Tuesday 2.0H-FUCK

The alarm blared at 6:45 a.m., same as before, yanking RS from sleep with its shrill whine. He groaned, flailing an arm to smack it off, the silence instant as it died. Rubbing his eyes, groggy as hell, he stumbled out of bed—no sharp thoughts, just early-morning fog clogging his skull. His boxers twisted from sleep, he shuffled to the bathroom, routine kicking in—shit, shower, brush teeth—like clockwork. Steam fogged the mirror as he scrubbed, then wiped it clear, staring at his reflection.

There he was—himself. Pimply face, a little red and blotchy, no chiseled jaw, just normal, soft-edged Roger. His body—5’9”, a touch of chub, no toned abs or flexed biceps, just the familiar, scrawny-ish kid he’d always been. “I’m me! HA!” he barked, a laugh bursting out, relief flooding as he slapped the sink, grinning at the mirror. The redo wish—start over, no last wish—had worked, wiping the glow-up glitch and its horny chaos clean.

He rushed back to his room, towel flapping, and threw open his closet. There they were—his nerd clothes, stacked and glorious. Faded Flash tees, X-Men hoodies, Dragon Ball Z shirts, all back where they belonged. “I missed you,” he said, half-laughing, grabbing a pile and hugging them tight, the cotton soft against his pimply cheeks. Pure, dumb joy hit—he was back. He picked medium blue shorts and an orange Dragon Ball Z shirt—Goku mid-punch, classic—and yanked them on, the fit loose and right.

Grabbing his bag, he bolted downstairs, skipping breakfast—Vanessa’s “Move it, dork” ignored—and hit the bus stop, sneakers slapping pavement. The morning air nipped, the redo settling in, school ahead, no wish-fueled madness waiting. Just RS, nerdy and free.

RS hopped off the bus, the familiar groan of Boulder High’s doors greeting him as he shuffled through the crowd, his orange Dragon Ball Z shirt bright against the gray morning. He hit “the corner”—their pre-bell hangout spot—where Jamie, Priya, and Tim were already posted up, bags slung, faces lit with something weird. No teasing about his clothes, no mobster jabs—just a vibe, electric and off. They barely said hi before Jamie blurted, “Dude, I had the wildest dream last night—crazy shit.”

Priya cut in, eyes wide, “Wait, hold up—me too. Nikki Lorenso was all over RS, like, kissing him in the hall.” Tim nodded, sketchbook out, “Yeah, and Allison—those hips—and Melissa boob-hugged him in Pre-Calc. RS was, like, mobster-preppy, sharp face, jacked.” Jamie jumped back, “No way—same dream! The bus stop—three of ‘em pinning him, ‘Who do you want more?’ Then he said, ‘Share me,’ and they kissed him!” Priya’s jaw dropped, “No fucking way, did we all have the same dream?” Her voice cracked, half-laughing, half-freaked, as they nailed every detail—Nikki’s vanilla, Allison’s cucumber melon, Melissa’s cotton candy, the hugs, the kisses—100% right.

RS stood there, face heating up, a slight red creeping over his pimples as they recounted yesterday—his wish-day—beat for beat, like it was some shared fever dream. Their eyes swung to him, Priya pointing, “What about you, RS—did you have that dream?” Jamie grinned, “Yeah, dude, you were the star—spill it!” Tim leaned in, “C’mon, man, you can’t dodge this.”

His gut twisted—he knew the truth. It wasn’t a dream; he’d lived it, wished it, unwished it. Clueless or shared experience? Lie and play dumb, or nod and roll with it? His heart thudded, the redo’s ripples screwing with him—did the wish bleed into their heads, or was this some cosmic glitch? He froze, unsure what the hell this called for, their stares pinning him like the trio had.

RS shifted on his feet, the Nerd Herd’s stares boring into him, Priya’s “Did you have that dream?” hanging heavy. His face was still red, the truth—it wasn’t a dream, I wished it—burning in his chest, but spilling that felt like a trap. Playing along was safer, so he took a breath, nodding slow. “Yeah, uh, I had it too,” he said, voice rough, scratching his neck under the Dragon Ball Z shirt. “Wild as hell—but it didn’t end happy.”

Jamie’s eyes lit up, leaning in, “No way—c’mon, dude, what happened?” Priya smirked, “Spill, RS—don’t leave us hanging after that.” Tim grinned, pencil twitching, “Yeah, gimme the twist—comic needs an arc.” They egged him on, relentless, and RS sighed, diving in, half-truths his shield.

“Alright, so—after the bus stop, the trio kissing me and splitting? I’m home, chilling, then it gets… fucked,” he said, voice dropping, dry heaving a little mid-sentence for effect. “I’m, uh, watching porn—chubby chick, huge tits, getting railed—and I’m trying to… y’know, get off. But nothing. Limp as hell. Then the camera shifts to this—this cock, long and white, and bam, I’m hard. Jerking to that, not her. I’m freaking—‘No, what, fuck, why?’—and then I cum, like, buckets, strongest ever, staring at it. Dry heaving the whole time, puking in my throat, totally gay vibes. Hated it.”

