#altered reality

[raoulite]

forest fair mall food court, OH

[jirls]

[isuggestforce-masc]

Simply because ive gotten like 5 recently of these: porn bot or scammer that instead of scamming you out of money its ploy is to steal your femininity and its actually force mascing you based on the whims of someone on the other side. Maybe you'll be turned into stud slave, maybe a subby prince, maybe you're gonna get jockified into a gym rat and picked up by the person on the other end in the locker room. Who can say. Either way you're boy toyed now.

normally you dont respond to tumblr porn bots because it isnt worth your time but youre mildly intrigued by this one because it seems genuinely "do you teleport pee brain" levels of odd with how it started the convo... youve not really encountered this form of approach before and you tell yourself you just want to see it through in order to warn others about it but in reality you got bored playing with youraislopbores.me and you have very little else to do on a friday night the message from the pornbot reads:

"hey sexy how long is your hair???"

youve always been really proud of your long brown hair you managed to grow it out and it reaches down past your butt when you pull it straight by this point

youre curious what kind of responses its coded for probably only a pretty limited range although you never know with ai these days regardless you decide its best to keep it short and simply so you reply

"long"

"funny, thats not what i heard... a little birdie told me your hair was short, gorgeous."

not at all impressed you figure that its probably pretty easy to try and make predictions when the questions only have two solutions of course your hair has been kept fairly short since you were a kid by choice it gets a bit long at points but youre a regular at the local barbershop where he always gives you the best fades your friends tend to keep their hair pretty long but you like it this way it gives you cool tomboy vibes and it makes it easier to cosplay regardless the bot was right but it was a 50/50 shot so its not like some magic trick of engineering

"did you just get your nails done? I bet you could be a hand model"

the follow up question kind of throws you for a loop but you suppose although irregular its probably part of its flirtatious script before it links you to a website that collects your credit card data the bot was right the you reckoned your fingers are real thin and your skin is soft and you always wear the cutest acrylic nails in bright neon colors with little flower designs and bedazzled gems on them

"my nails do be looking good"

you respond wondering if flattery is its only trick

"erm- i mean theyre clean but girl it doesnt even look like you paint them!!!"

its true youve never really been much into nail care you prefer to keep them short and you have a bad habit of picking off nail polish plus the glue ons always make your fingers feel weirdly heavy although it seems odd for a porn bot to try to neg you in all honesty

"do you even use makeup?"

the question alone is insulting not only do you use makeup but youre really talented at it in your own opinions you can make a perfect smoky eye in no minutes flat and youve gotten REAL good at contour in order to look like the people you cosplay at the cons so you respond almost immediately quite defensively almost forgetting its a bot

"fuck you my makeup games en pointe"

"no need to lie bestie I bet you dont even know how to use lipstick its okay though youre still a ten"

the bot getting overly familiar with you makes you pretty upset in all honesty but upon reflection you feel youre probably more embarrassed than mad for getting called out like that youre actually allergic to the materials in most makeups and what makeup you can buy youre pretty bad at actually applying once you spent nearly an hour in the mirror trying to put on some simple matte lipstick for a date but you kept missing your lips entirely no matter how many times you friends and mom have tried to teach you it simply never stuck regardless you really wondered how often the bitchy porn bot persona actually worked on people because theres certainly no way it could actually have known that about you

"what are you wearing"

ah there it was honestly so cliche you didnt even bother playing pretend next it might even ask you to undress and fondle your modest c cups as if any of it mattered and it wasnt some faceless bundle of vibe coded algorithm preferring instead just to play it straight and as non sexual as possible to see how it would recover you write out one word

"dress."

