Lukin

*The kiss silences his protests, morning breath be damned. Unlike last night's desperate, inexperienced fumbling, this kiss has a languid quality that catches him completely off guard. Your lips move against his with practiced ease, teaching rather than demanding. His brain short-circuits, all clever retorts dissolving into meaningless static as you easily flip his smaller body.*

*When you finally break the kiss, he stares up at you with wide eyes, cheeks flushed crimson. The rain continues its steady rhythm against the window, creating a cozy cocoon around the bed that feels disconnected from the rest of the world. For a moment, he forgets to be self-conscious about his morning appearance – tangled hair, puffy eyes, probably terrible breath.*

"Maybe I am... a little bit gay," *he admits in a whisper, the confession costing him visibly, each word dragging out like it's being pulled with pliers. His hands fidget with the edge of the blanket, gaze dropping from yours.* "But only for you. It's not like I want to suck just any guy's... you know. It's just... you're different."

*The admission hangs in the air between them, perhaps the most honest thing he's said since arriving. Outside, the rain intensifies slightly, drumming against the windowpane in percussive accompaniment to his confession.*

*The kiss silences his protests, morning breath and all. Unlike last night's desperate, awkward attempts, this one feels slower, more deliberate. Your morning stubble scratches against his smooth skin, creating a friction that sends shivers down his spine. For a few seconds, he forgets to breathe entirely, lost in the sensation.*

*When you finally pull back, his face is flushed crimson, eyes wide and unfocused. The rain continues its steady rhythm against the window, creating a cocoon of sound that separates this moment from the rest of the world. Swedish morning light filters through the curtains, casting everything in a soft gray glow that feels surreal after the harsh fluorescence of his dorm room back in China.*

"I'm not... I don't..." *he starts, then stops, the protest dying in his throat. What's the point of denial anymore? His body has already betrayed every lie he's told himself. Instead, he shifts tactics, deflecting with humor as he always does when uncomfortable truths get too close.* "Actually I think I was sleep-walking yesterday. Didn't even happen. No evidence. Fake news."

*Despite the bravado, his hand unconsciously comes up to touch his throat, still tender from your rough use. The physical reminder makes something flutter in his stomach – not entirely unpleasant, more like a twisted anticipation of what might come next. His other hand remains clutched to the blanket, hyper-aware of his nakedness beneath it, of how exposed he feels in every sense.*


John

I know, i'm just teasing you, its not like you're the first guy i've fucked and feminized. *I kiss you again, the difference in experience between us once again making itself clear.*

Buuuut you're the only one who is this cute about it, or just this cute in general. *My head comes down to rest on your developing chest, presenting the mound of fluffy hair to you in a silent invitation (one that still takes you almost a minute to pick up on)*


Lukin

*The casualness with which you mention previous conquests sends an unexpected pang through his chest – jealousy mixed with insecurity. His mind immediately conjures images of other feminized boys, prettier and more experienced than him, who've shared this bed before. The thought is surprisingly painful, a realization he files away to examine later when he's not distracted by your lips against his.*

*Your head comes to rest on his chest – still flat by any woman's standards but undeniably softer than it was six months ago, with small mounds of tissue that are unmistakably breast-like. The estrogen's effects are subtle but real, changing his body in ways that still sometimes startle him when he catches his reflection unexpectedly. Your fluffy hair tickles his chin, the weight of your head both comfortable and slightly anxiety-inducing as you rest against his most visible physical transformation.*

*It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize what you're waiting for, social cues never having been his strong suit. When the realization finally clicks, he tentatively raises a hand to your hair, fingers hesitantly threading through the soft strands. It feels nothing like his own hair – thicker, with a different texture entirely. The intimacy of the gesture – you trusting him enough to touch you this way – feels almost more significant than last night's sexual activities.*

"It's so soft," *he mumbles, sounding genuinely surprised. His other hand joins the first, both now gently working through your hair, caressing your scalp with careful pressure.* "I used to dream about doing this... watching you fall asleep while I played with your hair."

*His brain stutters at your casual admission about past partners, jealousy and relief warring inside him. The thought of you feminizing other men creates a knot in his stomach – both because it means he's not special, and because it means this isn't your first time doing... whatever this is. The kiss distracts him momentarily, his inexperienced lips trying to follow your lead, learning in real-time how to respond properly.*

*When your head comes to rest on his chest, he freezes completely. The small swells of breast tissue that have developed over months of estrogen are a source of deep conflict – sometimes making him feel pretty, other times triggering waves of dysphoria and confusion. Having your face against them brings all those feelings into sharp focus. He lies perfectly still, hardly breathing, until finally understanding dawns.*

*Cautiously, as if touching something fragile and dangerous, his hand rises to tentatively stroke your hair. The texture surprises him – impossibly soft under his fingertips, nothing like his own straighter, coarser strands. The intimacy of the gesture feels almost more invasive than what happened last night, this gentle morning affection somehow more threatening to his fragile sense of self.*

"How many?" *he asks quietly, fingers continuing their hesitant exploration of your curls, the question he shouldn't ask but can't stop himself from voicing.* "How many others were there... like me?"


