Sleep and Saturday

RS lay rigid in bed for what felt like hours, his mind racing, the echo of that voice looping through his thoughts like a broken record. His body, though, had other plans. Exhaustion crept in, heavy and relentless, pulling him under despite his racing heart. Eventually, his grip on the blanket loosened, his breathing slowed, and he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep—a void of nothing, no churches, no pentagrams, no voices. Just silence.

The next thing he knew, sunlight was streaming through the gaps in his blinds, painting golden stripes across his cluttered floor. Birds chirped outside, a cheerful racket that felt almost too normal after the night he’d had. The clock on his nightstand blinked 9:12 a.m.—Saturday morning, the last lazy stretch of summer break. From downstairs, his mom’s voice cut through the haze. “Roger, breakfast is ready!” Her tone was bright, oblivious to the storm that had churned in his head just hours ago.

RS groaned, rolling out of bed with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. His head tingled faintly, a dull buzz at the base of his skull, like a hangover without the fun part. He shuffled to the bathroom, still half-asleep, and took a long, unceremonious piss. The cold water he splashed on his face afterward helped a little, though his reflection still looked rough—bags under his eyes, hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted. He scrubbed his hands, yanked on a faded X-Men t-shirt and some jeans, and trudged downstairs, the smell of bacon and pancakes tugging him along.

The kitchen was a slice of normalcy: his mom bustling at the stove, her auburn hair tied back in a messy bun, the radio humming some oldies station she loved. The table was set with a stack of pancakes, a jug of orange juice, and a plate of crispy bacon that made his stomach growl despite the lingering unease. “Morning, sleepyhead,” his mom said with a grin, sliding a plate in front of him as he slumped into a chair. “You look like you wrestled a bear last night.”

“Yeah, something like that,” RS mumbled, poking at a pancake with his fork. The tingling in his head hadn’t gone away, but the warm food and the familiar clatter of dishes dulled it to background noise. He took a bite, the syrup-soaked fluff melting on his tongue, and for a moment, he could almost pretend the night before was just a weird blip. Almost.

RS didn’t even think as he piled his plate high, his hands moving on autopilot. Three fluffy pancakes landed in a sloppy stack, and he went to town with the margarine, slathering it on thick until the edges glistened. A quick drizzle of Aunt Jemima’s maple syrup followed—not too much, just enough to soak in and balance the buttery richness. He snagged three strips of bacon next, their crispy edges crackling faintly as he dropped them beside the pancakes. He was already halfway through his first bite when the rest of the family started filtering in.

His dad shuffled into the kitchen, still in his faded plaid bathrobe, his salt-and-pepper hair sticking up from sleep. He grunted a “Morning” to no one in particular, plopped into his chair at the head of the table, and cracked open the Boulder Daily Camera with a rustle of pages. The faint smell of his aftershave mingled with the bacon grease in the air as he disappeared behind the headlines, muttering about gas prices or the Broncos or whatever else caught his eye.

Then came RS’s older sister, Vanessa, sauntering in like she owned the place—which, to be fair, she kind of did when she was home from college. At 20, she was two years out of Boulder High and halfway through her psych degree at CU Boulder, but she still carried herself like the queen bee of their old stomping grounds. She was tall, just shy of 5’10”, with legs that seemed to go on forever, tanned from lazy days by the campus lake. Her hair was a wild cascade of dark curls, dyed with streaks of auburn that caught the morning light, framing a face that was all sharp cheekbones and a sly, knowing smirk. She’d thrown on what could only generously be called “loungewear”—a skimpy black satin camisole with lace trim that clung to her C-cup curves, leaving her toned midriff bare, and matching shorts that barely covered the essentials. A silver navel ring glinted as she moved, and her painted toes—currently a chipped electric blue—flexed against the hardwood floor as she slid into her seat across from RS. She smelled faintly of jasmine perfume and last night’s vape, a combo that screamed “I’m too cool for this family.”

RS barely registered her entrance, too focused on shoveling bacon into his mouth, until she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and fixed him with a teasing grin. “I heard you crying in your sleep last night, little bro. What’s that about?” Her voice was light, but there was a glint in her hazel eyes—sharp like their mom’s—that said she was fishing for something to poke at.

RS froze mid-chew, a strip of bacon dangling from his fork. He blinked at her, syrup-sticky lips parting as he managed a confused, “Huh?” His brain scrambled to catch up, the foggy memory of the night before flickering at the edges of his mind. Had he cried? He didn’t think so, but Vanessa had a knack for sniffing out weakness like a shark smelling blood.

RS scrunched his face at Vanessa’s jab, brushing it off with a half-hearted shrug. “Yeah, right,” he muttered under his breath, shoving another forkful of pancake into his mouth. No way he’d cried in his sleep—who even does that? He wasn’t some toddler having a nightmare about the boogeyman. Before he could fire back, Vanessa’s foot shot out under the table, nudging his chair with a playful kick that rocked him sideways. Her smirk widened, and he caught the glint in her eye—she was just screwing with him, as usual. He rolled his eyes, letting out a small huff of a laugh, and went back to his bacon.

His dad rustled the newspaper, oblivious, while his mom hummed along to the radio, flipping another pancake on the griddle. RS’s mind wandered for a second, the lingering weirdness of last night still buzzing faintly at the edges of his thoughts. Vanessa was always like this—poking at him, keeping him on his toes. It’d been that way since they were kids, her lording her two-year age gap over him like it made her royalty. Absentmindedly, as he chewed, a thought slipped through his head: I wish my sister would treat me better. It wasn’t even a conscious plea, just a fleeting, grumpy little wish born from years of her teasing.

And then—something shifted. Vanessa sat back in her chair, her posture softening. The smirk faded into something warmer, almost conspiratorial. She tilted her head, studying him like she was seeing him for the first time that morning. “You know, RS,” she started, her tone unexpectedly earnest, “senior year’s a big deal. If you want, I could give you some pointers—y’know, how to make the most of it. Maybe even be the cool kid for once.” She leaned forward again, resting her chin on her hand, her voice dropping like she was letting him in on a secret. “I mean, I kinda ruled that place back in the day. Could show you the ropes.”

RS blinked, a strip of bacon halfway to his mouth. He froze, brain stuttering. Vanessa—his Vanessa—offering advice? Useful advice? This wasn’t her style. She’d never given him anything but grief or sarcastic one-liners. He remembered her senior year—homecoming queen, captain of the debate team, the girl who’d once convinced half the football team to wear tutus for a prank. She’d been untouchable, a legend in her own right, and she’d never once let him in on how she’d pulled it off. Why now?