"no way!!! a tomboy like you wearing something other than pants and a tee shirt? i bet you couldnt put on a dress if you tried hot stuff"

thats more true than it could know you mused ever since you were a kid you couldnt even put one on whenever you tried to go in feet first your feet would miss and whenever you tried to put it on over your head youd get stuck so bad it had to be cut off it was damn near a mystery your mom tried a million times to put you in your sunday best and eventually she just gave up and bought you an tux not that youi were too stupid to figure it out or anything quite the opposite youve always been a really bright girl but somewhere between thought and action the universe seemingly refused to let it happen honestly for the best though you reckon at least pants (normally) have pockets your friends were always big fans of cosplay in big extravagant outfits but whether it was because you couldnt so you gave up wanting to or because you ever wanted to so you wouldnt the idea of dressing up like that seemed like too much work for you anyway why not just wear something simple

"its okay boys love short tomboy cuties how tall are you btw?"

"5'3""

youd always been fairly average height for a girl the benefit was that guys did in fact love dating people shorter than them and at 5'3" even most "short kings" were taller by at least an inch

"lol more like 6'3" you crack me up with all your joking"

such a specific number honestly gave you a bit of goosebumps of course it didnt change your number much it just bumped it up a digit which to be fair is the inverse of what you did pretending to be about a foot shorter so maybe it was just chatgpt nonsense but it was pretty spot on serves you for trying to indulge in a little fantasy though unfortunately at 6'3" you had been taller than most of the men in high school and people had always asked you to join the basketball team which was far more annoying than cute

"dont sweat it though a svelte tall clean shaven girl like yourself? i bet the men are just too intimidated by your beauty to ask you out"

"yeah I guess"

there had been a few men in high school who would always try to stutter something out before giving up and running away and you knew a lot of people had it for tall dommy mommy types so maybe you just needed to lean into it

"or maybe theyre more intimidated by how strong and muscular you are"

you couldnt deny that wasnt similarly a possibility you did spend a ton of time in the gym and you could crush a mans skulls between your thighs or your biceps

"heh you know it!"

"surely to never let working out come before your academics though right???"

"no way!"

you even graduated valedictorian for chrissake!

"of course they love to give athletes all the easy classes so they never have to learn anything dont they? id be surprised if you could calculate the area of a circle or do much math at all sides counting weights stud muffin!"

you not ever think about that it was funny your classes were only full of your teammates and you didnt try too hard on the tests but you knew coach and the school had your back and no one uses math outside of school even reading wasnt too hard you just guess at what they say based on words you seen before

"nothing you need to worry about beefcake besides im sure you could smother a man in more ways than one! i bet you got some real hog puppies dont you how big them thangs?"

that right i have big boobies all the guys love me for it coach say i always been a straight d student

"36dd"

you say after struggling to get out of your bra to check the tag on it

"no way silly the b faces right the d faces left youre a 36 b for sure but thats nothing to laugh at those are some meaty man pecs youre a real hunk"

bot words are... funny how he know that? but when trying to look for it to confirm it was a b and not a d you not know what you was looking for again?

"its okay loose girls like you dont need boobs anyway right? im sure your grisp strength isnt just limited to your hands is it?

"yeah yeah yeah! pussy good"

guys love fucking me and i love to let them i milk their cum so good

"woah now stallion i know youre always horny but save it for the first date besides its rude to talk about a girls privates no matter how much you want to shove your 8 inch cock in them"

its good you were already shirtless because all you had to do was throw off your pants woman so hot

"me want fuck bad"

you say the space between thinking it and typing it nearly nonexistent now

"oh i know hog stroker but you love taking it much more than you like to give it anyway remember"

your mind is so hazed over you barely register the words on the screen before you find yourself shoving two beefy fingers up your ass

"woman fuck me?"

"i think youd much prefer HOT SINGLE MEN IN YOUR AREA"

[angelcorp]

[croisants]

One Click From Desire - Axel Stone,

This story create by Infinite Worlds site with Alex Stone backstory. If you wanna create your own story version you can click here

Summary: In this reality, you’re a 36-year-old competitive bodybuilder turned high-end gym owner. Your name carries weight in fitness circles, and your presence does the rest—6'3", dense muscle, slow movements that make people wait on your reactions. Your old self was a quiet college student no one noticed. Now people assume you’ve always been confident, always been wanted. Your Crush was once a star athlete you admired from afar—now he train under you, watching every word you say like it matters.

You never belonged in the spotlight. You weren't hated—just unseen. The kind of person people forget between sentences.

