My name's Rex Thrustmore, I'm nineteen years old, and I'm an orphan.
My parents died in a car accident two years ago. No siblings, no extended family that gave a shit. Just me and whatever I could scrape together.
Welcome to my life.
I grew up in a small town—the kind of place where nothing interesting ever happened.
Well, one day something interesting did happen, and my small, boring town was nearly destroyed... literally, cause a supervillain decided to test his new weapon.
No heroes arrived, and after some time, the super decided to leave since he had tested his weapon... resulting in quite dozens of casualties, but I survived.
Then I turned eighteen, and I decided I'd had enough of living while thinking about when the next similar incident might happen.
Took what little money my parents left behind and moved to New York City.
Queens, specifically.
Yeah, I know what you're thinking. New York?
In a world where aliens invade every other month, and supervillains mess around for fun? Moving into the middle of a city that was the hub of it all, that's the best move I could make?
But here's the thing—Queens is actually one of the safer places to be.
Spider-Man swings through here almost daily. The Avengers are right across the river in Manhattan. Fantastic Four up in Midtown. There are others in yellow suits who appear sometimes, don't know their band... I mean organisation name.
The point is, if something goes wrong, someone in spandex usually shows up to fix it.
Alien invasion? Stay inside, let the heroes handle it.
Robot attack? Take shelter, wait for Iron Man.
Some psycho with a freeze ray? Spider-Man's got it covered.
That's just how life works now. You get used to it.
It's been like this for years. The world adapted. People adapted. You see enough crazy shit on the news, and eventually it just becomes background noise.
So yeah, I moved to Queens six months ago, found a cheap studio apartment, and picked up two part-time jobs to pay for it. Café during the day, bar at night. Between the two, I make just enough to cover rent and food.
It's not a great life, but it's mine.
And I make it work.
The other part of my life? The part that makes it actually worth living?
Women.
I'm 6'2", have raven-black hair, blue eyes, and I work out enough to stay in decent shape.
Bars, clubs, gyms, coffee shops—it doesn't matter. I strike up a conversation, see where it goes, and more often than not, it goes somewhere fun.
Casual hookups. No strings attached. No drama. Just a good time, maybe breakfast if we're both feeling it, then we go our separate ways.
Simple. Exactly how I like it.
That was my routine for the first four months in New York. Work, gym, hookups, repeat.
Nothing special. Just living my life, trying to make something of myself in a city that chews people up and spits them out.
Then, two months ago, everything changed.
I was at the New York Public Library in Manhattan—the big one with the stone lions out front. I wasn't there to study or anything. Just killing time between my café shift and my bar shift, sitting in one of the reading rooms, scrolling through my phone.
That's when I noticed her.
Blonde. Mid-twenties. Dressed like a librarian—cardigan, glasses, hair in a bun—but the body underneath that conservative outfit was anything but.
She caught me staring. Smiled.
I smiled back.
One thing led to another, and thirty minutes later, we were in a changing room of a clothing shop. She was on her knees, and I was leaning back against the door, trying not to make too much noise.
Still, the sound of her gagging on my cock was probably audible outside.
And that's when it happened.
DING!
The sound came from inside my head.
Not my phone.
Not outside.
Inside my skull.
I froze.
She didn't notice the change in my facial expressions, too focused on working with my cock... they were bonding greatly.
But what the hell was that ding sound?
I tried to ignore it, focus on the moment, but then it buzzed again.
Then a bluish screen appeared in front of my face when she took my shot in her throat.
I did not say anything at that time so as not to freak her out... I was gonna take a lot more shots at, on, and in her in the near future, so there was no ruining it.
When we finished, I said goodbye, walked out, and spent the next hour sitting on a bench trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
Was I going crazy? Or had I awakened some mutant powers? Those were the only things that were going through my head.
Over the next few days, I tested it. Every time I hooked up with someone—every single time—I felt it again. That chime. Granting me points for my erogenous activities.
And with it came... something else.
Skills, I guess.
When I accumulated enough points, I could get skills from the system.
There were levels to this shi... these skills, and the one presently available for me was the lowest of them all, Human Tier.
It took 5 points to roll down the Human Tier lottery. The skills were not something that gave me powers, unlike what I had hoped to get... though I will probably get those powers too soon enough once I unlock the other Tiers.
The skills I currently have are little things.
My current stack includes,
Internal Clock – Always know the time to the second
Name Recall – Never forget a name you've heard once
Face Memory – Instantly recognize people you've seen before
Surface Thoughts – Slightly better at guessing moods
Micro-Reader – Reads very fast, but only simple text
Lip Reading – Understand speech by watching lips
Heartbeat Hearing – Can hear heartbeats up close
Lie Spotter – Sometimes notices obvious lies
Perfect Pour – Never spill drinks
Quick Hands – Faster at simple repetitive actions
Internal Compass – You always know which way is north.
They did not grant me any powers; they were more of life skills.