“Uh… sure?” he said, the word coming out more like a question. He didn’t know what else to say, so he just went with it, rolling with the weird vibe like it was no big deal. The tingling in his head flared for a split second, then faded, but he didn’t clock it—too busy trying to figure out if Vanessa was still messing with him or if she’d been body-snatched. She grinned, a genuine one this time, and started rattling off tips: “First off, ditch the nerd herd for at least one party. Trust me, it’s worth it. And if you’re gonna talk to girls, don’t lead with your comic book theories—save that for the second conversation.”

RS nodded along, bemused but intrigued, not realizing that the idle wish he’d tossed out in his head had just rewritten the rules of their sibling dynamic.

RS leaned back in his chair, picking at the last scraps of pancake as Vanessa kept talking, her voice a steady stream of advice he only half-absorbed. “Ditch my friends,” he thought, scoffing silently. Like that was ever gonna happen. Jamie, Priya, and Tim weren’t just his crew—they were his lifeline, the ones who’d stuck with him through every awkward phase and dumb idea. What kind of person bails on that for a shot at being “cool”? Vanessa might’ve thrived on that high school hierarchy crap, but RS wasn’t about to trade his D&D nights for a keg stand just to impress some randos.

She was still going, though—something about the best lunch spots off-campus and how to sneak into the senior courtyard without getting caught. He nodded occasionally, throwing in a vague “Uh-huh” to keep her off his case, but his mind was already drifting. The pancakes were gone, the bacon reduced to greasy crumbs on his plate, and the orange juice in his glass was down to a sticky ring at the bottom. He was full, restless, and ready to escape the weirdness of this morning.

“Alright, cool, thanks,” he mumbled, cutting her off mid-sentence as he stood up. He grabbed his plate and cup, shuffling over to the sink with a clatter of ceramic and glass. His mom shot him a look—half grateful, half “you’d better rinse those”—but he was already halfway out of the kitchen. Vanessa called after him, “Hey, I’m serious about the party thing!” but he just waved a hand over his shoulder, not breaking stride.

Upstairs, his room was a comforting mess: comic books stacked haphazardly on his desk, a tangle of controller cords spilling off the shelf, and his beat-up gaming PC humming softly in the corner. He flopped into his chair, the springs creaking under his weight, and booted up the rig. The familiar whir of the fans kicked in, and the screen flickered to life. He grabbed his headset, slipping it on as he queued up Elden Ring—something dark and grindy to match the weird vibe still lingering in his bones. The tingling in his head was gone now, replaced by the low buzz of the game’s soundtrack. He sank into it, controller in hand, letting the pixelated chaos drown out Vanessa’s voice and the faint, nagging echo of last night’s dream.

RS was deep into Elden Ring, hacking his way through some cursed swamp, when an unexpected heat started creeping up his neck. His focus wavered, the controller slipping slightly in his sweaty palms. He wasn’t sure why—maybe it was the adrenaline of the game, or maybe just teenage hormones picking a random moment to kick in—but he was horny as hell. “Weird timing,” he muttered to himself, but then shrugged. Fuck it. No point in fighting biology.

He mashed the pause button, saved his progress with a quick flick of the joystick, and closed the game. The screen went dark for a second before he clicked open his browser, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then it hit him—privacy. “Shit,” he hissed, jumping up from his chair so fast it rolled back and thunked against the desk. He darted to the door, his socks sliding on the hardwood, and jabbed the lock button in with a satisfying click. “Safe,” he thought, exhaling a little laugh as he glanced around his room. No Vanessa barging in with her smug commentary, no Mom yelling about laundry. Just him and his impulses.

Back at his desk, he felt the telltale twitch in his jeans—his five-inch dick already stirring, pressing against the denim like it had a mind of its own. He kicked off his shoes, shucked the jeans in one awkward tug, and dropped back into his chair, the cool leather sticking slightly to his bare thighs. Clad in just his X-Men tee and boxers, he pulled up his go-to porn tube site, the familiar layout loading in an instant. His cursor hovered over the search bar as he scrolled, eyes flicking between thumbnails. Something to set the mood—nothing too weird, just enough to scratch the itch. He clicked into a category he liked, settling in as the video buffered, the low hum of his PC fan the only sound in the room.

RS leaned back in his chair, the glow of the screen casting flickering shadows across his room as he settled on a video. The thumbnail had caught his eye—a massive-breasted bimbo, all pouty lips and exaggerated curves, cooing at the camera in a voice that was equal parts ridiculous and hypnotic. He clicked play, the audio kicking in with a breathy, “Hey, baby,” that made him snort despite himself. It was cheesy as hell, but it worked.

He shoved his boxers down, freeing himself as his hand found a rhythm, quick and practiced. The woman on-screen giggled and jiggled, her words a mindless stream of flirty nonsense that he barely registered. His breath hitched, eyes locked on the exaggerated sway of her chest, the tension building fast. The chair creaked under him, the sound blending with the low drone of his PC and the escalating moans from his headphones. It didn’t take long—teenage stamina wasn’t exactly legendary—and soon he was slumping back, chest heaving, a mix of satisfaction and mild embarrassment washing over him as the video looped back to her cooing again.

RS let out a long breath, shaking off the post-rush haze as he reached for a tissue from the box on his desk. He cleaned up quick, tugging his boxers and jeans back on with a grunt, then leaned forward to close out the browser tab. The screen blinked back to his desktop—a cluttered mess of game shortcuts and random memes—as he glanced at the clock in the corner. 11:47 a.m. Shit, he was cutting it close.

Saturdays were sacred for him and the crew—Jamie, Priya, and Tim always met up at noon sharp for their weekly romp in Chautauqua Park. It was their thing: a mix of frisbee, arguing about nerd trivia, and sprawling out on the grass under the Flatirons to plan their next D&D session. He yanked off his headset, ran a hand through his hair to tame the bedhead, and grabbed his beat-up Vans from under the desk. His phone buzzed on the nightstand—probably Priya texting some snarky reminder about not being late again. He snatched it up, shoved it in his pocket, and headed for the door, the faint buzz of last night’s weirdness and this morning’s impulses already fading into the background.

RS bolted downstairs, swiping his bike keys from the hook by the door. “Heading out!” he yelled toward the kitchen, not waiting for his mom’s reply—something about sunscreen or lunch money that he’d already tuned out. He shoved open the garage door, the hinges squeaking, and wheeled out his trusty Trek, a scratched-up black mountain bike he’d had since sophomore year. The tires crunched over the gravel driveway as he swung a leg over, pedaling hard down the quiet suburban street toward Chautauqua Park.