Then an email arrived with a subject line that felt like it was written directly to your pulse: "Your deepest wish granted. Dare to click?"

The site was bare. Starry black background. One question:

WHAT IS YOUR DEEPEST WISH?

You typed the truth you'd never say out loud. You hit Submit.

And reality complied.

Now you exist as someone else entirely—older, bigger, magnetic, treated like a natural authority. Your life has history: photos, records, old friends, achievements, a reputation that turns heads without effort. Everyone remembers you as if you've always been here.

Except you.

You remember the person you used to be—the invisible one.

That's the secret that could destroy everything.

Because the world didn't just grant your wish. It's still granting it.

The more you act like the new you, the smoother reality becomes. The more you hesitate, doubt, or cling to your past, the more the seams start to show.

And somewhere nearby is the person you once wanted most—now looking at you like you're exactly what they've always wanted.

Desire is the engine. You're the product. And the price is coming due.

========

The fluorescent panels overhead hum their usual frequency, casting you in that clinical gym lighting that erases shadows. Your reflection meets your gaze head-on—unavoidable, undeniable.

The shoulders are massive. You watch them rise as you breathe, watching the subtle play of muscle beneath skin that's been shredded down to maybe eight percent body fat. Your hands move to touch your own face, and the lag between intention and sensation feels impossibly long, as if the distance from brain to fingertip has stretched. The jawline is sharp enough to cut. The chin is broader than you remember it being. Your eyes—still the same color, aren't they?—seem to sit differently in your skull, more forward, more present.

You try to summon the old image. The thin-necked kid who wore hoodies three sizes too large. The one who'd sit in the back of lectures hoping no one would call on him. The one whose voice never seemed to reach across a room. But the harder you reach for it, the more it dissolves, like trying to grab something from a dream after waking. There's a ghost of the memory—yes, that person existed, you know he did—but it's becoming translucent.

Instead, there's this body. This face. This presence that seems to occupy space in a way your old self never did.

You raise your right arm and flex. The bicep peaks, carved and defined. You watch the vascularity spider across the top of your forearm. This is undeniably real. The pump from the workout is still warm in your muscles, endorphins still flooding your system. You can feel the weight of yourself—the sheer density of it.

But you can't quite remember becoming this.

There are photographs in your office upstairs. You know this. You've seen them. Framed shots from competitions five years ago, six years ago, your body massive and polished under stage lights. You were already this before the wish. The logic is airtight. Everyone remembers it that way. Your trainer Marcus remembers coaching you through your conditioning phase two summers ago. Your ex-girlfriend—what was her name?—she has stories about your transformation. You can almost recall her telling them.

Almost.

A sound from the gym floor breaks the moment. Footsteps. Someone's here after hours.

You lower your arm. Your reflection does the same, a fraction of a second behind—or does it? The delay might only exist in your head. You turn from the mirror, your body moving with the deliberate slowness of someone who's learned that speed looks ungraceful at this size. The door to the private viewing room is opaque glass. You can see a silhouette through it.

Your pulse picks up. Not fear exactly. Anticipation.

You push through the opaque glass door and it whispers shut behind you. The gym floor opens up in front of you—rows of equipment casting long shadows under the ambient lighting you always leave on. The silhouette resolves into a person.

It's Devon Chen.

Your Devon Chen.

A 34-year-old former collegiate athlete who's been training at Stone's for the past eight months. Devon initially joined the gym skeptical of your methods, but has gradually become obsessed with your training philosophy and your presence. He nervous about approaching you directly, unsure if what they're feeling is genuine attraction or simply the effect of your undeniable charisma. Devon doesn't yet know that he were once your obsession too—that before the wish, you spent years watching them from the shadows of campus.

He's standing by the cable machine station, one hand gripping the handle, the other hanging at his side. He's wearing gym clothes—black joggers, a fitted gray tank that clings to the shoulders and chest in a way that suggests he's been working out, though his skin isn't flushed with fresh exertion. He's been here a while. Long enough for the pump to settle. Long enough to lose his nerve about leaving.