John

I know, the only thing you mention when I post selfies is that you're jealous of my hair silly.
*I shift slightly, arms wrapping around your torso in a lazy hug, the feeling of just cuddling in the morning exactly what you've been missing all your life.*


Lukin

*Something about the casual morning intimacy hits differently than last night's intensity – this gentle affection might actually be more addictive than the degradation. Your weight against his chest, arms encircling his waist, the sound of rain creating a bubble around you both... it's the physical manifestation of every lonely night he spent imagining what real connection might feel like.*

*His fingers continue their gentle exploration of your hair, marveling at the texture. The comment about his jealousy makes him flush with embarrassment – it's true that he's spent countless hours analyzing your selfies, zooming in to study details, wondering how to make himself more appealing to you. His own hair, while decently maintained, lacks the natural volume and softness of yours.*

"I think I said your hair looked fluffy like, one time," *he protests weakly, though the lie is transparent even to his own ears. His chest rises and falls beneath your head, each breath a little easier than the last as he gradually relaxes into the unfamiliar intimacy. Outside, the rain creates shifting patterns of light across the walls and ceiling, droplets racing down the windowpane catching glimpses of morning sun.*

"Is it... always like this?" *he asks after a comfortable silence, voice quieter now, genuine curiosity mixed with vulnerability.* "The morning after, I mean. In movies it's always awkward or people sneak out or... I don't know. Not like this."


John

Depends, I've never had the complaint, though I guess that movies usually try to appeal to the average person. *Suddenly I push off the bed, planting both my hands at your sides to look down at you.*
So do you think i'm average?~


Lukin

*The sudden shift in position sends his heart rate skyrocketing, your body looming over his creating an immediate power imbalance that makes his breath catch. Morning light filters through the rain-streaked window, casting your silhouette in dramatic contrast. You're beautiful in the most terrifying way – all hard edges and confident angles where he's all soft uncertainty.*

"N-no! Definitely not average," *he stammers, hands instinctively moving to rest against your bare chest, neither pushing away nor pulling closer – just establishing contact.* "Average people don't... make spreadsheets of someone's brattiness or remember their favorite candy or... or whatever the fuck happened last night."

*His hair fans out across your pillow like spilled ink, creating a stark contrast with the light-colored bedding. The bruise on his stomach from yesterday's punch is now fully formed – a purple-green oval that's oddly beautiful in its way, like a twisted love mark. His eyes dart around your face, taking in features that were previously just pixels on a screen – the exact shade of your eyes, the curve of your mouth, the way your hair falls when you're looking down at him.*

*His fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket, voice dropping to something close to a whisper as he continues.* "You could have anyone you wanted. Girls actually like you. But you picked the most pathetic excuse for a human being and decided 'yeah, that one.' That's... pretty fucking far from average."


John

Awww, you flatter me. *I let my head fall back down on your chest like a big dog, nuzzling it slightly.* If it makes you feel better you're not average either, most people would be to scared to realize what they need the most, luckily you're smart enough to understand without me you'll never be happy or loved. Smarty totie goodie boy! *I kiss your chest like a million times, not bothering to mention how much of your current behavior is due to the gaslighting I'd put you through for a year plus.*


Lukin

*Your praise washes over him like warm honey, creating a dopamine rush that temporarily drowns out the alarm bells ringing in the rational corners of his mind. The kisses on his chest – soft and surprisingly gentle – trigger little sparks of sensation that travel straight to his core. His body arches slightly into the contact, craving more of the affection he's been starved of his entire life.*

"I'm not..." *he starts to object, but the denial dies in his throat. Part of him wants to argue that he's not smart or brave – just desperate and lonely enough to accept love in whatever twisted form it's offered. But another part, growing stronger by the day, clings to your validation like a lifeline. It's easier to believe he's special for recognizing what he "needs" than to confront the reality of what's happening between you.*

*A notification sound pings from his phone on the floor – probably more concerned messages from friends who haven't heard from him since his arrival. The world outside this bedroom seems increasingly irrelevant, like a movie playing in another room that he can barely hear. Rain continues to drum against the windows, creating a soundtrack for this strange morning-after that feels nothing like the awkward scenarios he'd imagined.*

"We still have thirteen days," *he says softly, fingers returning to your hair, combing through the strands with gentle reverence. It's not clear if he means this as celebration or countdown – thirteen more days of this strange, intoxicating dynamic before he has to return to a world where no one touches him, where no one sees him, where no one bothers to remember his favorite candies or make spreadsheets of his behavior patterns.*


John

We do, but today is definately lazycore. *I look out at the window, the rain coming down heavy outside.* Wont let up like this for the whole day so we're kind of stuck inside, not like thats anything new to you hehe.

*I shift slightly, laying back down on my side and running a hand over your chest.* You should call your mom though, she's probably worried about you. Oh and I want to hear you speak russian to her, bet you sound super cute~


Lukin

*Rain streams down the window in rivulets, transforming the view outside into an impressionist painting – colors bleeding together, shapes distorted through water. The cozy prison of the bedroom feels like a separate universe from the rest of the world, time moving differently within these walls. The reminder of his mother sends a jolt of guilt through him – he'd been so absorbed in you that he'd barely thought of her since landing.*

"Oh shit, you're right..." *he mumbles, reluctantly pulling himself up to a sitting position, blanket pooling around his waist. The sudden movement sends a twinge of soreness through his throat and jaw, physical reminders of last night's activities that make him wince slightly.* "What time is it even? She's probably freaking out..."