He gagged again, playing it up, face twisted, and they burst out laughing—Jamie clutching his stomach, Priya cackling, Tim snorting into his sketchbook. “Bro, that’s hysterical—you went full panic mode!” Jamie wheezed. Priya slapped his shoulder, “Fucking gross, RS, but iconic—dream you’s a mess.” Tim grinned, “That’s the closer—hero’s fall, top-tier twist. Good thing it’s just a dream, dude.” They laughed but rallied, supportive, no judgment, just glee at the absurdity.

RS **** a chuckle, relief hitting—they bought it, no wish exposed. “Yeah, thank fuck it’s not real,” he said, leaning into the corner’s wall, the truth still his alone, their shared “dream” a glitch he’d dodged.

The Nerd Herd was still cracking up, wiping tears from their dream-talk, when footsteps clicked closer. Nikki Lorenso strolled up to “the corner,” and Jamie, Priya, and Tim’s eyes popped wide, jaws dropping like they’d seen a ghost. She was decked out exactly like in the “dream”—hoodie straining over her massive tits, leggings hugging her chunky thighs, brunette hair spilling loose, milky skin catching the light. Same as yesterday—the wish day RS rewound. They froze, gaping, as she tapped RS on the shoulder.

He turned, clueless to their shock, wondering why they’d gone silent—then saw her. Nikki, 4’11” of curvy chaos, just like before, vanilla scent wafting as she stood there, teasing grin on her lips. His dick twitched to life, a hard jolt in his blue shorts, no glitch this time—normal RS, normal reaction. “Hey, um, RS, right?” she said, voice light but shaky. “I had this… crazy dream about you last night. Like, really weird. And I heard you guys talking about a dream—three kids, am I right?” She giggled, teasing, but RS’s eyes went wide, heart slamming. Her face flushed red, realization hitting. “OMG, we all had the same dream, didn’t we?” she squeaked, embarrassment crashing in, and bolted—thick thighs jiggling as she ran off down the hall.

The crew snapped out of it, Priya ****, “No fucking way—that’s her, exact outfit!” Jamie stammered, “Dude, Nikki—she was in it—how’s she here like that?” Tim clutched his sketchbook, “This is beyond—same dream, same clothes, what the hell?” RS stood there, red creeping up his pimply face, dick still stirring, the redo wish’s glitch bleeding through—yesterday’s reality seeping into their heads, Nikki Included. “Uh… yeah, freaky,” he mumbled, playing dumb, mind racing as the truth twisted tighter.

The warning bell screeched, jolting the Nerd Herd from their Nikki-induced stupor at “the corner.” “Shit, class,” Priya muttered, snagging her bag as Jamie and Tim scrambled, still half-dazed. “Later, RS—figure this dream crap out,” Jamie tossed over his shoulder, bolting for English. Tim nodded, “Comic’s getting weird—catch you,” and peeled off to Art. Priya smirked, “Don’t die, weirdo,” heading to Calc. RS grabbed his stuff, Dragon Ball Z shirt flapping, and hustled to History, Nikki’s blush and that twitch in his shorts still rattling him.

He slid into his seat near the back, the room filling fast—Mr. Callahan already at the board, chalking up Revolutionary War dates. Things felt eerily similar to yesterday’s redo-wiped day, but off-kilter, like a warped rerun. Kids shuffled in, chatter buzzing, and then Nikki slipped through the door—last one, blushing hard, her hoodie and leggings a carbon copy of the “dream.” The only seat left was next to RS. She hesitated, hazel eyes flicking to him, then plopped down, thighs squishing into the chair, vanilla scent wafting as she fumbled with her bag. Her face stayed red, a flush creeping down her neck, avoiding his gaze.

Class kicked off—Callahan droning, worksheets passed—but Nikki’s presence was a quiet hum. No flirty chatter, no leg grabs, just her blushing, stealing shy glances, clearly thrown by the “dream” she’d spilled. RS kept his head down, pencil scratching, dick calm now but his mind spinning—same seat, same girl, different vibe. The wish was gone, but its echo lingered, twisting the day into a half-familiar mess.

History droned on, Mr. Callahan’s voice a dull hum about Lexington and Concord, but RS barely heard it—Nikki’s fidgeting next to him was louder. She shifted in her seat, thighs brushing the desk, then finally spoke, voice hesitant, stammering through the blush still painting her face. “So you um, know all about my um, well, me?” she managed, hazel eyes darting to him, then away, her vanilla scent sharp in the cramped space.

RS nodded, keeping it casual, pencil tapping his worksheet. “Yeah, three kids, the male-female mix, hair stylist,” he said, rattling off the “dream” version she’d spilled yesterday—before the redo wiped it. She cut him off fast, hand shooting up, “Wait—look, that… well, that isn’t really me.” Her voice dropped, rawer, a little pissed, shedding the girly veneer. “Truth is, I want as many kids as I can have—when I’m older, like, way later. But for a job? I want something fun, not some stupid fucking hair stylist shit.”