The late August sun beat down, warming his shoulders through his X-Men tee as he cut through side streets, the wind whipping past his ears. Boulder’s flat grid gave way to the gentle rise of the park’s edge, the jagged silhouette of the Flatirons looming closer. He veered off the main path, tires bouncing over roots and dirt, until he reached their spot—a thick patch of pine trees tucked away near the base of a hill. It was their hideout, a natural fortress of gnarled branches and needle-strewn ground where they could be the social outcasts they were without anyone bothering them.

He skidded to a stop, kicking up a small cloud of dust, and propped his bike against a trunk. Jamie was already there, sprawled out on a faded picnic blanket, flipping through a dog-eared copy of The Silmarillion. Priya sat cross-legged beside him, her laptop balanced on her knees, typing furiously at something—probably debugging her “Ghost” AI again. Tim was perched on a low branch, sketching in his notebook, his lanky frame swaying slightly as he hummed off-key. They all looked up as RS crashed through the underbrush, Priya smirking. “Nice of you to show up, RS. We were about to send a search party.”

“Had to finish slaying a dragon,” he shot back, grinning as he dropped onto the blanket next to Jamie. The familiar banter kicked in, and for a moment, the weirdness of the last 24 hours felt like it belonged to someone else.

RS stretched out on the picnic blanket, the pine needles crunching beneath him as he settled into the easy rhythm of his friends’ chatter. This was his crew, the ones who made Boulder High bearable, and as he glanced around at them, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude for their weird, unshakable bond. Each of them was distinct, a puzzle piece in their little gang of outcasts, and they wore their quirks like badges of honor.

Jamie, sprawled beside him, was the shortest of the group at 5’6”, with a wiry build that made him look like he could wiggle out of anything. His hair was a mop of sandy blond curls, perpetually messy like he’d just rolled out of bed, though he’d swear it was “styled chaos.” Male, pale-skinned with a dusting of freckles across his nose, he had sharp green eyes that always seemed to be scanning for the next obscure fact to drop into conversation. His faded Star Wars hoodie and cargo shorts were a uniform at this point, patched up from years of wear.

Priya sat across from them, her focus locked on her laptop screen. She was 5’8”, female, with a lean, athletic frame honed from years of intramural soccer—though she’d quit last year to “focus on code.” Her jet-black hair fell in a straight, no-nonsense bob that just grazed her shoulders, the ends dyed a bold electric blue that matched her chipped nail polish. Her skin was a warm brown, and her dark eyes flicked up occasionally, sharp and sarcastic behind her wireframe glasses. She rocked a black tank top with a pixelated skull on it and ripped jeans, her sneakers scuffed from pacing while she ranted about tech.

Tim, up in the tree, was the tallest at 6’1”, male, and lanky as hell—all elbows and knees, like he’d grown too fast and never quite figured out how to fill out. His hair was a shaggy mess of dark brown waves, usually shoved under a beanie, though today it hung loose, framing his angular face. His skin was ghostly pale, a stark contrast to the charcoal smudges on his fingers and the occasional streak on his cheek from sketching. He wore a stretched-out gray hoodie with paint-splattered sleeves and baggy cargo pants, his beat-up Converse dangling from the branch as he doodled.

“Dragon, huh?” Jamie said, smirking as he closed his book. “What was it this time—Elden Ring or one of your weird dreams again?”

RS chuckled, brushing off the jab. “Both, maybe. You guys ready to lose at frisbee or what?”

“Hell yeah,” Jamie said, snapping The Silmarillion shut with a dramatic flourish and tossing it onto the blanket. Priya rolled her eyes but saved her work with a quick tap, closing her laptop and sliding it into her backpack. Tim hopped down from the branch, landing with a soft thud, his sketchbook tucked under his arm as he stretched his lanky frame. “I’m only playing if I don’t have to run too much,” he grumbled, but the grin tugging at his lips gave him away.

RS grabbed the frisbee from his bag—a neon green disc with a faded Batman logo—and led the charge out of their tree-shrouded hideout. They spilled into the open field nearby, a wide stretch of grass framed by the towering Flatirons and dotted with wildflowers starting to wilt in the late summer heat. The park was quiet, just a handful of joggers puffing along the trails and a couple of dog walkers tossing tennis balls in the distance. Perfect timing—no jocks or cliques to hassle them, no one to care about a bunch of nerds flinging a disc around.

The game kicked off with Jamie hurling the frisbee toward Priya, who darted forward with surprising agility, snagging it mid-air and firing it at RS. He lunged, catching it with a whoop, then flicked it toward Tim, who half-heartedly jogged a few steps before letting it sail past him. “Dude, effort!” RS laughed, jogging over to retrieve it. The disc flew back and forth, their shouts and taunts echoing across the field—Priya’s “You throw like a toddler!” aimed at Jamie, Tim’s “I’m an artist, not an athlete!” as his excuse. The sun climbed higher, sweat beading on their foreheads, but they kept at it, the easy chaos of it all washing away the last of RS’s lingering weirdness from the night before.

The frisbee sailed through the air, a perfect arc from Priya’s throw, but RS’s attention snagged on something else—a flash of movement on the nearby path. An extremely hot girl jogged past, her blonde ponytail bouncing with each stride, her leggy frame hugged by tight black running gear that glistened in the midday sun. She was all tan skin, sharp cheekbones, and effortless grace—straight out of a sports ad or Jamie’s wildest daydreams. RS smirked, glancing at his friend just in time to see disaster strike.

Jamie had stopped dead in his tracks, the frisbee forgotten as he stared, utterly enamored. His green eyes went wide, his mouth slackening into a dumbstruck gape—classic Jamie, helpless against anything resembling his type: athletic, blonde, and unattainable. The disc nailed him square in the face with a loud thwack, knocking his head back slightly. He didn’t even flinch, just raised a hand to rub his nose absently, still gawking as the girl disappeared around a bend in the path.

RS burst out laughing, jogging over as Priya and Tim closed in, the group circling Jamie like vultures sensing fresh meat. “Smooth, dude,” RS said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Taking a frisbee to the face and looking like a drooling puppy—new personal best.”

Priya grinned, crossing her arms. “What was that, Jamie? Did your brain just blue-screen? ‘Hot girl detected, system overload’?”

Tim, still clutching his sketchbook, snickered. “Man, your tongue was practically on the ground. I should draw that—‘The Desperation of Jamie, 2025.’ Instant classic.”

Jamie blinked, finally snapping out of it, his freckled cheeks flushing red as he rubbed his nose harder. “Shut up, all of you,” he mumbled, but the sheepish grin creeping onto his face betrayed him. “She was… I mean, did you see her?”

“Oh, we saw,” RS said, picking up the frisbee and spinning it on his finger. “We also saw you eat plastic because of it. You good, or do we need to call a medic—or maybe her number?”