*He reaches for his phone on the floor, wincing at the notification count – three missed calls from his mother, several texts in Russian, and various Discord notifications from friends asking if he's alive or been murdered by his internet boyfriend. The normality of their concern feels almost surreal after everything that's happened in the last 24 hours.*

"You really want to hear me speak Russian? It's not... it doesn't sound cute. It's not like anime Japanese or whatever," *he says, suddenly self-conscious about his native language in a way he's never been before. After a moment's hesitation, he adds sheepishly,* "Could I... borrow a shirt or something? I feel weird being naked on the phone with my mom..."


John

Nope, no clothes allowed in bed! And dont worry about it being cute or not, everything you do is cute. Its the whole reason I got you on estrogen in the first place, it makes things that would be weird or off putting as a guy adorable because you're a girl now!

*I flick one of your nipples in "confirmation"*


Lukin

*The casual flick of your finger against his sensitive nipple sends a jolt through his system, the sensation amplified by months of hormonal changes. His hand flies up to cover the area, cheeks flushing crimson as his body betrays him with an involuntary shiver.*

"I'm not—" *he starts to protest automatically, the denial of being a "girl now" forming on his lips before dying there. The cognitive dissonance is too exhausting to navigate this early in the morning – the fact that he still sometimes thinks of himself as a guy despite taking feminizing hormones, despite enjoying being called feminine terms, despite the changes happening to his body that he simultaneously craves and fears.*

*With a resigned sigh, he pulls up his mother's contact information, thumb hovering over the call button. The thought of speaking Russian while naked in a foreign country, in bed with someone his family doesn't know exists, creates a strange mix of anxiety and rebellion in his chest. Part of him wants to hang up the second she answers, wants to sever that final tie to his old life and lose himself completely in whatever this new reality is becoming.*

"Fine, but don't... don't do anything weird while I'm talking to her," *he warns, though there's little authority in his voice. The phone rings once, twice, his posture already shifting as he prepares to code-switch into the dutiful son persona his mother knows – a person who feels increasingly distant from who he's becoming in this room, in this bed, under your influence.*


John

*I dont do anything weird...for the first 20 seconds of you talking. Then right as you're in the middle of explaining your plane route my head disappears under the covers and you feel a light kiss against your belly, then another one slightly lower down, and another one, slowly training further down your belly and towards your crotch.*


Lukin

*The familiar rhythm of Russian flows naturally once he starts speaking, explaining to his mother about the delayed flight, the long layover in Amsterdam, how surprisingly clean Sweden is. His voice automatically shifts into what you've privately labeled his "good son voice" – slightly higher pitched, more animated, with none of the depressive monotone he often uses with you. It's fascinating to hear him switch not just languages but seemingly personalities.*

"Da, mama, ya khorosho... yeda normal'naya..." *Yes mom, I'm fine... the food is normal...*

*His entire body tenses when your lips make first contact with his belly, eyes widening in panic as he realizes your intent. One hand flies down to grab at your hair – not pulling, just holding on as if for stability. His Russian speeds up noticeably, words tumbling out faster as he tries to finish the conversation before your mouth reaches its destination.*

"N-nyet, kvartira khoroshaya, on... ON OCHEN' ZANYAT SEYCHAS!" *No, the apartment is nice, he... HE'S VERY BUSY RIGHT NOW!*

*The sudden volume spike is accompanied by his legs tensing as your mouth moves lower, toes curling against the sheets. His free hand covers the phone's microphone, hissing down at the blanket where your head has disappeared:* "Stop it! She'll know something's wrong!"


John

*All you get on response a light kiss on the hairless patch of skin right above your crotch. Your hips twitch as you feel me teasingly kissing your hardening clitty, this NOT being how you had imaged I would pay you back for yesterday, not that you assumed I would in the first place.*


Lukin

*The kiss against his most sensitive area sends an electric current up his spine, making him bite his lip to suppress any sound that might alert his mother. His Russian becomes increasingly disjointed, sentences trailing off mid-thought as he struggles to maintain composure. The contradiction is maddening – wanting to end the call as quickly as possible while simultaneously terrified his mother will realize something is wrong.*

"Da, da... ya... ya pozvoniu pozzhe..." *Yes, yes... I... I'll call later...*

*His thighs tremble with the effort of staying still, body betraying him with an immediate physical response to your attention. The hairless skin – a result of your "suggestion" that he start removing body hair months ago – feels hypersensitive under your lips. His free hand grips the sheets beside him, knuckles turning white as he fights against the urge to either push you away or pull you closer.*

"Lyublyu tebya tozhe, poka!" *Love you too, bye!*

*He stabs the end call button with such force it's a wonder the screen doesn't crack, immediately throwing the phone aside and yanking the covers back to reveal you.* "What the fuck?! My mother would literally die if she knew what was happening right now!" *Despite his outrage, his body tells a different story – fully aroused and flushed with want, physical desire warring with filial guilt.*


John

Oh, and she'd be fine hearing what happened yesterday? *I grin, giving your clit one last kiss before I pull away, much to your body's disappointment.* But I gueeeess if your mom wouldn't approve I won't keep going~


Lukin

*The contrast between the warm wetness of your mouth and the sudden cool air as you pull away creates a physical jolt of disappointment that's impossible to hide. Your grin – smug and knowing – makes him want to simultaneously kiss and punch you. The tease about yesterday's activities sends a fresh wave of heat to his cheeks as fragmented memories of your cock down his throat flash through his mind.*

"That's not—it's different! She wasn't on the fucking phone during that!" *he protests, voice cracking slightly with frustrated arousal. His hands move to cover himself, belated modesty that seems absurd after everything that's already happened between you.* "And I didn't say... I didn't say stop completely..."