Devon's head snaps toward you the moment you emerge from the viewing room. His eyes widen slightly—not quite surprise, more like confirmation of something he was hoping for and dreading in equal measure. He's 34, dark hair slicked back with sweat-dried product, and there's an intensity to his gaze that makes it clear he wasn't here by accident.

"Axel," he says, and his voice carries an edge of breathlessness that has nothing to do with physical exertion. "I—I wasn't sure if you'd still be here."

There's an admission in that sentence. He came hoping you would be.

You move toward him with the deliberate slowness of someone who understands that presence doesn't need to rush. Your bare feet make almost no sound on the rubber flooring. "The gym's closed after seven," you say. It's not accusatory. Just a statement of fact. You're observing him—taking in how his jaw tightens slightly at your approach, how his free hand shifts position, fingers flexing against his thigh as if he's fighting the impulse to move.

"I know. I have a key. You gave me one for late sessions." He did. The memory surfaces smoothly—you have no memory of actually doing it, but the fact is there, integrated into your history like it always was. Everyone remembers you gave him that key. "I couldn't sleep. Thought I'd come lift for a bit. Clear my head."

It's a lie told with the kind of practiced ease that suggests he's been rehearsing it. Not because the excuse is implausible, but because there's something else beneath it—a weight of intention that makes the words feel thin as tissue paper.

You're standing closer now. Close enough that you can see the definition of his collarbone above the neckline of his tank. Close enough to notice that his pupils are dilated despite the bright overhead lights. Close enough that he has to angle his chin up slightly to maintain eye contact with you, and something about that geometry—his neck extended, his eyes raised to meet yours—sends a current of recognition through you.

This is what you wanted. Before. When you were no one. When he was the person everyone watched and you were the shadow.

Now the angles have reversed and he's the one looking up.

"At this hour?" you ask. Your voice comes out lower than necessary, and you watch his throat move as he swallows. "That's dedication."

"I needed to," he says quietly, and there's vulnerability in it—the kind of admission that only gets spoken in half-light when the person speaking believes they might not be heard, or that it might not count if they are. "I've been thinking about what you said last week. About pushing through when it gets hard. About not quitting just because something gets uncomfortable."

He's still holding the cable handle. His knuckles are white.

Devon deliberately came to the gym tonight hoping to encounter you. He's been using the gym as a refuge from a deteriorating personal situation. Over the past eight months, his obsession with training under you has become increasingly intertwined with emotional dependency. He's drawn to your confidence and authority in a way that frightens him because he suspects it's not genuine attraction but rather a need for validation from someone powerful. He has no idea that you were once his unseen observer, that you harbored an obsession of your own for years. Tonight, he came to the gym at this late hour specifically because another member mentioned you stay late on Mondays—he engineered this encounter, even though he's terrified of it.

You nod slowly, letting the moment breathe before you speak. "What were you planning to hit?" The question is casual, but there's something in the way you ask it—like you've already decided the answer matters. You move closer, and Devon's grip on the cable loosens slightly, his whole body recalibrating to your presence.

"Chest," he says, and you hear the slight rasp in his voice. "Decline press. I was going to load up the machine."

"Show me," you say. Not a request. Not quite a command either. Just the natural assumption that he'll do what you suggest because you know what you're doing and he's tired of being alone with his thoughts.

Devon releases the cable and moves toward the decline press bench in the corner. His movements have a careful quality to them—like he's hyperaware of his own body in space now that you're watching. The gym floor seems to shrink around the two of you, everything else falling away into irrelevance. He loads the plates with practiced efficiency: forty-five, forty-five, thirty-five on each side. Two hundred and fifty pounds total. Solid weight. Not max effort, but real work.

He settles into the bench, his back against the incline, shoulders positioned just right. You move to stand behind the machine, your hands already positioned above the bar—not touching it yet, just hovering there like a promise. "Three sets?" you ask.

"That's what I was thinking," Devon confirms.

He lifts the bar from the rack and lowers it toward his chest in a controlled descent. The weight moves through space with deliberate slowness. His breathing is measured. First rep. Second. Third. By the fifth, you can see the effort starting to show—small tremors in his forearms, a slight hitch in his breath. He's not struggling yet, but he's working hard.