She leaned closer, words tumbling now, unfiltered. “I’d rather, like, run a bar or something—loud music, late nights, real vibes—not snipping bangs for soccer moms.” Her blush faded, replaced by a spark, her chunky frame shifting with a shrug. RS blinked, caught off-guard by this Nikki—less polished, more real, no wish-fueled obsession, just a girl spitting truth. “Huh,” he said, half-smirking, “that’s… way cooler than hair.” The redo had stripped the dream’s gloss, leaving a rawer, natural Nikki, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it yet.

RS leaned back in his chair, the worksheet forgotten, Mr. Callahan’s drone fading as Nikki’s raw vibe hooked him. Confidence surged—unexpected, sharp—and he shot her a grin, voice steady. “You ever think about what this bar’s name would be? Something calm and collected, or something funny, like a play on words?” The words rolled out smooth, shocking even himself—where’d that come from? No wish, just him, nerdy RS, vibing off her energy.

Nikki raised one eyebrow, a smirk tugging her lips, surprise flashing in her hazel eyes. “Oh, you’re in now, huh?” she teased, then leaned in, spilling like they’d been swapping dreams forever. “Okay, so—sometimes I think something chill, like Lunar Glow, y’know, all moody and cool, neon vibes. But then I’m like, nah, go big—Booze Clues, play on ‘Blues Clues,’ ‘cause it’s goofy as hell but sticks in your head. People’d laugh, walk in, stay for the chaos.” She chuckled, her chunky frame shifting, hoodie brushing his arm as she got into it.

“Picture it—dark wood, loud punk or indie blasting, me behind the bar slinging shots, maybe some dumbass trivia night where I roast the losers. What about you, RS? You got a name in that nerd brain?” She nudged him, playful, her blush long gone, spilling beans like two old friends trading futures over a desk in History class.

RS burst out laughing, a sharp, genuine bark that cut through Mr. Callahan’s drone about minutemen. “Booze Clues—that’s too fucking brilliant,” he said, grinning wide, Nikki’s goofy genius hitting him square. But his nerd brain kicked in, memes and Star Wars swirling, and he leaned closer, eyes glinting. “Okay, top this—The Cantina Tap. Straight outta Mos Eisley, drinks so good even Han Solo’d stay, and a pun that lands harder than a TIE fighter crash.”

Nikki’s eyes popped, then she cackled—loud, unrestrained, her chunky frame shaking as she slapped the desk. “Oh my god, The Cantina Tap? I LOVE Star Wars—that’s perfect, RS, you nerdy bastard!” Her voice lit up, pure glee, and right as “perfect” hit the air, she slapped her hand over his, warm and firm, a spark of recognition locking them in. Her milky skin brushed his knuckles, and RS blushed hard—face flaming under his pimples—his dick twitching to life in his blue shorts, a quick, honest jolt.

She clocked it—his flush, the subtle shift under the desk—and didn’t say a word, just smiled, slow and knowing, her hazel eyes flicking to his then back to her worksheet. No wish, no glitch, just Nikki, raw and real, vibing with him over Star Wars bars, her hand lingering a beat before pulling back. RS swallowed, grinning despite the heat, nerdy joy and her touch buzzing in tandem.

Nikki sat there in History, her hand still warm from brushing RS’s, her heart doing a little flip as she replayed that Cantina Tap zinger in her head. The “dream” from last night—yesterday’s wish-warped chaos—still clung to her like a sticky film, vivid as hell. In it, she’d been all over him—flirty, bold, handsy as fuck, pinning him to walls, kissing him sloppy, loving every second of it. That version of her? She’d loved it—the confidence, the tease, the way she could make him squirm. Real Nikki wasn’t that smooth, not usually, but dream-Nikki? A goddamn vixen, and she’d eaten it up.

But there was a catch—she’d hated the bubbly bimbo vibe she’d oozed in that dream. The high-pitched “OMG yay!” squeals, the hair-twirling, the hair-stylist-and-three-kids spiel—it wasn’t her, not the real her. She’d felt trapped in it, a ditzy shell she’d never cop to IRL. Truth was, she was rougher—wanted a bar, chaos, kids later, not some prissy salon gig. The dream painted her fake, and it pissed her off, even if it let her flirt shamelessly with RS.

And yeah, she was horny for him—real horny, not just dream-horny. Always had been, kinda. Since sophomore year, she’d thought he was cute—those hazel eyes, the freckles, the nerdy slump in his goofy tees. Quiet, awkward RS, not some preppy jock, had a vibe she vibed with, even if she’d never said it. In the dream, though, she’d noticed something—his dick wouldn’t get hard. She’d groped him, kissed him, pressed her tits into him, and… nothing. No bulge, no twitch, limp as a noodle despite her best moves. So she’d assumed—gay. Had to be, right? Why else would he not react to her—4’11”, curvy as sin, tits that could stop traffic? Dream-Nikki turned it into a game—pushing harder, testing him, grinding on him to crack that gay shield, prove it one way or another.