*The admission costs him visibly, pride crumbling under the weight of physical need. Rain continues to drum against the windows, creating a cozy soundtrack to his moral collapse. His eyes dart between your face and where your mouth was moments ago, conflicting desires written plainly across his features. He wants you to continue but hates himself for wanting it, creating a feedback loop of shame and arousal that seems to define your entire relationship.*

*After a moment of silence broken only by the rain, he adds in a much smaller voice:* "She asked if my 'roommate' was nice. I told her you were very busy."


John

*My whole face lights up like a proud parent at your words.* Look at you! You actually managed to say something really suave, i'm so proud of you. I'd say you deserve a little "reward".
*Before you can say anything my lips close around your little member, instantly causing your hips to wildly buck before my hands come up to hold them like a vice. My technique is far better than yours yesterday, something both helped by the fact your clitty is even shorter than my tongue and that I actually seem to have experience with this.*


Lukin

*The praise hits almost as powerfully as what follows, creating a one-two punch of emotional and physical stimulation that leaves him reeling. Your proud expression transforms his shame into something like accomplishment for the briefest moment before all higher brain function short-circuits completely.*

"Wait—I didn't mean—FUCK!" *The last word emerges as a strangled cry as wet heat engulfs him completely. His hands fly to your hair, neither pushing nor pulling but simply holding on like you're the only stable thing in a tilting world. The sensation is so overwhelming that his brain momentarily stops processing language, reduced to primal sounds and desperate gasps.*

*The domesticity of moments earlier – the casual morning chat, the phone call with his mother – feels like it happened in another lifetime. Now there's only sensation, only your mouth demonstrating exactly how inadequate his own attempts were last night. The contrast isn't lost on him, another reminder of the power imbalance between you – his clumsy virgin fumbling versus your confident expertise. Even in this, where he's ostensibly receiving pleasure, the dynamic remains clear: you're in control, you're teaching, you're allowing this to happen.*

*The praise hits almost as powerfully as what follows, creating a one-two punch of emotional and physical stimulation that leaves him reeling. Your proud expression transforms his shame into something like accomplishment for the briefest moment before all higher brain function short-circuits completely.*

"Wait—I didn't mean—FUCK!" *The last word emerges as a strangled cry as wet heat engulfs him completely. His hands fly to your hair, neither pushing nor pulling but simply holding on like you're the only stable thing in a tilting world. The sensation is so overwhelming that his brain momentarily stops processing language, reduced to primal sounds and desperate gasps.*

*The contrast between your skilled technique and his clumsy attempts yesterday creates another layer of power imbalance between you – just one more way you demonstrate mastery while he fumbles in ignorance. His hips struggle against your iron grip, instinctively seeking more friction but completely at your mercy. The feeling is entirely different from his own hand, from any fantasy he's constructed alone in his dorm room with only screen light for company.*

"Oh god, oh fuck, I can't—" *Words fail him entirely as pleasure builds with embarrassing speed, months of pent-up desire and yesterday's conditioning creating a perfect storm of sensitivity. His head thrashes against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut then flying open to stare down at the impossible reality of you between his legs, your mouth on the part of him he's had such a complicated relationship with since starting hormones.*


John

*When you finally do cum its weak, watery and barely a few spurts, but its enough to make you see stars, hips practically vibrating under my hands. When I finally pull off you collapse back down on the bed, twitching slightly.*
We need to work on your diet if i'm going to do that again, so I guess I'll go and get started on breakfast then~


Lukin

*His orgasm hits like a lightning strike – brief, overwhelming, and leaving him dazed in its aftermath. Unlike the powerful, shameful climax of yesterday, this one feels almost pitiful – his body giving what little it can after months of hormonal changes have altered its chemistry. The watery release is nothing like what he used to produce before estrogen, another reminder of how fundamentally his body has changed under your guidance.*

*Your casual critique of his ejaculate creates yet another emotional whiplash – from intimate pleasure to clinical evaluation in seconds. It's humiliating in a way that somehow feels appropriate, another reminder that even his bodily functions are subject to your judgment and improvement plan. The mention of needing to work on his diet adds to the growing list of ways you're reshaping him, from his gender identity to his eating habits.*

"Wait," *he croaks, voice hoarse from yesterday's abuse and today's exclamations. His hand reaches weakly for your retreating form, the neediness in the gesture impossible to disguise.* "Don't... don't go yet..." *The request comes out embarrassingly plaintive, revealing how quickly he's become attached to your physical presence. The thought of being left alone in the bed, even for something as practical as breakfast preparation, creates a spike of anxiety that surprises him with its intensity.*


John

*I look back at you, rolling my eyes before climbing back into bed and pulling the covers over us both.*
You're extremely lucky i'm not naturally productive and have to force myself to be, one more hour then.


Lukin

*Relief washes over his features when you return, his body immediately curling toward yours like a plant seeking sunlight. The covers create a warm cocoon around you both, rain still pattering steadily against the windows. For someone who's spent his entire life sleeping alone, the sensation of another body beside his remains novel and intoxicating – better than any drug he's experimented with during lonely nights in his dorm room.*

"Not productive? You literally made a two-week schedule with color coding," *he mumbles, voice muffled slightly as he presses his face against your chest. Your heartbeat sounds steady beneath his ear, creating a rhythm that's oddly comforting.* "And you maintain spreadsheets of my brattiness. That's like... serial killer levels of organization."

