, just sneered and lunged a meaty hand toward Miko’s chest, taunting, “What, you little shit? Wanna watch me work?”

  John’s head roared with fury, but he choked it down—Miko came first. He closed the gap in a heartbeat, a tight, vicious jab smming into Rick’s jaw, courtesy of the system’s lessons. Rick’s legs buckled, and he hit the floor hard, a stunned heap. Jaw’s the py—keeps him grounded.

  He eased Miko over, voice soft but edged: “You alright?” She nodded her head, a flicker of hurt in her eyes. “Never again,” he vowed, meaning every word.

  She steadied herself, then her voice trembled: “But John, our jobs…” That paycheck still meant too much for her.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll sort Rick out when he’s up. Go rest—it’s te.” Sort him out? Jobs are the st thing on my mind.

  He got her out of there fast, then locked the kitchen door behind him. Rick was still sprawled, legs twitching uselessly. John couldn’t stand the sight of him wallowing—so he hauled him up, “helpfully” dumping him onto the big prep counter. He grabbed a rope, tying Rick down with slow, deliberate knots, savoring the control.

  Rick ever thrashed? Course, but a few more sharp punches drained that noise quick.

  Finished, John ran a hand over his face, stubble rasping under his fingers. No rush—the night was his. He could’ve doused Rick with cold water to snap him awake, but where’s the fun in that? He’d simply wait.

  Soon enough, Rick stirred, voice shaky: “What you doing?” Fear seeped in, but he clung to his title: “I’m your boss, you punk. Let me go!”

  John didn’t say anything. He lifted Rick’s right hand and snapped the pinky like a twig—clean, brutal. Rick howled. John scratched his head, silent, then grabbed the ring finger, throwing him a twisted little smirk.

  “Stop! Stop—” Another crack, and Rick’s face was a mess of tears and snot. John flicked his own nose, and then took the middle finger, grinning like it was a game.

  “Please, stop—it’s killing me! I’ll fix it—Miko’s job, yours, all safe!” Rick was crumbling.

  John held the finger, saying nothing, just staring with that same eerie smile. That hand had touched Miko—he wanted it ruined. But the pause, letting Rick stew in terror, wondering when the next break would hit, was pure gold.

  Rick needs to fear—fear me. He needs to understand his pce.

  Crack—middle finger done. Well, all fingers needed to be snapped today. The question was how this would break Rick mentally.

  Half an hour of this, down to the st pinky on the left, and John’s rage finally started to cool. Time for a word.

  “Why’d you say I should watch? That’s some tired, sleazy-ass line.” He tugged his ear. “You into some weird shit or what?”

  Rick gasped, broken: “Please, I’m done—I swear.”

  John shrugged. “Need assurance though. That ‘watch’ bit you said actually gave me a thought.”

  What was it? It involved his phone, then a rolling pin slick lubricated with grease. Nothing more.

  John certainly hated the sight of it, but Rick would hate it even more. With this, John had Rick right where he wanted him, squirming in the palm of his hand.

  One’s insurance, an offer Rick couldn't refuse, sort of.

  Not long after, John and Miko had their first day-and-night wildfire, because after that night “talking” to Rick, word got around—Rick knew, Miko knew, the whole damn street figured it out: Miko was John’s woman, and his alone.