But they were enough to help me with my day-to-day life.
I tried to look it up online, and all I could find were fanfictions about people transmigrating into the bodies of heroes from the DC universe, and some of them transmigrated with systems, more like mine, but not this naughty.
Yeah, as if that could happen. DC was a comic series, and one world with heroes and villains was enough for existence.
I didn't understand why I got this system.
Still don't, really.
But in a world like mine, I figured this was just my turn. Maybe I was a late-blooming mutant.
Didn't matter.
I wasn't stupid, either.
This world chewed people up and spat them out.
I've seen enough news reports of "normal" people getting caught in crossfire to know that being powerless here is a death sentence.
Hell, I have seen it in person back in my hometown. My dog of ten years died in that villain's weapon testing, too.
If the system wanted to give me an edge—wanted to turn sex into a superpower—fine.
I'd take it.
And all I had to do was keep doing what I loved and was already doing.
I wasn't overthinking it. I wasn't some chosen hero with a destiny.
I was just a guy trying to survive, and if getting laid kept me alive, then hell, I'd already been doing that anyway.
Win-win.
....
That brings me to today.
Tuesday morning. 7:45 AM. I'm standing behind the counter at the café, staring at the espresso machine like it personally insulted me.
It's making a grinding noise. A loud, mechanical grinding noise that it definitely shouldn't be making.
"Yo, Rex. You gonna fix that or just glare at it?"
I glance over at Danny. He's leaning against the counter, phone in hand, scrolling through whatever crypto forum he's obsessed with this week.
"I'm not a mechanic," I say flatly. "If it breaks, we call someone."
I knew how to fix it, but the owner was a bit too bitchy, so I'd rather not.
"Mrs. Karen's gonna be pissed," Danny said.
"Mrs. Karen's always pissed," I replied.
Danny snorts. "Fair."
Mrs. Karen owns the place but only shows up once a week to collect money and complain. The rest of the time, it's just the four of us running the café: me, Danny, Marco, and... her.
Marco's the quiet one. Early thirties, divorced, works here because alimony payments are brutal. He's a decent guy, though. Keeps to himself, does his job.
Always muttering about needing a cigarette.
I turn back to the espresso machine and give it a solid smack on the side, if it works fine, else its time Mrs. Karen spent some money on this place.
It sputters. Coughs. Then roars back to life.
"Percussive maintenance," I mutter.
"Percussive what?" Danny asks.
"Hitting shit until it works."
"Ah. Yeah, that tracks."
I pull a shot of espresso for the next customer—some guy in a suit, too busy staring at his phone to acknowledge my existence. I slide the cup across the counter.
No tip.
Asshole... though, I wouldn't give myself a tip either, only hot chicks deserved that.
The next hour drags by. Orders, drinks, small talk, and cleaning. Mindless work. My shift ends at 2 PM, then I've got a few hours before the bar shift starts at 7.
Same routine every day.
Around 10 AM, the door chimes.
Red hair. Bright green eyes. A smile that could sell you anything.
Mary Jane Watson.
She started working here about three weeks ago.
Part-time working here, studying theater, acting, or something.
She's loud, flirty, and well... hot as hell.
And yeah, we had a thing going on.
Casual. No strings. Just fun whenever we both felt like it.
"Morning, Rex!" she says brightly, tossing her bag behind the counter.
"Morning, MJ," I reply.
"Ugh, I keep telling you not to call me that. Makes me sound like a rapper."
"You should be a rapper. You'd make more money."
"I'm an actress, thank you." She sticks her tongue out at me.
"Sure. Keep telling yourself that."
She laughs and turns to greet a customer.
The café settles into its rhythm. MJ handles the register, I make drinks, Danny restocks supplies, and Marco takes another smoke break.
By noon, the lunch rush hits. Sandwiches, salads, coffee. It's busy enough to keep us moving, but nothing crazy.
Around 1 PM, things slow down.
I'm leaning against the counter, scrolling through my phone—some article about the Avengers stopping a Hydra cell in Europe—when MJ sidles up next to me.
"Hey," she says, nudging my shoulder.
I glance over. "Yeah?"
"You busy after your shift?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Need help moving some stuff in the back. Storage room's a disaster, and Mrs. Karen's been on my ass about it."
I glance toward the back. The storage room's cramped as hell. Barely big enough for one person, let alone two.
"My shift ends at two," I say. "And I'm not sticking around for unpaid labor in this bare minimum job."
She leans in closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. Her green eyes meet mine, and there's that playful look I know too well.
"We'll be all alone back there..." She pauses. "And I'm wearing the red lace one you told me to get."
I smirk.
She's horny, huh? Well, good. I was getting pent up, too.
"Say no more, I'm in," I say.
She grins—bright and satisfied—and bounces away to attend to another customer.
I watch her go, still smirking.
I was getting paid, just in another way. And, with a redhead, I liked it more than the money.
....
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