The teasing went on, relentless and loud, their laughter bouncing across the field as Jamie tried—and failed—to defend his dignity.

Jamie huffed, crossing his arms as the teasing died down, his freckled face still pink from embarrassment. “What would you know about seeing your perfect lover before your eyes?” he scoffed, shooting RS a mock-glare. “You’re too busy with your pixel dragons to notice anything real.”

RS smirked, half-listening as he spun the frisbee absently on his finger. Jamie’s jab barely registered—he’d heard worse from the guy during their late-night gaming sessions. His mind drifted for a second, and without much thought, a casual wish slipped through his head: I wish he could get what he wants. It was lazy, almost sarcastic, the kind of thing he’d toss out in a D&D game when Tim rolled a nat 1. He didn’t even clock it as serious.

Then a gust of wind kicked up out of nowhere, sharp and strange, rustling the pines and sending a chill down RS’s spine. It whipped past them, tugging at Priya’s hair and scattering a few loose pages from Tim’s sketchbook. “What the hell?” Priya muttered, squinting against the breeze, but RS barely had time to process it before movement on the path caught his eye.

The jogger—the blonde bombshell who’d knocked Jamie stupid—was back. Except this time, she wasn’t just passing by. She slowed her pace, veering off the trail and heading straight for them, her sneakers crunching on the grass. Up close, she was even more unreal: sweat-slicked skin glowing in the sun, blue eyes bright and locked on Jamie like he was the only person in the park. She stopped a few feet away, hands on her hips, and flashed a flirty smile. “Hey, cutie,” she quipped, her voice light and teasing, like she’d known him forever.

Jamie’s jaw dropped again, his brain short-circuiting. “Uh—wha—huh?” he stammered, the words tumbling out in a jumbled mess as his hands flailed uselessly at his sides. His eyes darted to RS, then back to her, wide and panicked, like a deer caught in headlights.

Priya’s mouth fell open, Tim let out a low whistle, and RS just stood there, frisbee forgotten in his hand, a weird prickling sensation creeping up his neck. That wind… that wish… nah, couldn’t be. Could it?

The jogger tilted her head, her blonde ponytail swaying as she stepped closer to Jamie, her blue eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re kinda cute when you’re all flustered like that,” she purred, her voice dropping low and sultry, the kind of tone that hit Jamie like a punch to the chest. She leaned in, just close enough that he could catch the faint scent of her sweat and some citrusy perfume, her lips curling into a smirk. “Bet you’re the type who’s secretly a total sweetheart, huh? I can tell.” Her gaze flicked down his frame and back up, lingering just long enough to make it clear she was checking him out—hard.

Jamie’s heart slammed against his ribs, his breath hitching as blood rushed south. His cargo shorts tightened uncomfortably, and he shifted on his feet, praying no one noticed. But she did. Her eyes darted to the bulge, and her smirk widened into something downright wicked. “Oh, someone’s excited,” she teased, stepping even closer until her sneakers nearly touched his. She held out her hand, palm up. “Gimme your phone, cutie.”

Jamie, brain melted into goo, fumbled in his pocket like a trained puppy, handing over his beat-up iPhone without a second thought. His hands shook as she took it, her fingers brushing his, and she tapped in her number with quick, confident strokes. The group watched, stunned—Priya’s jaw practically on the grass, Tim’s sketchbook slipping from his grip, RS frozen with the frisbee still in hand.

Then, out of nowhere, she went for it. Her hand shot forward, grabbing Jamie’s dick through his shorts with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Mine,” she said, her voice a mix of playful and feral, followed by a high-pitched giggle that cut through the air like a blade. Jamie yelped, a strangled “Wha—?!” escaping him as his knees buckled slightly, his face flaming redder than the Flatirons at sunset.

Before anyone could react, she spun on her heel and bolted, her laughter trailing behind her as she sprinted back to the path, faster than she’d approached. The group stood there, dumbfounded, the silence thick until Priya finally broke it with a choked, “What the fuck just happened?”

Jamie clutched his phone, staring at where she’d disappeared, his other hand hovering over his shorts like he wasn’t sure whether to adjust or just collapse. “I… I don’t…” he stammered, voice cracking.

RS blinked, the prickling in his neck turning into a full-on buzz. That wish—he’d thought it, and then… this? No way. His eyes darted to Jamie, then to the path, his mind racing as the pieces started clicking together.

The group snapped out of their collective shock, circling Jamie like a pack of hyenas spotting a dazed gazelle. RS grinned, shaking off the weird buzz in his head as he jumped in first. “Dude, she totally wants you,” he said, jabbing a finger at Jamie’s chest. “That was, like, next-level claiming territory. You’re in, man!”

Tim, still clutching his sketchbook, let out a low laugh and piled on. “Yeah, bro, you have to tap that. She practically staked you like a vampire. That’s your origin story now—‘Jamie, the Guy Who Got Groped Into a Date.’”

Priya, arms crossed and eyebrows halfway to her hairline, couldn’t hold back her disbelief. “No way. How did that even happen? She just—boom—zero-to-dick-grab in ten seconds flat? I need to speak to the manager of reality, because what the hell?” She shook her head, blue-tipped hair swishing, but a smirk tugged at her lips—she couldn’t help it.

“Dude, she gave you her number and a preview,” RS added, tossing the frisbee up and catching it. “That’s, like, a neon sign saying ‘Call me.’ You’re legally obligated to follow through now.”

“She said ‘mine,’” Tim chimed in, mimicking her voice in a high-pitched giggle before dropping back to his normal tone. “You’re her property now, man. Better get used to it.”

Jamie, still processing, didn’t stand a chance against the onslaught. His legs gave out, and he collapsed flat on his ass in the grass, mouth hanging open like a fish gasping for air. His phone slipped from his hand, landing beside him as his green eyes stared blankly at the sky. “I… she… what…” he mumbled, the words tripping over each other as his brain rebooted. His face was a splotchy mess of red, and his hands hovered uselessly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them after that.

Priya crouched beside him, poking his shoulder. “Earth to Jamie. You alive in there, or did she short-circuit you for good?”

RS laughed, the unease from his wish fading under the absurdity of it all. “C’mon, man, say something. You just hit the jackpot—don’t pass out on us now!”

Jamie blinked hard, shaking off the daze like a dog shedding water. He brought both hands up and slapped his cheeks lightly, the soft pat-pat snapping him back to reality. “Okay, okay,” he muttered, fumbling for his phone in the grass. He scooped it up, thumbing it open with a shaky grin, and scrolled to the new contact. “ ‘Kayla,’ ” he read aloud, his voice cracking slightly on the name. Then he flopped back onto the grass, staring up at the endless blue sky, a goofy, lovesick look spreading across his freckled face. “I think I’m in love,” he declared, half-serious, half-dreamy, clutching the phone to his chest like it was a lifeline.