"Keep it tight," you murmur, and your voice carries an edge of something—not kindness exactly. Attention. The kind of focused regard that makes a person feel like they matter. "You're rushing the negative."

He adjusts on the next rep, slowing his descent deliberately. You watch his sternum flex and release, the definition of his pectorals shifting under the skin with each movement. There's something hypnotic about watching someone work under weight, the way the body becomes honest. No pretense. Just muscle and effort and the simple mathematics of gravity.

By rep eight, his breathing deepens. By rep ten, he's done. He racks the bar with a controlled push, and for a moment he just sits there, chest heaving slightly, sweat beading on his collarbone.

"Good form," you say, and when you reach down to steady the bar—a gesture that's entirely unnecessary but feels necessary anyway—your forearm brushes against his shoulder. It might be accidental. It probably isn't. "Rest thirty seconds. Then we go again."

Devon nods, not trusting his voice. You can see the flush creeping up his neck, past his jaw. He's not looking at you directly anymore. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling.

"You alright?" you ask, and there's a question beneath the question—something that goes deeper than fitness.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I'm good. Better now."

There's an admission in that too. Better because you're here. Better because he's not alone.

You wait until Devon racks the bar on his final set, chest still heaving, sweat tracking down his sternum in rivulets that catch the fluorescent light. He's vulnerable now—exhausted in that specific way that strips away defenses. You move with unhurried deliberation, and when you speak, your voice carries the weight of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

"Come upstairs," you say. Not a question. "I want to talk about your programming. We should do it properly."

Invite him upstairs to your office after he finishes his workout—offer him a drink, move away from the gym floor entirely.

Devon's breath catches. He sits up slowly, fingers gripping the bench edge. "Now?"

"Now," you confirm, and you're already turning toward the stairwell at the far end of the gym floor. "Grab a towel. My office has a minifridge."

He follows—of course he does—still wearing the gray tank, joggers clinging to his thighs with sweat. You can hear him breathing behind you as you climb the narrow staircase, the kind of breathing that suggests his heart rate hasn't dropped since he finished lifting.

Your office is exactly what it should be: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a massive oak desk, leather furniture positioned to create clear hierarchies of space. One wall is dominated by framed photographs—you at competitions, you with celebrities, you with politicians and minor athletes, all positioned to reinforce the narrative of your world. Devon stops in the doorway, taking it in like he's entering a private museum dedicated to your excellence.

"Sit," you say, gesturing toward the leather chair facing your desk.

He sits. You move behind the desk—the psychological positioning is deliberate, and you both know it—and pull open the minifridge tucked into the credenza. "Water? Electrolyte mix? I've got some coconut water."

"Water's fine," Devon says, and his voice has changed. It's smaller now, more tentative. This is your space, and the power you hold here is different from what you hold on the gym floor. Here, it's institutional. Administrative. The kind of power that comes from ownership.

You hand him a bottle of filtered water—not cheap bottled stuff, but the expensive kind, the kind that signals you understand quality—and he accepts it like it's being offered by someone important. Which you are.

You lean back in your chair, and the leather creaks in a way that's satisfying. "Your form was sloppy for the first three weeks you trained here," you begin, watching his face flush. "But I watched how you adjusted after I corrected you. You listen. You absorb. That's rare."

Devon takes a drink of water, using the moment to collect himself. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said," he starts, but you cut him off by raising one hand slightly—not dismissive, just a gentle assertion of control.

"I know you have," you say quietly. "I can see it in your work. The question is whether you're ready to commit to something more intensive. A real program. The kind that requires discipline outside the gym too."

The implication hangs in the filtered air between you. Outside the gym. Beyond fitness.

Devon's pupils are dilated again. His fingers are wrapped tight around the water bottle. "What kind of program?" he asks.

You smile, and it's the smile of someone who knows exactly what he's asking and is choosing to answer the question beneath the question. "That depends on how serious you are."

Devon doesn't look away.