Now, sitting next to him, real Nikki clocked that twitch—his blush, the shorts shifting when she’d touched his hand. Not gay, just… RS, nerdy and flustered, and her gut flipped again. She’d always kinda liked him, and this—Cantina Tap, his laugh—felt right, no bubbly bimbo bullshit, just them. She smiled to herself, blushing still, keeping that dream-test secret locked tight.

The bell rang, snapping History shut, Mr. Callahan’s voice fading as kids bolted up, chairs scraping. RS stuffed his worksheet in his bag, Nikki still next to him, her vanilla scent lingering from their Cantina Tap banter. Class had ended too fast, but before he could stand, she popped up, grinning, and threw her arms around him. “Good talk, RS,” she said, voice low, then pressed in—a full-on hug, her chunky frame grinding up against him. Her massive tits squashed his chest, hips rocking just enough to feel his cock pulse, hard and twitching in his blue shorts from her earlier touch. She pulled back, winked—slow, deliberate, hazel eyes glinting—then strutted off, leggings hugging her thighs, leaving him dazed.

RS stood there, face red, dick throbbing, the hug’s heat still buzzing as she vanished into the hall. Some guys in the class—Derek from Woodshop, a beefy jock named Kyle, a skinny kid with a buzz cut—darted daggers his way, eyes narrow, fists tight. “What the fuck’s going on?” Derek muttered, loud enough to carry, cracking his knuckles. Kyle scoffed, “Nikki hugging him? No way, dude’s a nobody.” The skinny kid frowned, “Something’s up—why her?” They hadn’t had the “dream”—not like Nikki, not like the Nerd Herd—and the raw, flirty vibe between her and RS hit them sideways, jealousy flaring with no context to lean on.

RS slung his bag over his shoulder, ignoring the glares, heart pounding from her grind and that wink. No wish, no glitch—just Nikki, real and bold, and him, nerdy RS, somehow in her orbit now.

RS shuffled out of History, Nikki’s hug and wink still buzzing in his head—and his shorts—as he headed to his next classes. Second period, English with Mrs. Harper, kicked off with Macbeth again, but the vibe was off. No girls staring with wish-fueled lust like yesterday—just eyes flicking his way, whispers buzzing behind cupped hands. A clique of juniors—Callie, the quiet one he’d once crushed on, and her chatty friend Liz—kept glancing over their books, muttering. “Did you see Nikki hug him? Like, Nikki Lorenso?” Liz hissed, loud enough to carry. Callie nodded, “First period—she was all over him. What’s his deal?”

Third period, Chemistry with Mr. Patel, was the same. No Allison, no Melissa, just Bunsen burners and molar mass—and more gossip. Mia, the blonde cheerleader he’d eyed last year, leaned over her lab table, whispering to her partner, “Heard Nikki practically humped RS in History—right in class.” Her friend snorted, “Him? The DBZ kid? No way.” Their stares weren’t flirty, just sharp, dissecting—rumors from first period spreading like wildfire, Nikki’s bold move the hot topic, not his glow-up or wish-warped charm.

The classes mirrored yesterday’s redo-wiped flow—same lessons, same seats—but the air shifted. No trio pinning him, no handsy chaos—just normal RS, pimply and nerdy, now the center of a gossip storm he hadn’t wished for. He kept his head down, scratching notes, the stares prickling his neck as Nikki’s hug fueled the chatter, not his dick.

Fourth period hit—Pre-Calc, the chaos class—and RS braced himself as he slid into his usual seat near the back, the Dragon Ball Z shirt sticking to him from nerves. Yesterday’s wish-warped insanity—Nikki, Allison, Melissa—flashed in his head, but this was the redo, no magic, just echoes. The door swung open, and in they came, a trio of déjà vu that twisted the vibe.

Nikki strutted in first, not late this time, her hoodie and leggings still screaming curves, but her air was different—not the touchy, airheaded bimbo from the “dream.” She plopped next to RS on his left, same seat, but no thigh-grab or flirty ramble—just a casual, “Hey, RS,” her vanilla scent soft as she settled in, smirking like she knew something. Allison followed, 5’6” of cartoonish hips and ghetto booty, silent this time—no “Holy shit, look at you”—but she planted her gigantic ass in the seat on his right anyway, jeans straining, cucumber-melon wafting as she dropped her bag, ignoring him with a cool edge. Then Melissa—5’3”, red hair blazing—breezed by, no boob-hug, but her backpack swung wide, smacking RS’s head with a dull thud. “Oh, crap—sorry!” she yelped, high-pitched but not giggly, then took the seat in front of him, flip-flops clicking, tank tops flashing midriff.

Nikki caught it all—Allison’s silent claim, Melissa’s fumble—and let out a hearty laugh, deep and real, not the bubbly “dream” squeak. She leaned over, elbow on her desk, eyes glinting. “Déjà vu?” she quipped, winking, her voice low and playful, clocking the absurdity of yesterday’s chaos mirrored in this tamer rerun. RS snort-laughed, a sharp burst he couldn’t hold back, her wink and the scene’s weird overlap hitting him square. “Yeah, something like that,” he muttered, grinning, the raw Nikki vibe syncing with his nerdy ease as Ms. Kessler started scribbling equations, the class humming with a quieter, stranger chaos.