RS snorted, but the infectious absurdity of it all pulled him in. “Yeah, sure, Romeo,” he said, dropping the frisbee and easing down onto the grass beside Jamie. Priya followed, stretching out with a dramatic groan, her laptop bag dumped nearby, while Tim sprawled out last, sketchbook abandoned as he folded his hands behind his head. They arranged themselves like a human plus sign, heads nearly touching at the center, bodies fanning out across the field. The warm earth pressed against their backs, the faint smell of pine and sun-baked grass wrapping around them as a lazy cloud drifted overhead.

“Kayla, huh?” Priya mused, tilting her head so her blue-tipped hair brushed Jamie’s curls. “She’s got you whipped already, and you don’t even know her last name.”

“She doesn’t need a last name,” Tim said, smirking at the sky. “She’s ‘Jogger GirlWhoGrabbedMyDick’ now. That’s her full title.”

RS laughed, the sound rumbling out of him as he stared up at the wispy clouds. “You’re gonna write sonnets about her, aren’t you? ‘O Kayla, thy grip doth steal my soul.’”

Jamie groaned, but he was grinning too, still lost in his own little world. “Shut up, all of you. She’s perfect. I’m calling her tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Definitely this week.”

They lay there, the teasing fading into a comfortable quiet, the sun warming their faces as the weirdness of the moment settled into something oddly perfect.

The silence wrapped around them like a blanket, the group sinking into their own little worlds as they stared up at the sky. The clouds drifted lazily, thin and feathery against the bright blue expanse, and the distant hum of a jogger’s footsteps faded into the background. Jamie was probably replaying Kayla’s every word in his head, Priya plotting her next coding project, Tim sketching imaginary lines in the air. But RS—RS was somewhere else entirely.

His mind churned, a storm brewing behind his calm exterior. He did this. The thought hit him like a brick, solid and undeniable, and his heart kicked up a notch, thudding hard against his ribs. He rewound the tape—last night’s dream, that dark church, the glowing pentagram, the voice promising power over reality. He’d agreed, half-asleep, half-****, and now… this. Vanessa’s sudden shift at breakfast, going from her usual snark to dishing out advice like some big-sister guru. And then Jamie—RS had wished for him to get what he wanted, and bam, Kayla had materialized like a genie’s gift, all flirty and handsy. The pieces clicked together, sharp and clear, and a wild, electric joy surged through him.

What else could I do? The question danced in his head, spinning out into a kaleidoscope of possibilities. He could wish for anything—money, grades, hell, a freaking superpower. No more scrambling for gas money for his bike, no more dreading Mr. Hargrove’s trig tests. He could fix things, make life bend to his whim. His breath hitched, a grin tugging at his lips as he imagined it: Priya’s AI project going viral, Tim’s art in a gallery, Jamie with Kayla on his arm like a lovesick king. And him—RS—at the center of it all, pulling strings no one else could see.

The others didn’t notice, lost in their own cloud-gazing trance, but RS’s mind was racing, alive with the thrill of it. He kept his face neutral, eyes tracing a wispy cloud that looked vaguely like a dragon, but inside, he was buzzing. What’s next? he wondered, the question burning bright as the sky above.

RS let the silence linger a moment longer, his heart still pounding with the secret buzzing in his veins. He propped himself up on his elbows, the grass prickling his skin, and glanced around at his friends sprawled out in their plus-sign formation. The question had been brewing in his head, a test disguised as casual curiosity. He cleared his throat, keeping his tone light but deliberate. “Hey, if you guys could all have one thing—no matter what it is—but you forget you ever wanted it, so you just have it, no idea why or how, and you don’t even care… what would it be?”

Jamie, still clutching his phone like a talisman, squinted up at the sky, his sandy curls flattened against the ground. “Easy,” he said, a dreamy edge to his voice. “A girlfriend like Kayla. Hot, confident, totally into me. I’d wake up with her texting me good morning, and I wouldn’t even question it—just roll with it like, ‘Yeah, this is my life now.’”

Priya snorted, tilting her head so her blue-tipped bob brushed the grass. “Typical,” she muttered, then paused to think, tapping her fingers against her stomach. “I’d want… my own tech startup. Like, bam, I’m suddenly the CEO of some badass company, coding AI that changes the world. No memory of slaving for it, just living the dream and kicking ass.”

Tim stretched his lanky arms overhead, his voice lazy but certain. “Fame for my art. Not, like, sellout fame—real recognition. Galleries fighting over my stuff, people losing their minds over every sketch. I’d walk into a show, see my name in lights, and just shrug like, ‘Cool, guess this is me.’”

RS nodded, soaking in their answers, his mind already spinning with the possibilities. He kept his face neutral, but inside, that electric joy flared hotter. He could do it—wish it for them, wipe the slate clean so they’d never know he’d pulled the strings. His pulse raced as he pictured it: Jamie with Kayla, Priya ruling Silicon Valley, Tim’s art on every wall. And him, the quiet puppet master, testing the limits of this power he’d stumbled into.

“What about you, RS?” Priya asked, turning her head to eye him. “What’s your one thing?”

He hesitated, then grinned, lying back down to stare at the clouds. “Dunno. Maybe a tricked-out gaming rig that never lags. Something simple.” He played it off, but his thoughts were anything but—already plotting his next move, curious how far this could go.

RS’s grin widened as an idea sparked, the thrill of his newfound power itching to be tested again. He sat up abruptly, snatching Jamie’s phone from where it lay on his chest. “Yoink,” he said, ignoring Jamie’s startled “Hey!” as he unlocked it—Jamie’s passcode was still 1234, the idiot—and pulled up Kayla’s contact. His fingers flew over the screen, typing with zero hesitation: “Hey! It’s park puppy. You gave me your number. We should hang out sometime soon.” He hit send before Jamie could even process what was happening, the little whoosh sound cutting through the air.

Jamie bolted upright, lunging for the phone. “Hey, man, what the fuck?!” he snapped, snatching it back and staring at the screen. His eyes widened as he read the text, his freckled face draining of color before flushing red with fury. “You stupid fuck!” he yelled, voice cracking as he shoved RS’s shoulder. “You ruined it, you fucking ruined it!” A small tear glistened in the corner of his eye, his hands shaking as he clutched the phone like it was his lifeline to Kayla, now tainted by RS’s meddling.