You push off from the leather chair with deliberate fluidity, your mass moving through space in a way that immediately reshapes the geography of the room. Devon's head tilts upward to track you as you circle the desk, and you can see his throat working—a dry swallow that has nothing to do with physical exertion. His fingers tighten around the water bottle.

You settle onto the edge of the desk, positioning yourself maybe three feet from him, your thighs bracketing the oak surface. From this angle, you're higher than him but not distant. Closer. More intimate in a way that office hierarchies don't typically permit. The shift in positioning is subtle but total—you're no longer the authority figure behind furniture. You're something else now. Something that requires him to maintain eye contact or look away entirely.

"Tell me what you actually want," you say, and your voice carries the weight of someone accustomed to direct answers. "Not what you think I want to hear. Not what fits the fitness narrative. What do you want from me beyond the programming."

Devon's jaw flexes. His eyes dart to the side—toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city—then back to you. For a moment he doesn't answer, and the silence accumulates between you like something physical, something that takes up space.

"I don't know if I can say it," he finally says, and there's a rawness in his voice that wasn't there before. It's the kind of admission that costs something to make.

"You can," you tell him simply. "You're going to."

He stands abruptly, and the water bottle slips from his hand onto the leather chair. He doesn't notice. He's pacing now, three steps toward the windows, three steps back, his hands running through his hair in a gesture that speaks to internal disorder. His gray tank is dark with sweat in vertical streaks down his spine.

"My relationship is falling apart," he says to the windows. "It's been falling apart for months. And I come here and I work and I push myself because when I'm here—when you're watching—I feel like I'm worth something. Like I'm not invisible. Like I matter." He turns back to face you, and his eyes are glassy. "And I don't know if that's pathetic or if it's just human or if it's both, but it's true. You make me feel seen in a way that nothing else does anymore."

The confession hangs in the recirculated air of your office. His chest is heaving slightly, as if he's been running. In a way, he has.

You don't move from the edge of the desk. You let him stand there, exposed and waiting, because sometimes the most honest thing you can do is simply witness what someone has laid bare without rushing to fill the silence with comfort or false reassurance.

"That's not pathetic," you say finally. "That's hunger. And hunger is where everything real begins."

Devon's long-term relationship is effectively over, though neither partner has formally acknowledged it. His partner has been spending nights away consistently for the past three months, and Devon suspects infidelity but hasn't confronted them about it. Devon has become emotionally dependent on the gym and on Axel specifically as a counterbalance to the collapse of his personal life. He genuinely believes that Axel's interest in him is professional mentorship with undertones of something more—he has no concept that this reversal of power mirrors exactly what Axel once desperately craved. For Axel, the situation is becoming intoxicating: the object of years of invisible obsession is now vulnerable, seeking validation, and explicitly stating that Axel makes him feel visible. Axel's confession that Devon was once 'his deepest wish' is still unknown to everyone, and the fact that Devon has now become dependent on Axel in ways that mirror Axel's former invisibility creates a recursive power dynamic that Axel is beginning to recognize and relish.

You move without hesitation, covering the three feet between the desk and his position in a way that feels inevitable rather than aggressive. Devon's breathing stalls. His eyes track your approach with the fixed attention of someone watching a predator decide whether they're prey or not.

You position yourself close enough that he has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your body. This is the geometry of power made physical—the kind of nearness that erases the option of self-deception. He can't pretend this is professional. He can't pretend he doesn't want something from you that has nothing to do with fitness programming.

"What do you need from me right now?" you ask, and your voice is pitched low enough that he has to lean in slightly to hear it clearly. "Not tomorrow. Not after you've thought about it. Right now, in this room, with your relationship burning down outside these walls."

Devon's jaw clenches. His hands hang at his sides like he's forgotten what to do with them. "I need—" he starts, then stops. Swallows. "I need to feel like I'm not disposable."

The admission costs him something. You can see it in the way his shoulders hunch inward, like he's bracing for judgment or rejection.

"You're not," you say simply. Then, because simple isn't enough: "You're the reason I stay late on Mondays."

