Alex's bare feet sank into the damp, crumpled fast-food wrapper beneath him as he paced—well, more like stumbled—across the battlefield of his own neglect. The coffee table stretched before him like a post-apocalyptic wasteland of soda rings and vape juice splatters. His pulse hammered. *Okay, think.* The truck yard flashed first—gritty, industrial, the scent of diesel and stale piss. But did he *want* to teleport into some trucker’s armpit at a rest stop? Suddenly, his dick twitched.
Or Then, the beach: golden sand, salt air, maybe some oiled-up volleyball players. Except—fuck—what if he popped into existence right under a descending spiked heel? Alex shuddered. His cock disagreed violently, hardening at the mental image.
Then—rugby. Sweat-soaked jerseys clinging to sculpted thighs, brutal tackles, that one guy with the crooked nose who’d definitely pin him between his pecs just to fuck with him.
Or The soccer field was but maybe that chould be worse. All those lean, quick-tongued athletes who’d probably lick him up off the grass like a stray sugar cube.
Alex exhaled sharply. His tiny body hummed with reckless energy. "Fuck it," he muttered, and with a flex of his will—*pop*—the apartment vanished.
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