RS opened his mouth to laugh it off, but before he could get a word out—or Jamie could finish his meltdown—a loud DING pierced the tension. Jamie froze, mid-rant, his breath hitching. Priya and Tim scrambled over, crowding around him as he fumbled to open the message. RS leaned in too, all four heads nearly knocking together as they read Kayla’s reply over Jamie’s shoulder.

“Hey park puppy! OMG I was hoping you’d text. How about tomorrow? Coffee or something? You’re too cute not to see again ;)”

The group went silent for a beat, the words sinking in. Jamie’s jaw dropped, the tear still clinging to his lashes forgotten as his anger evaporated. Priya let out a low whistle. “Well, damn,” she said, smirking. “She’s into it.”

Tim grinned, clapping Jamie on the back. “Park Puppy’s got game, courtesy of RS. You’re welcome.”

Jamie blinked at the screen, then at RS, his expression a mix of shock and grudging awe. “I… what… you’re still an asshole,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward, betraying him.

RS leaned back on his hands, smirking as his heart raced with quiet triumph. He’d wished for Jamie to get what he wanted, and now this—Kayla was practically throwing herself at him. The power was real, and it was working. “Told you I’ve got your back,” he said, playing it cool while his mind spun with what else he could pull off.

RS leaned back on the grass, the thrill of Jamie’s success still buzzing through him like static. Kayla’s text was proof—he could make shit happen, and it felt good. His eyes flicked to Priya and Tim, their answers to his earlier question echoing in his head. Why stop with Jamie? He could test this further, give them what they wanted too. His heart thudded with a mix of excitement and something darker—curiosity about how far this power could stretch.

He focused on Priya first, her wish replaying in his mind: a tech startup, born from a breakthrough. Silently, he thought, I wish Priya thinks up a badass AI breakthrough right now, something game-changing. The air didn’t shift this time—no weird wind—but a second later, Priya jolted upright, her dark eyes wide behind her glasses. “Holy shit,” she muttered, scrambling for her laptop bag. She yanked it open, flipped the screen up, and started typing furiously, her fingers a blur. “Guys, I just—oh my god, it’s so simple, why didn’t I see it before? A self-optimizing algorithm for Ghost—it could adapt to user patterns in real-time, no lag, no bloat. This could be huge.”

RS grinned, watching her go full mad-scientist mode. “What’s up, Priya? You look like you just cracked the Matrix.”

“I think I did,” she said, breathless, but then her face twisted into a scowl. “Fuck, this piece-of-shit laptop can’t handle it. I need something with real horsepower—mine’s **** on the prelim sims already.” She slammed a fist lightly on the keyboard, muttering, “Ugh, why don’t I have a better rig?”

RS filed that away—step one worked, but she’d need more. He’d circle back. For now, he shifted focus to Tim, replaying his wish: fame for his art, real recognition. I wish Tim becomes an art kingpin, making bank from galleries of his work, starting now. No dramatic gust this time either, but Tim suddenly sat up, his lanky frame unfolding as he grabbed his sketchbook and pencil with a new intensity. “Hold up,” he said, flipping to a fresh page. “I’ve got an idea—Jamie, Kayla, the frisbee-to-the-face, all of it. Comic book style, full spread.”

He started sketching, his hand moving fast, charcoal slashing across the page in bold, dynamic lines. The group leaned in, watching as he roughed out Jamie’s dumbstruck face, Kayla’s flirty jogger pose, the frisbee mid-flight. But it wasn’t just doodling—there was a spark in Tim’s eyes, a confidence RS hadn’t seen before. “This is gold,” Tim muttered, shading in Kayla’s smirk. “I could build a whole series—slice-of-life meets surreal. Galleries would eat this up. Hell, I can see it—my name on the wall, people bidding insane cash.”

Priya glanced up from her laptop, smirking despite her frustration. “What, you’re a mogul now, Tim? Slow down, Picasso.”

“Nah, I’m serious,” Tim said, grinning as he added a speech bubble—“Mine!”—over Kayla’s head. “This is my ticket.”

Jamie, still dazed from his phone, laughed. “You’re both losing it. What’s in the water today?”

RS just watched, his pulse racing as the pieces fell into place. Priya’s breakthrough, Tim’s sudden artistic empire vibe—it was working. He’d done it again. What else could I do? he thought, the question looping as he masked his glee with a casual shrug. “Guess we’re all on fire today,” he said, but inside, he was plotting: Priya’s computer next, then… who knew?

The afternoon stretched on, the group falling back into their usual chaos after the flurry of breakthroughs. They tossed the frisbee around some more, Priya grumbling about her laptop between throws, Tim sketching panels in the grass, and Jamie texting Kayla back with a goofy grin plastered on his face. RS kept up the banter, lobbing playful jabs and dodging Priya’s sarcastic retorts, all while the buzz of his power simmered under the surface. The sun dipped lower, painting the Flatirons in shades of orange and pink, and their stomachs started rumbling in unison—dinner time was closing in.

“Alright, losers, I’m starving,” Priya announced, slamming her laptop shut and stretching her arms overhead. “Mom’s making biryani tonight, and I’m not missing it for you clowns.”

Tim hopped up, brushing grass off his cargo pants. “Yeah, Dad’s grilling—gotta get home before he burns the burgers again.”

Jamie, still clutching his phone like a lifeline, bounced to his feet, his energy practically vibrating. “Guys, I think this might be our year,” he said, his voice giddy and dumbstruck, like he couldn’t believe his own luck. He threw his arms wide, pulling them all into a sloppy group hug—Priya squawking in protest, Tim laughing, RS grinning as Jamie’s curls tickled his cheek. “Seriously, best day ever. Love you weirdos.”

“Ugh, get off me, you sap,” Priya groaned, but she was smiling as she wriggled free. They broke apart, slinging their stuff over their shoulders—RS grabbing his frisbee, Tim his sketchbook, Priya her bag—and started their ritual goodbyes.

“Later, Park Puppy—don’t trip over your tongue texting Kayla!” RS called, dodging Jamie’s playful shove.

“See ya, nerd king,” Jamie fired back, then turned to Priya. “Don’t crash the internet with your genius, yeah?”

Priya smirked. “No promises. Tim, don’t sell your soul for art fame.”

“Too late,” Tim quipped, waving his pencil like a wand. “Catch you freaks tomorrow.”

They split off, each heading home under the fading light. RS hopped on his bike, pedaling through the cooling streets, the wind tugging at his X-Men tee as Jamie’s words echoed in his head—our year. He smirked to himself, the secret of his wishes fueling a quiet thrill. Priya’s biryani, Tim’s burgers, Jamie’s lovesick high—dinner with their families awaited, but RS was already thinking bigger. Our year, huh? Let’s see what I can make happen next.

