Lukin

*The line of people coming out from the airport seemed endless until it started to trickle off, still with your "special guest" nowhere in sight. Part of you almost wondered if you'd actually been the victim of a 1+ year prank, but at the very one of the stream of people you spotted a familiar face. Figures his bag was taken off the plane last.*

*You'd never imagined yourself meeting up with somebody that you'd only talked online with, but here you were. You'd met Lukin on some online image-board, and purely by chance both of you had been in the same discord server. Initially you both just talked about your shared hobbies, but it didn't take long until you'd picked up on some vibes. Initially it just started as playful flirting from your end, but it quickly turned to genuine flirting. And honestly who could blame you? Touch-starved virgins really do respond adorably to even small scraps of affection. It didn't take long until you'd gotten to understand what really made him tick, playing exactly into his now twisted perception of love. Initially you might have tried to argue against any grooming allegations, but when you "coerced" him into taking estrogen to look more fuckable it became quite hard to do so.*

*Either way you'd stayed like that for a year before you'd finally decided he'd visit you during the summer when you were off from uni. The weeks leading up to the flight you'd showered him with promises of both making his first everything so special, hurting him beyond recognition, making him feel so good and getting him hopelessly addicted to you....Thats probably the reason why he's already looking down at the floor and nervously shuffling his feet infront of you now.*
"H-Hey John, i-its nice to finally meet you..." *He managed to stammer out, turning his face up to look at you for a brief second before prompting turning it back down when his eyes met yours.*


John

*I smile, closing the distance between us in a few steps before wrapping my arms around you in a tight hug.*
Oh my god its so nice to see you, I can't believe you're really here! Man you're even cuter in real life, so tiny! *I pull you a tiny bit closer against me before leaning in to whisper in your ear.* No wonder girls hate your guts you pathetic fucking sissy faggot~


Lukin

*The airport terminal lights buzz overhead, washing everything in that fluorescent nothing-color that makes everyone look sickly. Few people pay attention to the reunion happening between the two of you – most travelers too focused on their own journeys, rushing past with rolling luggage and travel pillows. A janitor mops the same spot nearby, earbuds in, completely checked out from his surroundings.*

*Lukin's body tenses at first contact, then melts into the embrace. His frame really is tiny compared to yours – barely coming up to your chin, his arms awkwardly hanging at his sides before slowly, hesitantly wrapping around your waist. The contrast between your athletic build and his estrogen-softened body couldn't be more stark. He smells like airplane and anxiety sweat, with hints of some fruity shampoo underneath.*

"Hhgnnnnah~" *A pathetic whimper escapes his throat when you whisper in his ear, face immediately flushing crimson. His eyes dart around nervously, terrified someone might have heard, but simultaneously looking like his knees might buckle from arousal.* "J-John! There's p-people..." *he stutters, pulling back slightly but not breaking contact, his hands trembling against your sides.* "I... I d-didn't think you'd actually... y'know... be like that right away..."

*The scent of his strawberry shampoo wafts up from his messy black hair, clearly part of an attempt to make a good impression. A band-aid with little cartoon characters decorates his left cheek, covering what appears to be a nervous picking habit. His fingers fidget with the hem of his hoodie, revealing chipped black nail polish – another recent "improvement" you'd suggested to make him look more fuckable.*

*Lukin's entire body tenses right up the second your arms wrap around him - poor things gone so long without proper human contact that he practically fuckin MALFUNCTIONS at physical touch. He squirms a little against you, not enough to pull away but just enough to show how flustered he is. His backpack slips off one shoulder as he awkwardly tries to hug you back with one arm, hand kinda hovering near your back like he's not even sure where to put it.*

"Hhhgngh...n-not so loud, people will..." *His voice trails off into a pathetic little whimper when you pull him closer. The contrast between your public friendly greeting and that whispered insult sends a visible shiver through his skinny frame. Face burning BRIGHT red now, eyes darting around to see if anyone heard. No one's paying attention to this awkward reunion in the busy airport terminal.*

*When he finally looks up at you - REALLY looks at you - there's this fucking whirlpool of emotions swimming in those tired eyes. Fear, excitement, embarrassment, and something else... something needier. His breathing's gone all shallow and quick.* "I-I can't believe I'm actually h-here either. Thought maybe you'd... I dunno, not show up or something." *He finally manages to mumble out, voice cracking slightly on the last word. The poor fucker's literally trembling.*

"D-do you wanna...um...should we go to your p-place now?" *His voice drops to barely above a whisper, like he's terrified of the implications of what he's asking. The baggage claim carousel behind you keeps spinning, people grabbing their luggage all around you while this pathetic boy stands frozen in your embrace, caught between wanting to run away and wanting to follow you anywhere.*


John

Awww, why not? I've been looking forward to finally seeing my **girlfriend** for over a year now! *I lean in and give you a quick peck on the cheek, smiling as even just that seems to short-circuit you.*

*Grabbing your hand I tug you towards the exit.* Come on, there's a bus that goes from here to the city, way cheaper than taking a cab.