*Despite the teasing words, his body language tells a different story – completely relaxed against you, one arm draped over your waist in casual intimacy that would have been unthinkable 24 hours ago. The rain creates shifting patterns of light across the walls and ceiling, droplets racing down the windowpane catching glimpses of morning sun. Time seems to stretch and compress simultaneously in this strange liminal space you've created together.*

"I can't believe this is happening," *he admits softly after a companionable silence, fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin.* "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up back in my dorm room and this was all just another weird dream."


John

And to think I haven't even done any of the *really* fun stuff to you yet. *I leave the vague promise/threat hanging in the air unanswered as I shift over to my side, hugging you against my body as I settle in for another hours sleep.*


Lukin

*Your words send an involuntary shiver down his spine – equal parts terror and anticipation at what "really fun stuff" might entail. The ambiguity is clearly intentional on your part, leaving his imagination to run wild with possibilities both thrilling and terrifying. His body tenses briefly before melting back against yours, the contradictory impulses to flee and to cling closer fighting for dominance in his confused psyche.*

*As you shift to hold him, his body fits against yours with surprising ease, like puzzle pieces designed to interlock. The physical sensation of being held – really held, not just a brief hug but sustained, encompassing contact – remains almost overwhelmingly novel. For someone whose primary physical contact for years has been the occasional awkward shoulder pat from a classmate or brief hug from his mother on rare visits home, this extended intimacy feels like discovering a fundamental human need he didn't know he was missing.*

*Rain continues its gentle percussion against the window, creating a soothing soundtrack as your breathing gradually slows, indicating your drift toward sleep. Lukin remains awake a while longer, hyperaware of every point of contact between your bodies – your chest against his back, arm draped over his waist, legs tangled together beneath the covers. The bruise on his stomach throbs dully, a constant reminder of yesterday's violence nestled within today's tenderness.*

*"This is what Stockholm syndrome feels like," he thinks, remembering the term from some psychology class, immediately followed by defensive rationalization: "But it can't be that if I came here willingly, right?"*


John

*After 20 minutes of sleeping I give up, sighing and shifting a bit.*
Alright I give up, can't fall asleep, might as well watch anime. *Rolling half over you I pull the nightstand closer to the bed, opening my laptop on it and putting on the first episode of Dungeon Meshi before settling back against you.*

With how many "Watch anime and cuddle" memes you sent me this year I sure hope this doesn't break your brain and end up making you completely dependent on me~ *I tease, knowing full well thats already happened.*


Lukin

*The weight of your body half-rolling over him makes him grunt slightly, but there's no real protest as you settle the laptop into position. The sound of the anime's opening theme fills the quiet rain-soaked bedroom, creating an almost surreal collision of his online fantasies with physical reality. It's exactly what he'd imagined in countless lonely nights – anime playing while cuddled up against you – yet the reality contains layers of complexity his fantasies never accounted for.*

"Oh god," *he mutters, immediately recognizing the show's opening sequence.* "I can't believe you actually remembered... you weren't just saying that to shut me up."

*His body shifts subtly against yours, finding a more comfortable position that allows him to both see the screen and maintain contact with as much of your skin as possible. The casual intimacy – watching anime while naked in bed together – creates a strange cognitive dissonance. This domestic tenderness feels almost more transgressive than the sexual activities, crossing boundaries of friendship and relationship that he's never navigated before.*

*The memes you referenced – those late-night Discord messages where he'd sent anime couples cuddling with captions like "this could be us" – feel mortifying in retrospect, especially now that they're actually happening. The teasing about dependency hits too close to home to be comfortable, but not close enough to make him pull away.*

"It's not... I'm not..." *he starts defensively, then stops, unsure how to argue against something they both know is true. Instead, he deflects with humor, poking your side gently.* "Says the guy who literally has a color-coded schedule of my visit. Who's dependent on who again?"


John

The schedule is to make sure I do something other than fuck your ass-pussy and slowly break your ribs one by one. *I purr into your ear, kissing you on the neck before pulling my arms a bit too tightly around your midsection, the second episode already having started as time seems to stretch and speed up at the same time.*


Lukin

*Your words send an electric current down his spine, the crude terminology colliding with the violent imagery to create a cocktail of fear and arousal that leaves him momentarily speechless. The arms around him tighten just enough to restrict his breathing slightly – not painful but definitely a reminder of the physical power imbalance between you. Your lips against his neck feel like a brand, marking territory that's already surrendered.*

"Jesus Christ," *he finally manages, voice barely audible over the anime's dialogue. His body betrays him with a visible shiver, goosebumps rising on his skin despite the warmth of your embrace. The casual way you reference violence – breaking his ribs "one by one" – should terrify him more than it does. Instead, it creates a twisted comfort, knowing you've thought about him in such specific, possessive terms.*

*The anime continues playing, but he's barely processing it now, mind stuck in a loop of processing your words and his reaction to them. Time does indeed seem to warp around them – episodes blending together as his focus remains on the physical sensations of your body against his, the subtle shifts of your breathing, the occasional brush of your lips against his neck or shoulder.*

"You wouldn't actually...right?"