RS wheeled his bike into the garage, the tires humming against the concrete as he parked it beside the wall. The ride home had been a blur, his mind still electric from the park—Kayla grabbing Jamie, Priya’s breakthrough, Tim’s art kingpin vibe. Sweat clung to his skin, and he peeled off his X-Men tee as he trudged upstairs, tossing it into the laundry hamper before hopping into the shower. The hot water blasted away the day’s grit, steam clouding the bathroom as he scrubbed down, the scent of his pine body wash grounding him. It’s so simple, he thought, the realization pulsing through him like a heartbeat. Wishing made things happen—Jamie’s jogger, his friends’ sudden wins. The power was real, and it was his.

Toweling off, he caught a whiff of dinner wafting up from the kitchen—his mom was making his absolute favorite, chicken parmesan, the rich smell of marinara and melting mozzarella already tugging at his stomach. He pulled on a clean hoodie and jeans, his damp hair sticking to his forehead, and padded downstairs, mind still racing. Little did anyone know—little did the audience know—he’d been nursing a quiet, messy attraction to Vanessa for longer than he’d admit. Her confidence, her sharpness, the way she owned every room she walked into. It was fucked up, he knew, but the day’s chaos had him reckless. Fuck it, he thought, standing alone in the empty living room. I wish Vanessa has a little brother fetish. And our parents don’t care.

He waited, letting the wish settle over him like a wave. No gust of wind, no eerie hum—nothing. The room stayed still, the TV off, the couch cushions undisturbed. He glanced around, brows furrowing. “Huh?” he muttered, half-expecting shadows to shift or the lights to flicker like some cheesy horror movie. But it was just… normal. He shrugged, brushing it off—maybe it took time, or maybe he’d hit a limit. Whatever.

“Perfect timing, dinner’s done!” his mom called, stepping out of the kitchen with a dish towel slung over her shoulder. Her auburn hair was tied back, sauce smudged on her apron, and she shot him a warm smile before turning to yell upstairs. “Honey! Daughter! Dinner’s ready!” Her voice echoed through the house, pulling RS out of his head as the clatter of footsteps signaled his dad and Vanessa heading down.

RS slid into his seat at the dining table, the familiar creak of the wooden chair grounding him as the family settled in. Vanessa plopped down across from him, her dark curls bouncing, still rocking that skimpy satin camisole and shorts combo that showed off her navel ring and long legs. His dad took the spot to his left, newspaper folded beside his plate, while his mom sat to his right, sliding the steaming tray of chicken parmesan into the center. The table was a spread of comfort—golden-breaded chicken smothered in sauce and cheese, a bowl of spaghetti, and garlic bread that made RS’s mouth water.

“Vanessa, why don’t you say grace tonight?” his mom said, folding her hands with a smile, oblivious to the tension RS was starting to feel.

Vanessa smirked, tossing her hair back, and clasped her hands dramatically. “Fine, fine,” she said, then bowed her head, her voice taking on a syrupy tone that set RS’s nerves on edge. “Dear God, thank you for this food, and for Mom and Dad, who keep us fed and happy. But especially, thank you for my little brother, Roger—RS—who’s just… the best. For how he’s always there, y’know, looking out for me in his goofy way. For his dumb freckles and that grin that makes everything better. I’m just so grateful he’s mine—uh, I mean, part of this family. Bless him, keep him close, always. Amen.”

She peeked up through her lashes, her hazel eyes locking on RS with a glint that felt… off. Too warm, too pointed. RS froze, fork halfway to his plate, his brain screeching to a halt. That wasn’t normal grace—that was weird as hell. “Mine”? “Keep him close”? The hints were subtle but screaming to him—vanilla on the surface, sure, but laced with something inappropriate that made his stomach twist. He’d picked up on it instantly, the echo of his wish from earlier ringing in his head. But what floored him more was his parents—they didn’t bat an eye. His dad just grunted, reaching for the garlic bread, and his mom smiled softly, murmuring, “That was sweet, honey,” before serving herself spaghetti.

RS’s heart kicked up, his eyes darting between them. Why weren’t they stopping her? Why didn’t they hear what he heard? The wish—he’d made it, and now Vanessa’s words were dripping with it, and his parents were acting like it was nothing. He swallowed hard, the chicken parmesan suddenly less appealing as he wondered just how deep this rabbit hole went.

RS stabbed at his chicken parmesan, the fork scraping the plate as he tried to focus on the food and not the weird vibe still lingering from Vanessa’s grace. The sauce was tangy, the cheese gooey—just how he liked it—but his mind was a mess, replaying her words, the wish, the lack of reaction from his parents. He shoveled a bite into his mouth, chewing mechanically, when something shifted under the table.

Vanessa’s leg crossed, her bare foot brushing against his shin—innocent enough at first, a casual bump. But then it slid higher, deliberate and slow, until her toes found his crotch. RS’s eyes shot wide, a chunk of chicken catching in his throat as he choked down a cough. Her foot pressed against him, teasing through his jeans, and his dick twitched in response, waking up fast. Pleasure sparked up his spine, hot and unbidden, locking his voice in his chest. Too shocked to speak, too good to stop her, he sat there, fork frozen mid-air, staring across the table.

She didn’t look at him—just smirked faintly into her spaghetti, twirling it around her fork like nothing was happening. Her hazel eyes flicked up once, catching his, and the smirk deepened, daring him to react. His parents kept eating, his dad grumbling about the Broncos’ offseason, his mom humming as she passed the garlic bread—oblivious, just like he’d wished. The air felt thick, his pulse hammering in his ears as Vanessa’s foot worked him, slow and steady, the pressure building until he had to grip the table edge to keep from squirming.

RS’s grip on the table tightened, his knuckles whitening as Vanessa’s foot kept up its relentless teasing, her toes curling and pressing just right through his jeans. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged, every nerve screaming as he teetered on the edge. She was too good at this—too precise—and he realized, with a jolt of panic and awe, that she could tell. She knew he was close, her smirk sharpening as she watched him squirm without ever breaking her casual act.

Then, she timed it perfectly. She scooped up a bite of spaghetti, the sauce glistening on her fork, and slid it into her mouth. As she chewed, she let out a low, exaggerated moan—“Mmm, oh my god, this is so good”—her voice dripping with fake ecstasy, loud enough to make his mom glance over with a pleased smile. But RS knew better. It wasn’t the food. It was her fucking with him, twisting the knife in his mind, and it was too much. His eyes squeezed shut, a choked grunt escaping as the tension snapped—hot, messy, and unstoppable. He came right there in his pants, the rush flooding through him, soaking into his boxers as his legs trembled under the table.

