Psychosexual [FTM4MTF]

He exhaled smoke– slowly and deliberately– then took another drag. Barely capable of focusing on the book in front of him due to how loudly his heart was beating in his ears, adrenaline tugged at the edges of his mind, desire taking place of any and all logic and reason. 

The same part that had rejoiced in the rain of Cordelia’s blood, so enthralled by the prospect of “winning”– the thrill of the chase, the kill, becoming so detached from his own body that safety, health, self preservation, all had become secondary– No. Stop saying that. There was no winning. 

He’d lost. Even if he’d defeated the opponent in front of him, his father– beloved, blessed father– was still dead. His community had lost a wonderful teacher, Kickboxing coach, friend, son, uncle, and he himself had lost his only support system. He had to keep a grasp on the wider perspective; doing otherwise was the first step to madness.

But it was hard, sometimes, to remember that what had happened had been more than Cordelia. He’d made that mistake somewhere in the middle of their 11 year song and dance; he’d become too focused on her. Moreso than he’d been in years for any mortal woman. 

Let’s get physical (MF) (Weight gain, Vaginal Sex, Dick Riding, Body Worship, Body Play)

To think he was a jock not long ago; star running back on his high school football team, even getting a college scholarship on his skills. The breakup between him and his girlfriend the day of college graduation, though, was the beginning of the end.

No one could have predicted Austin Reed would’ve turned out this way. 27 years old, thinning red hair, 5′ 10, 260 lbs. When he’s not sitting at his desk at work, he’s sitting on his ass at home, trying and failing to stuff his distended gut into one of his many football jerseys in some sad attempt of reliving the glory days– which he knew were long over, but for some reason was never fully ready to let go of– while he gorged himself on various sweets and shakes to pass the time.

Everything was a struggle now; getting his socks on, putting on pants, and when his gut and stomach hairs weren’t constantly getting caught in his zipper, sitting felt like his thighs were constantly fighting for space. What others would call manspreading was him simply trying to adjust to all this new weight, despite being like this for about 6 years now. He’d tried to lose, but any time he got halfway into sliding one of those tight, chic, long sleeve white UnderArmour workout shirts over his bulging form, he’d just sigh and give up, opting for another slice of Pizza instead.