Pre-Calc ticked on, Ms. Kessler’s chalk scratching quadratic equations across the board as RS hunched over his worksheet, pencil scratching half-hearted answers. Nikki scribbled next to him, smirking occasionally, while Melissa doodled ahead, her red hair spilling over her shoulder. Then a tap hit his right shoulder—Allison, her massive hips spilling over the chair, cucumber-melon sharp in the air. He turned, caught off-guard, and her face loomed—long like a horse, drooping, pretty in a raw, odd way, but let’s be real, her killer feature was that outrageous lower body, hips and ass defying physics.

She looked high as a kite, eyes half-lidded, face sagging like an egg sliding down a wall, a lazy slant to her tan Italian features. “So what’s going on with you?” she asked, voice deep and husky, rough like she’d smoked a pack—or just woken up. “I heard you and Nikki were flirting in first period.” It was raw, direct, no filter, her droopy gaze pinning him as she leaned in, jeans creaking against the desk.

RS blinked, Nikki’s Cantina Tap wink flashing in his head, the hug, the twitch—all gossip now. “Uh, yeah, sorta,” he said, keeping it vague, voice low so Nikki wouldn’t catch it. “Just talking—Star Wars stuff, bar names. She’s cool.” He shrugged, playing it off, his pimply face heating under Allison’s stare, her husky drawl and that lower-body presence throwing him off-kilter in this redo’s quieter chaos.

Allison’s face twitched—a tweaker thing, like she was shaking off cobwebs or fighting a glitch, her long, horse-like features jerking in a quirky, weird dance. It was freaky but oddly her, and RS couldn’t look away. “So, Nikki’s your type?” she asked, husky voice cutting through, half-lidded eyes pinning him. Nikki’s pencil stopped mid-scratch on his left—she’d heard, her head still but her vibe screaming she was waiting, staring at the back of his skull.

RS felt the heat, both their stares prickling, and shrugged, aiming for nonchalant. “I mean, of course, but I have a wide taste in women,” he said, voice casual, leaning back in his chair like it was no big deal. Allison’s face twitched again, that egg-sliding-down-a-wall droop snapping back, and she blurted, high as hell, “What do you think about me?” No pause, no filter, just raw curiosity spilling out as her head jittered.

He turned, eyes sliding over her—tan Italian skin, smallish tits lost in her loose tee, then down to her killer lower body. Those cartoonish hips, thick thighs, and that ass—fuck, so huge her jeans couldn’t handle it, riding low, a ton of ass crack peeking out above her tiny waist. His cock twitched hard, stirring to life in his blue shorts, a pulse he couldn’t hide. Allison clocked it, her droopy eyes flicking down, and she licked her lips—subconscious, hungry, a stoned little tell.

“Yeah, I think you’re cute,” RS said, awkward as hell, “and that ass is to die for.” The words tumbled out, and he cringed—shit, that sounded kinda gay—but Allison laughed, a deep, raspy burst that shook her frame. “Fuck, you’re weird—I’m into it,” she said, her own way of saying she was into him, voice husky, high as a kite, her massive ass shifting as she grinned, twitchy and unapologetic. Nikki’s pencil started again, slow, but RS felt her smirk without looking—caught between them, no wish, just his nerdy ass stumbling into real chaos.

Pre-Calc was a powder keg now, RS pinned between Nikki and Allison, their vibes clashing like live wires. Then Melissa spun around from the seat ahead, her preppy confidence dialed to eleven, red hair flipping as she locked eyes with him. “Let’s be honest, RS,” she said, voice sharp and teasing, “you want a girl like me—just admit it.” She shot daggers at Nikki and Allison, her blue eyes flashing, daring them to challenge her. Nikki’s hand tensed on his desk, Allison’s tweaky face twitched, and the air went thick—war brewing.

RS’s eyes went wide, heart slamming, mind racing—trifecta. All three stared him down, Nikki’s hazel gaze soft but piercing, Allison’s droopy high stare intense, Melissa’s preppy glare cutting deep. It felt like they were staring into his soul, peeling him apart, and he couldn’t dodge. “Yes, you’re my type as well,” he blurted, no filter, the words shooting out before he could think. His voice hung there, raw and clumsy, and for a beat, he braced for chaos.

But they relaxed—Nikki’s shoulders eased, Allison’s twitch settled, Melissa’s smirk softened—like he’d dropped the perfect disarming code. No war, just a tense standoff defused. Melissa quipped, “I’m everyone’s type,” flipping her hair as she turned back to her worksheet, smug victory in her tone. Allison’s face did that tweaker shake again, then drooped back to her paper, pencil scratching. Nikki’s hand slid onto RS’s leg under the desk—warm, deliberate—and he turned, catching her smile, soft and real. Unthinking, he put his hand over hers, fingers brushing her milky skin, and she blushed, a quiet flush spreading as she looked away.