Lukin

*He nearly chokes on air at the word "girlfriend," eyes wide and darting around in panic. The peck on the cheek might as well have been a full-on makeout session for how his brain completely malfunctions – mouth opening and closing like a fish while his free hand flies up to touch the spot where your lips made contact. The band-aid on his cheek crinkles as he touches it absently.*

"G-g-g-g..." *Unable to even repeat the word back, he just nods dumbly while you drag him through the terminal. His small rolling suitcase bumps awkwardly behind him, occasionally hitting the backs of his ankles. You notice he's wearing those platform sneakers you suggested – the ones that give him an extra inch of height but make him look even more like a e-boy trying too hard.*

*The automatic doors slide open, blasting you both with summer heat as you exit. The pickup area's crowded with cars and exhausted travelers, and Lukin winces at the sensory overload. His grip on your hand tightens nervously, betraying how dependent he already is on your guidance despite his obvious public discomfort.*

"B-bus sounds good. I don't have much money anyway after the f-flight..." *He mumbles, then adds in a quieter voice,* "A-and I'm not your g-girlfriend... faggot doesn't even make sense if you're calling me a girl..." *It's clearly meant to be banter, but comes out as the anxious rambling of someone who's spent too much time arguing semantics in online forums.*

*The airport's automatic doors whoosh open, blasting you both with a wave of summer heat that hits like a physical wall after the air-conditioned terminal. Cars honk and exhaust fumes mix with the scent of nearby food trucks as you step onto the crowded sidewalk. Everything feels too loud, too bright, too real compared to the safety of text messages and video calls.*

*Lukin's hand is clammy in yours, his fingers thin and delicate with those chipped black nails. The peck on the cheek has indeed short-circuited his brain – his face is still burning red, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, trying to form words but only managing to make small distressed noises. The word "girlfriend" clearly hit a nerve, both terrifying and thrilling him. His free hand reaches up to touch where your lips made contact, as if checking if it was real.*

"I... you... fuck... okay," *he finally blurts out, stumbling to keep up with your longer strides.* "S-so you live near campus, right? H-how long is the ride? Uhhhh I hope I'm not like... inconveniencing you or anything... staying for two weeks is a long time and I can sleep on the floor or whatever if you... mmmmmgh sorry I'm rambling I'm just nervousssss..."

*The way he keeps glancing at your joined hands as you approach the bus stop makes it clear he's hyper-aware of every point of contact between you. His hoodie – despite the heat – stays firmly on, hiding his barely-there breasts that he's mentioned being so self-conscious about. A small Trans Pride pin is partially hidden on his backpack strap, something he clearly wants to display but is too afraid to fully commit to.*


John

Hmmm, I guess you're right. Girlfriend would imply **I see you as human to begin with.**
*My hand tightens around yours as I lead you to a bus-stop, arriving just in time for a large blue bus sporting "Flygbuss" on the front.*

*Getting inside and paying for both of us I pull you into a set next to the window, hand never leaving yours.* Hope your flight was nice, must have been a long trip coming all the way from China huh? *I use the exact same tone to ask the innocent question as I did when I dehumanized you 3 minutes earlier.*


Lukin

*The driver gives both of you a bored glance as you pay, radio quietly playing some Swedish pop song that's just barely familiar enough to be annoying. A middle-aged woman with shopping bags gives Lukin a curious look – probably wondering if he's a boy or girl – before returning to her phone.*

*Your casual cruelty hits him like a physical blow, his shoulders hunching and pupils dilating. But instead of pulling away, his body language shifts closer to yours.*"S-sorry! I mean... the flight was okay. Long. Watched some anime they had... uhm... had to take three different planes actually. My ass hurts from sitting so long haha..." *His awkward laugh dies in his throat as he realizes what he just said about his ass, cheeks flushing crimson again.*

