Eve of Academia – Baggy Clothes, Stalking Snacks, and Too Much Lube

Chapter 13

MORNING

Riven woke up soaked. Again.

Journal Log: Day 30 – "I Am Now 72% Lube"

"My bedsheets look like someone used them for a bakery glaze demo. I smell like peaches, taste like sugar (according to memory #47), and honestly? I think my glands are trying to get me arrested."

She threw on:

Oversized black hoodie (men's XXL)

Wide-leg cargo pants (made for Alphas twice her width)

Sunglasses bigger than her sins

Bucket hat labeled "I AM INVISIBLE"

Bandage-style compression wrap (that did nothing, because hips don't lie)

Emergency backup trench coat (for dramatic omega flapping on windy days)

Everything baggy. Everything shadow mode.

And yet? The clerk still stared.

"Do you have legs under there?"

"I am a concept, not a person."

"...You're hot, though."

"Tragic."

THE SHOPPING SPREE OF PREPARATION

One tablet? Too fragile.

Two tablets? Rookie numbers.

Three waterproof, emotion-sensitive, manga-grade drawing tablets—now we're talking.

Then:

One collapsible stalking mat ("observation cushion," she corrected).

Five months' worth of snacks, heat suppressants, and pheromone blockers.

A custom embroidered journal labeled: "Smut: Emotional Trauma in Panels."

A new ink pen… that burst when she wrote "penetration" for the 39th time.

"I didn't even press that hard," she muttered, covered in glitter ink.

"Maybe I need a butt plug…"

Mental note #672: "Visit the doctor. Not for arousal. For safety."

LUNCHTIME: EMOTIONAL MELTDOWN IN A CAFÉ

She perched herself in her favorite beta-run café—far corner, headphones in, snacks unwrapped, stalking notebook on her lap.

From afar, she began cataloging college-bound Alphas, Betas, and "possible reverse harems" with a careful, practiced eye.

"He's tall, mad, and smells like cinnamon trauma. That's one."

"That Beta just helped a dog cross the street. Innocent dom type—pair him with a quiet, rage-filled Alpha and I've got my new OTP."

munches chip furiously

JOURNAL ENTRY: Hand-Written Sin

She wrote. Furiously.

Tearfully.

Hornily.

Words like "grind, thrust, suck, betrayal, peach" smeared across the page in passion-ink.

The journal cover started curling in shame.

Even Lustra, her pervy AI, blipped in with:

"Please slow down. Your wrist is at risk. Also… I'm overheating."

NIGHT: TOO MUCH PEACH

Another round of self-lubrication soaked through her sleep shorts. The scent was stronger.

She sniffed herself. Mistake.

"I smell like a candy store and a sinner's dream. Maybe I do need a plug. For safety. For hygiene. For science."

Then she dreamed of future OTPs on campus. She was ready.

Tomorrow… the games begin.