Class rolled on, Ms. Kessler droning about parabolas, no more flirtation sparking—just worksheets and silence. RS sat there, Nikki’s hand still under his, heart steady now, the trifecta’s tension simmering down into something weirdly calm.

The bell rang, cutting Pre-Calc loose, and RS bolted from the trifecta’s orbit—Nikki’s hand slipping off his leg with a last smile, Allison’s tweaky stare lingering, Melissa’s preppy quip echoing. He hit Woodshop next, last class before lunch, the basement room thick with sawdust and the growl of machinery. Mr. Grady grunted about safety again, and RS grabbed a workstation, sanding a plank, the Dragon Ball Z shirt dusted with wood flecks. Yesterday’s redo vibes lingered—similar, but this time, no wish, no glow-up, just him.

Then the boys rolled up—Derek, the linebacker in his Broncos tee, Pete with his greasy hair, Josh with his smudged glasses—same crew, different tune. No questions, no “how’d you pull Nikki?”—just straight venom. Derek smirked, leaning in, “Yo, loser, sanding’s the only action you’ll ever get—girls don’t touch nerds like you.” Pete laughed, sharp and mean, “Yeah, what babe’s gonna look at this DBZ dork? You’re a fuckin’ joke, RS.” Josh chimed in, quieter but cutting, “Keep dreaming, man—no chick’s that ****.”

They didn’t even tease the idea of him landing a girlfriend—no Nikki rumors, no Allison buzz, no Melissa flirt—just pure, old-school harassment, piling on like he was still invisible RS, not the “dream” stud. Their words stabbed, no titillation, just mockery, fists unclenched but voices loud. RS gripped the sandpaper tighter, face heating under his pimples, the trifecta’s warmth clashing with this cold dunk—he was back to baseline, no wish to shield him now.

RS kept sanding, the boys’ jabs—“loser,” “dork,” “no chick’s ****”—ringing in his ears, but instead of stinging, they oddly satisfied him. Back to normal, no wish warping reality, no glow-up spotlight—just him, pimply and nerdy, flying under the radar like always. Derek, Pete, and Josh peeled off, their harassment fizzling as they wandered back to their stations, yammering about football spreads and some jock shit—QB stats, gym PRs, whatever. They left him alone, their noise fading into the hum of saws and sanders, and RS exhaled, shoulders loosening.

With them off his back, his head cleared—no Nikki’s vanilla, no Allison’s ass, no Melissa’s preppy quips clouding him up. He focused on the plank, sanding smooth and steady, hands moving with a rhythm he hadn’t hit yesterday. Wood dust piled up, the grain popping clean, and he progressed faster than the rest—Derek’s board still rough, Pete half-assing it, Josh futzing with a clamp. RS smirked to himself, the task simple, his Dragon Ball Z shirt a quiet badge of who he was, no chaos to dodge, just him and the wood, cutting through the class with a weird, calm pride.

The bell rang, Woodshop wrapping up, and RS brushed sawdust off his Dragon Ball Z shirt, his plank sanded smooth—a small win. He hoofed it to the cafeteria, stomach rumbling, and hit the Nerd Herd’s table—Jamie, Priya, and Tim already there, trays loaded, eyes sparking with that same weird energy from the corner. He dropped his pizza slice and soda down, barely sitting before Tim pounced, leaning in fast. “BRO, are things, like, eerily weird? The same as the dream, but minor differences?”

Jamie shot back before RS could blink, voice jumping, “Yeah, you know that image Kayla sent me in the dream? She sent it again—same slutty pic, naked on the bed, ‘Happy first day, puppy!’ I’m freaking out, dude!” He fumbled his phone, flashing the screen—Kayla, blonde hair fanned out, hand teasing low, a carbon copy of yesterday’s “dream” text. Priya’s eyes lit up, “No way, show us again,” she quipped, snatching the phone, zooming in with a grin. RS caught a vibe—Priya’s “one of the boys” energy, her glee at Kayla’s pic hinting she might be into girls, a flicker he tucked away.

They pivoted, focus swinging back to him, Jamie still clutching his phone. Priya smirked, “So, we hear through the grapevine you had a trio mindfuck 2.0 in Calc class—Nikki, Allison, Melissa, round two?” Tim nodded, “Yeah, spill—dream déjà vu or what?” RS chewed his pizza, the morning’s chaos—Nikki’s hug, Allison’s husky flirt, Melissa’s backpack smack—flashing back, not wish-wild but close enough. “Yeah, kinda,” he said, playing it cool, “Nikki sat next to me, not all bubbly—talked bars, real shit. Allison’s high as fuck, asking about Nikki, then me—quiet, but handsy vibes. Melissa whacked me with her bag, sat in front, asked if she was my type. I said, ‘Of course,’ and she goes, ‘I’m everyone’s type,’ all smug, then turned back. Tense as hell, but no war—they chilled after that.”