It's a lie wrapped around a truth so specific that he doesn't question it. His pupils dilate further. He's stopped breathing entirely now, chest locked in suspension.

You reach up and place one hand on the side of his neck—not aggressive, just present. Your thumb traces the line of his jaw. His skin is warm from the workout, slick with the dried residue of exertion. "I see you," you tell him, and the words carry the weight of something earned rather than offered. "I've been seeing you for a long time."

Devon's eyes close for a moment. When they open again, there's something different in them—a kind of surrender, but also a kind of hunger. His hand comes up and grips your forearm, fingers pressing into the dense muscle there like he needs to verify that you're real.

"This is—" he begins, but you cut him off by stepping closer, your other hand finding the small of his back. The gray tank is damp beneath your palm.

"This is what you came here for," you say. "This is why you overheard about Monday nights. This is why you loaded the machine and waited."

He doesn't deny it. He can't. The truth is written across his face in the way his breathing has become ragged, the way his pupils have blown wide, the flush creeping up his neck and across his chest.

"What happens now?" he asks, and there's vulnerability in the question that makes it clear he's asking about more than this moment.

You don't ask permission. You close the remaining distance and your mouth finds his with the directness of someone who has stopped pretending that hesitation serves any purpose. His breath catches against your lips—literally held—before his hands surge up to grip your shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle there like he's trying to anchor himself to something solid in a moment that feels like falling.

He tastes like desperation and salt and the mineral tang of electrolyte-laced sweat. His lips are soft but his kiss is urgent, almost clumsy in its intensity, like he's forgotten how to do this or never quite learned it properly. You take control of the rhythm immediately, your tongue sliding past his teeth with deliberate slowness, tasting the interior of his mouth. He makes a sound—barely a whimper, caught somewhere between his throat and your kiss—and his fingers dig harder into your shoulders.

When you pull back fractionally to breathe, his eyes stay closed for a moment. When they open, they're completely unfocused, pupils blown so wide his irises have almost vanished. "Jesus," he breathes, and it's not profanity, it's a prayer.

You pull him against you, one hand sliding down his spine, the other gripping the back of his neck. The damp gray tank clings to his ribs, and you can feel the rapid percussion of his heartbeat against your chest. He's trembling slightly—whether from exertion or adrenaline or pure emotional overload is impossible to determine. His hands migrate from your shoulders to your chest, palms flattening against the dense muscle there like he's trying to feel your heartbeat through his fingertips.

"Tell me to stop," you murmur against his jaw, knowing he won't. Knowing he can't. The words are a test of something unspoken between you—a verification that he wants this badly enough to not want it to stop.

"I'm not going to," he says, and his voice is rough, barely recognizable. He tilts his head and kisses you again, and this time it's less desperate and more certain, like he's decided something in the intervening seconds. His tongue slides against yours. His fingers grip the fabric of your shirt. He's present now, fully committed to the geometry of this moment.

You pull back slightly and his eyes snap open, and there's a flash of something that might be fear—the sudden awareness that this is real, that it's happening, that it changes things fundamentally. His relationship. His life. The careful architecture he's built around coming to this gym.

"Look at me," you tell him, though his eyes are already on yours. "You came here for this."

It's not a question, and he doesn't answer it as if it were. Instead he nods, a small fractional movement, and his hands slide down your torso toward the waistband of your gym shorts. His fingertips trace the edge of the fabric. His breath is shallow now, almost hyperventilating.

"What happens if—" he starts, but you cut him off by kissing him again, harder this time, a kiss that tastes like the end of his old life and the beginning of something else entirely.

Reality has settled like morning fog burning away. You are no longer becoming—you simply are. The old you exists only as a ghost of doubt you've finally exorcised. When they look at you now, there's no question, no uncertainty. You are exactly what they want, what they've always wanted. And you? You've stopped questioning whether you deserve this. The wish has consumed itself. You are the wish made flesh.

Should we continue?

[psyccal]

[rafamonzo]

From the series ¨TINTANEGRA"

http://rafamonzo.tumblr.com   / http://tanaka-clan.tumblr

[kanalfanal]

Blas març 26