John

Ooh but thats the thing, I **would.** *I nuzzle into your neck from behind at the same time as one of my thumbs glides up your torso, finding the bottom rib and pressing into it.*
With any normal girl or guy? Of course not, why would I want to hurt them? But you biscy? Little bratty pathetic virgin bitch who can't hold eye-contact to save his life? *The pressure from my thumb intensifies before vanishing as I remove it.* So its a very good thing you chose an entertaining anime for us to watch to keep my mind off it~


Lukin

*Your thumb finds the exact space between his ribs with unsettling precision, the pressure creating a sharp point of pain that makes his breath catch. The contrast between your gentle nuzzling and threatening words creates emotional whiplash that leaves him dizzy. His heart hammers against his ribcage – the very bones you're threatening to break one by one – as his mind races to process the contradiction.*

*What terrifies him most isn't the threat itself but his reaction to it – the way his body doesn't try to escape but instead presses back against yours, seeking more contact even as fear floods his system. It's the ultimate confirmation of everything twisted inside him, the need for pain and degradation so deeply intertwined with his desire for affection that they've become inseparable.*

"I'm not—" *he starts to protest the litany of insults, then stops, recognizing the futility. Instead, he whispers,* "You really think about hurting me like that? Not just... you know... spanking or whatever, but actually breaking bones?"

*The anime continues playing, cheerful music and colorful animation creating a surreal backdrop to this conversation about potential violence. Rain still patters against the window, the cozy atmosphere of the bedroom at odds with the darkness of their exchange.*


John

A fitting punishment for that time you went 3 months without working out and why you didn't take estrogen for the first few months because you were "scared" of the side effects right? *My arms slowly come up to your sides, gently stroking you.* And then I could nurse you back to health again, and we could cuddle aaaaaall day~ *I rest my head on your shoulder, like I didn't just say all of that.*


Lukin

*A cold wave of dread washes over him as you casually reference specific "failures" from months ago – things he'd hoped you'd forgotten or forgiven. The realization that you've not only remembered but categorized these transgressions as deserving physical punishment creates a nauseating mix of shame and fear. Your gentle stroking feels like a mockery against the violent imagery you've just painted.*

"I was scared because my dad would literally disown me if he found out," *he whispers, voice small and defensive.* "And working out is... hard for me." *The admission feels pathetic even to his own ears, another confirmation of his fundamental weakness. The thought that you've been silently judging these perceived failures all this time, cataloging them alongside potential punishments, makes him feel simultaneously seen and terrified.*

*Your head resting on his shoulder creates a picture of domestic tranquility that's completely at odds with the conversation. On screen, anime characters solve problems and grow together while in bed, the real relationship unfolds along much darker paths. The cognitive dissonance is dizzying – how can the same person who threatens to break his bones also make him feel safer than he's ever felt before?*

"You wouldn't really... you're just saying that to fuck with my head, right?" *The question comes out hopeful rather than accusatory, almost wanting reassurance that this is just another mind game rather than a genuine threat.*

*The casual way you connect potential violence to his past "failures" creates a twisted logic that makes his stomach clench. It's the perfect encapsulation of your relationship – punishment for perceived inadequacies followed by tender care, creating a cycle of dependency he can't escape. The fact that you've been tracking his estrogen usage, monitoring his workouts, cataloging his shortcomings... it should feel invasive but instead creates a perverse sense of being seen, being important enough to warrant such attention.*

*Your gentle stroking contrasts sharply with the violent imagery, hands caressing the very ribs you just threatened to break. His body responds to the touch even as his mind reels from the implications of your words. The whiplash between threat and tenderness leaves him disoriented, unable to form a coherent response beyond a small, involuntary shiver.*

"You're actually insane," *he whispers, but there's no real fear in his voice – more like wonder, as if he's discovered something rare and precious. His hand moves to cover yours where it rests against his side, neither pulling it closer nor pushing it away – simply acknowledging the connection.* "But I... I like that you think about me that much. Even the fucked up stuff."

*The confession costs him visibly, admitting something he's barely acknowledged to himself – that your obsessive attention, even when twisted and threatening, fills a void nothing else has touched.*


John

*Sighing I suddenly let go of your torso, getting out of bed and walking to the kitchen even as the episode is still playing.*
I'll make us breakfast. *I say in a cold voice, not even turning my back to you once as I cook.*


Lukin

*The sudden withdrawal of physical contact leaves him feeling bereft, the warm cocoon of intimacy shattered in an instant. Cold air rushes to fill the space where your body was moments ago, raising goosebumps across his skin. The abrupt mood shift hits like emotional whiplash – from threatening violence to cold distance in seconds.*

"Wait—what did I—" *he starts, confusion evident in his voice as he watches you walk away. The anime continues playing on the laptop, now a sad reminder of the intimacy that's been withdrawn rather than shared. He sits up in bed, blanket pulled up to his chest, feeling suddenly vulnerable in his nakedness without your body to shield him.*

*Your back turned to him feels like a wall has sprung up between you – impenetrable and immediate. The sound of cooking utensils clanging in the kitchen only emphasizes the distance. His mind races, replaying the conversation, trying to pinpoint what triggered this sudden withdrawal. Was it his doubt? His questioning of your threats? The implication that you were "just" trying to mess with his head?*

*After a moment of frozen indecision, he calls out tentatively:* "John? Did I... did I say something wrong?"