Jamie whistled, “Bro, same girls, different flavor—freaky.” Priya laughed, “Mindfuck 2.0, nailed it—dream bleed’s real.” Tim scribbled, “Comic’s writing itself—trio sequel, less gay panic.” RS grinned, dodging the wish truth, the redo’s echoes messing with them all, Priya’s girl-vibe a side note as they dug into the chaos.

RS took another bite of his pizza, the Nerd Herd buzzing around him, the cafeteria’s clatter fading as their “dream” talk ramped up. Tim leaned in, still scribbling, “Seriously, it’s spooky—same beats, different twists. I’m in Art, right? Same project as the dream—comic sketches—but this time, no random fame vibe, just Mr. Lee grumbling about deadlines. Eerie as hell.” He tapped his pencil, eyes wide, soaking in the overlap.

Jamie nodded fast, swallowing a chunk of sandwich. “Yeah, dude, Kayla’s pic—exact same, down to the pose, but today she called me ‘babe’ after, not ‘puppy.’ Minor, but I clocked it—déjà vu’s messing with me.” He scrolled his phone again, like the proof might shift. Priya smirked, sipping her soda, “Calc was freaky too—same equations, but no AI breakthrough popping off in my head. Just me, cursing the whiteboard like normal. Dream me was a goddess; real me’s just pissed.” She laughed, but her eyes flicked to Jamie’s phone, that girl-vibe RS noted simmering under her quip.

Tim grinned, “It’s like a remix—core’s there, but the edges bend.” Jamie shook his head, “How’s it this close, though? Freaky.” Priya leaned back, “Shared dream vibes—maybe we’re psychic now.” They kept rolling, swapping their déjà vu—Tim’s art, Jamie’s Kayla, Priya’s math—each moment a warped echo, RS nodding along, the redo’s bleed seeping through, binding them in a weird, unspoken loop.

The rest of the school day slid by smooth, a rerun with no glitches. Fifth period, Spanish, was just verb drills—Sofia glancing his way once, no flirty edge, just normal curiosity. Sixth, Gym, had him jogging laps with the guys again, Coach barking, no drama. The final bell hit, and RS filtered out with the crowd, Dragon Ball Z shirt untucked, the day’s eerie déjà vu fading into a calm hum. He headed for the bus stop, sneakers scuffing pavement, figuring he’d dodged the chaos bullet.

Then they appeared—Nikki, Allison, and Melissa, converging like a trio of heat-seeking missiles. No wall-slam this time, no grinding ****—just them closing in, a loose semicircle blocking his path, each with questions locked and loaded. Nikki stepped up first, her hoodie and leggings still screaming curves, vanilla wafting, voice casual but pointed. “Hey, RS—so, that dream talk earlier… what’s your take on it? Felt real, right?” Her hazel eyes flicked to his, teasing but sharp.

Allison loomed next, hips swaying, jeans barely holding that ghetto booty, her high-as-a-kite droop twitching into a half-smirk. “Yeah, heard you and Nikki got cozy in History—what’s up with that? You into her or what?” Her husky drawl cut through, raw and lazy, cucumber-melon lingering as she crossed her arms. Melissa bounced in last, flip-flops slapping, tank tops flashing midriff, red hair swinging as she tilted her head. “And me—Calc, huh? You said I’m your type—mean it, or just dodging us?” Her preppy edge was playful, but those blue eyes drilled, daring him to squirm.

They stood there, not pinning him but pressing all the same—Nikki’s chill probe, Allison’s stoned bluntness, Melissa’s flirty jab—each digging, the “dream” and day’s overlap fueling their curiosity. RS froze, heart kicking up, the trifecta back, no wish but plenty of heat.

RS stood there, the trifecta—Nikki, Allison, Melissa—closing in, their questions hanging like a noose. Allison’s eyes were clearer now, less high, her horse-like face steady, that massive lower body radiating cucumber-melon calm. Nikki’s hazel gaze sparkled with a quiet confidence, her chunky frame relaxed but sure, vanilla soft in the air. Melissa, though, had an edge—her blue eyes narrowed, lips tight, a flicker of anger under her preppy strut, flip-flops tense against the pavement.

He took a breath, facing Nikki first. “The dream was… weird,” he said, voice honest, a little shaky. “Kinda feels like déjà vu—I don’t get it, but it’s interesting.” Her confidence held, a nod like she’d expected that. Then Allison’s husky probe—RS turned, meeting her sober stare. “Honestly? I’m into all three of you,” he blurted, no filter, the truth spilling before he could stop it. “You’re each extremely attractive in your own unique way.” Too much—he winced, realizing he’d overshared, but it was out now.

Melissa’s jab next, her anger flaring—he faced her, heart racing. “And yes, I mean what I said—I’m attracted to all of you. It’s kinda hard to explain. Maybe I just have… too much pent-up sexual tension.” Raw, unpolished, it tumbled out, and he braced for fallout. But it worked—the tension snapped. Nikki’s shoulders eased, Allison’s smirk softened, Melissa’s glare melted into a sly grin. Unbeknownst to RS, his words lit a spark—each girl, in that exact moment, pictured sharing him, a harem vibe flashing in their heads. Nikki saw late-night bar hangs, Allison imagined stoned makeouts, Melissa dreamed preppy threesomes—none knowing the others had the same thought, a weird reality feedback loop syncing them up.