Vanessa’s foot eased off, retreating with a final teasing brush, and she leaned back in her chair, licking sauce off her lips with a smug little grin. RS sat there, panting quietly, face flushed, staring at his half-eaten chicken parmesan like it could explain what just happened. His parents didn’t notice a thing—his dad muttering about the sports page, his mom asking if anyone wanted seconds. The wish had worked, alright, and now he was stuck in the aftermath, mind reeling and jeans ruined.

RS **** down the last few bites of his chicken parmesan, the flavors dull against the chaos in his head. His face burned, his pulse still thudding as he kept his eyes glued to his plate, avoiding Vanessa’s smug gaze across the table. The wet stickiness in his jeans was unbearable—hot and gross, clinging to his skin—and he needed out. Now. He shoveled in the final bite, mumbling a quick, “Thanks, Mom, so good,” before pushing his chair back with a scrape.

“Gonna… uh, chill upstairs,” he said, voice tight, not waiting for a reply as he bolted from the table. His mom called something about dessert, but he was already halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time, **** to escape the scene he’d accidentally ignited. Vanessa’s faint chuckle followed him, a knife-twist in his gut, but he didn’t look back.

He burst into his room, slamming the door shut and locking it with a shaky hand. “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, peeling off his soiled jeans like they were toxic. The damp patch in his boxers made him grimace—he tossed them into the hamper with the jeans, grabbing a wet wipe from his desk to clean up quick. His heart was still racing, half from the rush, half from the realization of what he’d done with that wish. He yanked on a pair of loose flannel pajama pants and a faded Batman tee, the soft fabric a relief against his rattled nerves.

Flopping onto his bed, he stared at the ceiling, the glow of his alarm clock casting a faint red hue across the room. The house hummed below—dishes clinking, his dad’s low voice—but up here, it was just him and the weight of what he’d unleashed. Too far? he wondered, but the thrill still lingered, dangerous and tempting.

RS lay sprawled on his bed, the flannel of his pajama pants soft against his legs, the Batman tee rumpled as he sank into the mattress. The house quieted below—dishes done, TV murmuring faintly through the floor—but his mind was a live wire, replaying the day like a manic TV show episode recap, complete with dramatic cuts and a voiceover he couldn’t shut off.

Fade in: morning. RS waking up drenched in sweat, the dream still clawing at him—dark church, glowing pentagram, that voice promising power for his soul. “Satan, hear my plea,” he’d said, bold and stupid, and sealed the deal. Cue the dizzy blackout, the pukey wake-up call in his bed. Weird start, but manageable.

Cut to breakfast: Mom’s pancakes, Dad’s newspaper, Vanessa strolling in like a lingerie model—all cleavage and legs. RS wishing she’d treat him better, and bam, she’s dishing out senior-year tips like a life coach. Subtle, but it worked. First sign the wish thing wasn’t bullshit.

Smash cut to the park: Jamie, Priya, Tim, the nerd herd in full swing. Frisbee flying, then that jogger—Kayla—jogging by, all blonde and bouncy. Jamie’s drooling, takes a disc to the face, and RS wishes he’d get what he wants. Wind blows, Kayla’s back, flirting hard, grabbing his dick, claiming him like a prize. “Mine,” she says, then bolts. Jamie’s a puddle, the crew’s losing it—test one, success.

Quick montage: Priya’s AI breakthrough, typing like a fiend, pissed her laptop’s too slow. Tim sketching comics, dreaming of galleries and cash—art kingpin mode unlocked. RS pulling strings, wishes flowing, no one the wiser.

Climax at dinner: Chicken parm, Vanessa’s freaky grace—“Thank you for my little brother”—then her foot on his dick under the table, teasing him to ruin. Parents clueless, just like he’d wished. Her moan into the spaghetti, him cumming in his jeans, the rush and the mess. Too far, maybe, but holy shit, it happened.

He blinked at the ceiling, the red glow of his clock ticking to 9:14 p.m. The day unspooled in his head—start to finish, a rollercoaster of power and chaos. He’d gone from nerdy high school senior to some kind of wish-granting freak, bending reality with a thought. Jamie’s love life, Priya’s genius, Tim’s art, Vanessa’s… whatever that was. His heart thudded, a mix of shock and giddy disbelief. What the hell’s next? he thought, the episode fading to black as exhaustion tugged at him, the recap done but the season far from over.

RS’s eyelids grew heavy, the recap of the day fading into a hazy blur as exhaustion pulled him under. He sprawled across his bed, the Batman tee rucked up over his stomach, flannel pants loose around his hips. His mind drifted, daydreaming about the possibilities—wishing for a tricked-out car, straight A’s without trying, maybe even X-ray vision like some comic book hero. The power was limitless, intoxicating, and as sleep crept in, his thoughts melted into a fantasy: him tangled up with some random hot girl, all curves and moans, a dreamscape of sweaty, reckless fun.

He didn’t hear the door creak open. Didn’t catch the soft pad of Vanessa’s bare feet across the hardwood, her satin camisole whispering against her skin as she slipped into his room. She paused by his bed, her dark curls spilling over her shoulders, hazel eyes glinting in the dim red glow of his alarm clock—11:03 p.m. A smirk played on her lips as she watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling, oblivious. The wish he’d made—her little brother fetish, their parents’ indifference—had sunk deep, and she was here to play it out.

She slid onto the mattress, careful not to wake him, and curled up beside him, her body warm against his side. Her hand trailed down his stomach, fingertips brushing the waistband of his flannel pants before slipping inside. RS twitched in his sleep, a faint groan escaping as she wrapped her fingers around him, stroking slow at first, then faster. In his dream, the hot girl straddled him, her moans echoing, but in reality, it was Vanessa—giggling softly each time his hips jerked, puppetting him with expert precision.

She worked him senseless, relentless, drawing him to the edge and over again and again. He came in messy spurts, sticky and hot across his stomach and her hand, each release pulling a muffled grunt from his sleeping throat. “Good boy,” she whispered once, stifling a laugh as he shuddered, lost in his dream-girl haze. She didn’t stop—three, four times, maybe more—until his pants and sheets were a wreck, his body spent and trembling. With every climax, she giggled, low and wicked, loving the control, the secret chaos of it all.

Finally, she pulled back, wiping her hand on his discarded jeans from earlier. She slipped off the bed, leaving him sprawled there, covered in his own mess, the Batman tee crumpled and stained. No trace of her—just a locked door clicked back into place as she vanished downstairs, her smirk lingering in the dark.

RS slept on, dreaming of that random girl, blissed out and clueless, the sticky reality waiting for him when he woke.