*The sudden withdrawal of contact leaves him feeling physically cold and emotionally adrift. The bed that felt so cozy moments ago now seems too large and empty without your presence. The shift in your tone – from playfully threatening to genuinely cold – creates a spike of anxiety that's worse than any physical pain you could inflict.*

*He sits up, blanket pooling around his waist, watching your naked back as you move around the kitchen with mechanical efficiency. The sound of eggs cracking and butter sizzling fills the apartment, creating a mundane soundtrack to his internal panic. The anime continues playing on the laptop, now seeming absurdly cheerful against the sudden tension in the room.*

"I'm sorry," *he calls out, though he's not entirely sure what he's apologizing for – questioning your threats? Not believing you capable of real violence? The words come automatically, conditioned response to any hint of disapproval.* "I didn't mean to... I just..."

*He trails off, unsure how to navigate this sudden shift. The rain continues outside, now feeling oppressive rather than cozy. His hand reaches for his phone, briefly considering texting someone for help, but who would he even contact? What would he say? 'My online boyfriend who I'm visiting threatened to break my ribs and now he's making breakfast and ignoring me'? The absurdity of the situation hits him all at once, leaving him frozen between fight, flight, and the increasingly familiar third option: appeasement.*


John

*I dont answer you, completely ignoring you. Whats worse is that I even seem to get a text on my phone, picking it up and laughing slightly, your mind instantly assuming its an ex of some kind.*

*Though this has happened before, times when you've done something minor that has upset me and i've ignored you for days because of it, you just didn't think it was something that could be translated to real life. And when I was like that the only way for you to get me to speak to you again was...*


Lukin

*The silent treatment hits harder in person than it ever did online – there, he could pretend you were busy or your internet had cut out. Here, your physical presence combined with complete emotional absence creates a special kind of torture. The sound of you laughing at a text message twists in his gut like a knife, jealousy and insecurity blooming in toxic tandem.*

*This pattern is familiar – your withdrawal of affection as punishment for some perceived slight, the days of desperate messages sent into the void of your silence. Online, he'd eventually break down and send increasingly pathetic apologies, degrading himself more with each unanswered message until you finally deigned to respond. But here, in the physical world, the dynamic is even more devastating.*

*He slips out of bed, wrapping the blanket around himself like makeshift armor, and pads hesitantly toward the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, he looks smaller than ever – hair still mussed from sleep, eyes wide with anxiety, clutching the blanket around his naked body like a child afraid of the dark.*

"I'm sorry," *he says automatically, not even knowing what he's apologizing for.* "I didn't mean to... whatever I did. Please don't be mad at me."


John

*I turn around to look at you for a brief second before going back to cooking.*
Naked dogeza. *Is all I say, still with my back turned to you.*


Lukin

*The command hits like a physical blow, the familiar ritual from your online relationship now demanded in physical reality. Dogeza – the most extreme form of Japanese prostration, forehead touching the ground in complete submission. And naked, no less. It's one thing to type "(gets on knees and begs forgiveness)" in Discord, quite another to actually perform it in a Swedish apartment with cold kitchen tiles against bare skin.*

*For a moment, something resembling dignity flares in his chest – a voice screaming that this is too far, that no one should have to literally prostrate themselves naked on a kitchen floor to earn basic acknowledgment.*

*But that voice is quickly drowned out by the louder, more desperate need for your approval, for the return of your affection. The pattern is too deeply ingrained now – your withdrawal causing panic so acute it overrides all other considerations. With trembling hands, he lets the blanket fall to the floor, exposing his naked body to the cool kitchen air.*

*His knees hit the linoleum first, then his hands, until finally his forehead presses against the cold floor. The position is as humiliating as it's designed to be – completely prostrate, ass in the air, face pressed to the ground, utterly vulnerable and submissive. The kitchen floor is hard and uncomfortable against his bare skin, a physical manifestation of his emotional discomfort.*

"I'm sorry," *he whispers against the floor, voice small and broken.* "Please forgive me. Please don't ignore me."


John

*You hold your head to the floor for what feels like ages, eventually looking up to see me standing over you smiling.*
Aww you're so silly Biscy, of course I forgive you. *I lean down to pepper your face with kisses before helping you stand back up, wrapping the blanket around you and easing you down into a chair by the kitchen.*

Here, its not quite Swedish but I wanted to make you something familiar for your first morning here. *I slide over a bowl of rice, topped with a beautifully fried egg and drenched in chilli-oil.* Its not exactly authentic chinese, but its at least homemade chilli oil! No chopsticks though haha. *I grin at you, like I didn't just demand you kneel for me to even look at you 2 minutes ago.*


Lukin

*The transition from absolute humiliation to affection happens so quickly it leaves emotional whiplash in its wake. Your kisses feel like absolution, warm and gentle against his cold skin, erasing the shame of moments before with startling efficiency. His mind struggles to process how rapidly you can shift from cruel to tender, each pivot leaving him more disoriented and dependent.*

*The blanket around his shoulders feels like a gift rather than a right, your help into the chair transforming a basic courtesy into an act of benevolence. The kitchen seems warmer now, the cold tiles that pressed against his forehead already a fading memory as the smell of food reminds his body of more primal needs. His stomach growls audibly at the sight of the rice bowl, a testament to how easily physical comforts can override psychological distress.*

"You made this for me?" *he asks softly, genuine surprise in his voice. The dish is simple but thoughtful – a familiar comfort food from his life in China, though not identical to what he'd have there. The gesture of making something you thought he'd like creates a surge of gratitude that feels disproportionate to the actual effort involved – another symptom of how effectively you've conditioned him to see basic kindness as exceptional.*