They moved as one—Nikki hugged him first, her plush body grinding into his crotch, feeling his rock-hard cock twitch, a confident smile curling her lips. Allison followed, hips pressing, ass crack peeking as she squeezed, sober now but smirking at his bulge. Melissa last, her toned frame pushing in, midriff bare, grinding with a playful edge, her anger gone, grinning as she felt him throb. Each hugged, each clocked his hardness, and each peeled off—Nikki with a wink, Allison with a husky chuckle, Melissa with a flip of her hair—heading to their buses, leaving RS dazed, shorts tight, the trio’s synced fantasy a secret humming between them.

RS stumbled off the bus, the trio’s hugs—Nikki’s plush grind, Allison’s hip press, Melissa’s preppy shove—still pulsing in his shorts, his cock half-hard and his head spinning. He trudged home, the Dragon Ball Z shirt wrinkled, dodging Vanessa’s “Back already, nerd?” as he bolted to his room, door slamming shut. He flopped onto his bed, catching his breath, when his phone lit up—the Nerd Herd group chat exploding.

Tim’s caps hit first: “THE FUCKING TRIFECTA AGAIN? WHAT HAPPENED, RS?” Jamie piled on: “BRO, SPILL—THEY MOBBED YOU? DETAILS!” Priya’s quip flashed: “Heard they cornered you—mindfuck 3.0? Tell us everything, loser.” RS grinned, thumbs flying, dishing it raw—no wish to hide, just the truth, unfiltered.

“Yeah, trifecta struck at the bus stop—not slamming me this time, just questions. Nikki’s all chill, ‘Dream felt real, right?’ Allison, sober now, ‘You and Nikki flirting?’ Melissa, kinda pissed, ‘You meant I’m your type?’ I said it’s like déjà vu, admitted I’m into all three—‘You’re each hot in your own way,’ maybe too much sexual tension. They chilled, hugged me—Nikki grinds, Allison presses, Melissa shoves—all feeling me hard, smiling, then split to their buses. Insane.”

The chat erupted. Tim: “COMIC CANON—TRIO REDUX, no wall, just grind! You’re a legend, dude.” Jamie: “THEY FELT YOU UP? ALL THREE? Kayla’s gonna hear this—I’m dead, bro, you’re living it!” Priya: “Fucking hell, RS—‘sexual tension’? Smooth, dumbass. They’re plotting a harem, I swear—Nikki’s chill, Allison’s ass, Melissa’s sass. Gossip gold.” They gossiped hard—Tim plotting panels, Jamie freaking over Kayla’s reaction, Priya cackling at the trio’s vibe—each spinning it their way, the redo’s echoes fueling their hype as RS lay back, grinning, the day’s chaos cemented in their nerdy lore.

The Nerd Herd chat fizzled out, their gossip hitting a lull as RS tossed his phone aside, the trifecta’s grind still a faint buzz in his head. He cracked open his homework—Spanish vocab, Chem terms, Pre-Calc equations—same exact sheets as the “dream” day, no redo glitch there. His pencil flew, faster this time, muscle memory kicking in, done in under an hour. Dinner called—homemade cheesesteaks tonight, not chicken, the greasy beef and melted cheese a tasty curveball, Vanessa grumbling about onions while he scarfed it down at the table.

Back in his room, door shut, RS flopped onto his bed, the Dragon Ball Z shirt rumpled, and started pondering—where to take this? The wish power hummed, a tool he’d fucked up once but could wield smarter. Jamie was set—Kayla’s slutty pics and puppy vibes locked him in. RS had the trifecta chaos, accidental but real. Priya and Tim, though—no loves, no sparks, just nerdy lone wolves. He wanted to even the crew out, hook them up, balance the luck.

Priya first—her AI obsession was gold, but her heart? A mystery. Was she a lesbian? That Kayla pic glee, her “one of the boys” vibe—never talked about it, never hinted. She’d dodged crushes, deflected with snark, leaving RS clueless. If she was, he could wish her a girlfriend—someone sharp, techy, her speed. If not, a guy’d work, but he needed intel to nail it. For now, her AI—Ghost—could be the angle. Boost it, get her noticed, maybe fame’d draw someone in? He chewed his lip, unsure how to wish that without screwing it again.

Tim next—the artist, sketching their chaos, no love life. What’s his type? Fuck, RS thought, drawing a blank. Comic nerd, sure, but girls? Guys? No clue—Tim kept it locked, all focus on pencils and panels. Something artsy could pull a match—gallery fame, a fan-turned-flame? RS’s head spun, the meme of it all—helping Priya, helping Tim—swirling as sleep crept in. He passed out, sprawled, pondering half-formed wishes, the crew’s future a puzzle he’d crack tomorrow.