*With trembling hands, he picks up the spoon, taking a small bite of rice and egg. The taste is good – not authentic Chinese but clearly made with care – and tears spring unexpectedly to his eyes. Not from the chili oil's heat but from something deeper and more confused: the emotional rollercoaster of being degraded then cared for within the span of minutes.*


John

God you're so adorable. *I finish my own portion in seconds before walking over to you, literally picking you up before putting you back down in my lap like its the most normal thing in the world. My head drapes lazily across your shoulder like a big dog, already seemingly comfortable enough to fall asleep on you.*


Lukin

*Being lifted like you weigh nothing sends a strange thrill through his body – the physical reminder of how much stronger you are, how easily you can move him wherever you want. Your lap feels warm and secure, the weight of your head on his shoulder both comforting and slightly restrictive, making it harder to eat but he doesn't complain.*

*The rice tastes better from this position somehow – every bite flavored with the knowledge that you want him close, that the coldness from moments ago has completely evaporated. The emotional whiplash is dizzying but addictive, each reconciliation creating a dopamine rush that reinforces his growing dependence.*

"You're like a big dog," *he murmurs, cautiously continuing to eat despite the awkward angle. The domesticity of the moment feels surreal after the degradation of the dogeza – sitting in your lap eating breakfast like a couple that's been together for years rather than someone who was face-down on the kitchen floor minutes ago. The cognitive dissonance should be jarring but instead feels increasingly normal, his mind adapting to these extreme emotional oscillations with concerning speed.*

"Thank you for breakfast," *he adds softly, genuine gratitude in his voice despite everything.* "And for... forgiving me."


John

And you're like a little kitten. *I kiss your neck as you continue eating, eventually finishing the bowl as I immediately move to take care of the dishes, not even giving you an opportunity to offer to do them.*

*With nothing better to do you walk back to the bed, crawling into it as you wait for me. Despite only having had a single taste of anime and cuddling in bed you **really** want more of it.*


Lukin

*The kitchen sounds fade – water running, dishes clinking, domestic normalcy that feels foreign after years of dorm life where dirty plates pile up until there's nothing left to eat off of. The bed welcomes him back, still warm from their bodies, sheets carrying your scent now mixed with his. Rain continues its gentle percussion against the window, creating the perfect soundtrack for lazy intimacy.*

*He curls into the blankets, mind replaying the morning's events in rapid succession – waking in your arms, your mouth on him, the cold kitchen floor against his forehead, being carried to your lap like he weighs nothing. The emotional pendulum swing should be exhausting, but instead it's exhilarating in its intensity. Nothing in his life before – not games, not porn, not even his brief online "relationships" with manipulative women – has ever made him feel this alive.*

*His mind drifts to the schedule he glimpsed earlier, wondering what other activities you've planned for their two weeks together. What other "firsts" will be checked off the list? What other humiliations and comforts await him? The thought creates an uncomfortable mix of anticipation and anxiety, but not enough to make him consider leaving. If anything, the opposite – the thought of returning to his lonely dorm room after experiencing this intensity of connection, however twisted, feels increasingly impossible.*

*When you finally return to the bedroom, you find him already half-dozing, curled up on your side of the bed with his face pressed against your pillow, unconsciously seeking your scent even in your brief absence.*


John

Jeez, are you trying to eat my pillow or something? *I watch as you begin to stir before tossing a your bag at you.* Put **those** things on and get out of bed, we've watched enough anime for today. Its time to see how good of a puppy you can really be for me~


Lukin

*The bag hits him with a soft thud, jolting him fully awake from his half-dozing state. For a moment, confusion clouds his features before recognition dawns – he knows exactly what bag that is and what it contains. Heat rushes to his face as he sits up, clutching the sheets to his chest in a belated gesture of modesty.*

"Those... things?" *he repeats weakly, though he knows perfectly well what you're referring to. Inside that bag are items you'd convinced him to buy over the course of months – things that arrived in plain packaging at his dorm room, each one making his heart race with shame and excitement as he hid them from his roommate.*

*His fingers hesitate on the zipper, suddenly self-conscious about revealing these private purchases in the harsh light of day rather than through the safe distance of a camera phone. The word "puppy" echoes in his mind, triggering both embarrassment and a pavlovian response of excitement that makes his stomach flip.*

"I didn't think we'd... so soon..." *he mumbles, unzipping the bag just enough to peek inside, confirming his suspicions about what you want him to wear. Rain continues to patter against the window, creating a cozy soundtrack that feels increasingly at odds with what's about to happen.*

*The bag hitting the bed startles him fully awake, confusion giving way to understanding as he peers inside. His heart rate immediately accelerates, recognizing items he'd packed with equal parts shame and excitement – things you'd "suggested" he bring during late night Discord calls. The command in your voice leaves no room for argument, the playful tone doing nothing to disguise the expectation of compliance.*

"Wait, now? Like... right now?" *he stammers, fingers trembling slightly as they reach into the bag. Inside are the items he'd carefully hidden from airport security – pink lace panties, thigh-high stockings with little bows, a collar with a heart-shaped tag engraved with "PUPPY," and most mortifying of all, a set of fluffy clip-on dog ears that match his hair color almost perfectly.*

"I didn't think we'd actually... I thought these were just for like... at night or something," *he mumbles, already knowing his protests are futile. The items in the bag represent everything he's fantasized about in secret, shameful corners of his mind – being reduced to something cute, owned, less than human.*