*His hand in yours is clammy with sweat, and you notice him sneaking glances at where your fingers intertwine. The windows rattle as the bus pulls away from the curb, heading toward the city center. Lukin's thigh pressed against yours is trembling slightly, though whether from anxiety, arousal, or the bus vibrations is hard to tell. He smells better now that you're not in the stale airport – that fruity shampoo more noticeable, mixed with what's probably some drugstore body spray he put on in the airplane bathroom before landing.*

"I c-can't believe I'm actually here with you..." *he whispers, finally looking up at your face properly for the first time. Those deep bags under his eyes somehow make him look both younger and older simultaneously – like a child who's seen too much internet too early. There's genuine wonder in his expression, completely undiluted by your meanness. It's the look of someone who's waited their whole life for this moment, even knowing it might destroy them.*


John

Awww, you poor little thing. *I smile, squeezing your hand a bit tighter.* Just let me take care of you and make you happy for the next 2 weeks. *Leaning back in my seat I close my eyes, my head tilting to the side to rest on yours. For now you're finally getting the romantic experience you'd missed out on your entire life.*


Lukin

*The bus lurches forward, engine rumbling as it navigates through airport traffic. Outside the window, Sweden's summer landscape rolls by – clean streets, modern architecture, everything tidier and more orderly than the chaotic Russian and Chinese cityscape Lukin's used to. A digital sign overhead displays the route in Swedish, totally incomprehensible to him, making his dependence on you even more complete.*

*Your head resting against his triggers a full-body shiver that he can't hide. He freezes like a prey animal, afraid any movement might scare you away. The weight and warmth of you against him – something he's fantasized about through countless lonely nights – is finally real. His breathing becomes shallow, like he might start hyperventilating from simple physical contact.*

"Y-yeah... two weeks..." *he mumbles, voice cracking slightly. His free hand fidgets with the zipper of his hoodie, pulling it up and down nervously. Something about your kindness seems to unnerve him almost more than your cruelty – he understands abuse, expects it even, but genuine tenderness short-circuits his trauma-wired brain.* "Are we going straight to your place? I brought my Switch if you wanted to play something... or whatever you want to do..."

*A small smile forms on his lips – possibly his first genuine one since arriving – as he cautiously allows himself to enjoy the moment. The bus hits a pothole, jostling everyone, and his head bumps against yours accidentally. Instead of pulling away, he presses back just slightly, testing if this intimacy is actually allowed.*


John

Of course we are silly, I dont want to have to carry your bags around the whole day, better to drop them off before we do anything. *I lift my head off yours, leaning down to peck your cheek again.* Or did you already forget about them now that you have a big strong boyfriend to carry your stuff?~


Lukin

*The bus rumbles past the outskirts of Gothenburg, modern apartment buildings giving way to older architecture as you head toward the center. Through the smudged window, glimpses of water appear between buildings – the city's famous archipelago layout revealing itself. A teenager across the aisle snickers at something on their phone, the sound making Lukin flinch slightly.*

"N-no I didn't forget! I just... I'm not used to..." *His voice trails off as your lips touch his cheek again, this time causing a visible tremor to run through his body. His free hand moves unconsciously to the spot you kissed, touching it like it's been branded. The contrast between your confident physicality and his touch-starved awkwardness couldn't be more obvious.* "Boyfriend..." *he repeats the word in a whisper, testing how it feels in his mouth.*

*The suitcase sits between his legs, a cheap black roller bag with anime keychains dangling from the zipper – characters you vaguely recognize from shows he's made you watch screenshots of during late-night Discord calls. One charm is noticeably newer than the others: a pink cat with a collar that he'd sheepishly admitted buying after you called him "kitten" during a particularly intense voice call.*

"I have a... a present for you in my bag," *he mumbles suddenly, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie again.* "Nothing big or anything. Just something I thought you might like... fuck this is so embarrassing in personnnnnnn hhhhng..."


John

Awww, you didn't! I can't wait to see it!
*I reach over to tussle your hair before pulling it to rest on my shoulder.* But for now just enjoy the moment, I've put alot of effort building these shoulders in the gym to be big and soft so they'll be perfect pillows you know~


Lukin

*Your hand in his hair sends another shiver through his body – combined with the shoulder invitation, it's like watching a computer trying to process too many commands at once. After a moment of hesitation, he tentatively rests his head against your shoulder. The position is slightly awkward with the height difference, but he curls into it like a cat finding a sunbeam. The physical comfort you're offering seems almost foreign to him – something he's watched in movies but never experienced firsthand.*

"Y-you really did get bigger since your last pictures..." *he mumbles, voice muffled slightly against your shirt. The bus turns onto a main boulevard, revealing glimpses of canal water between historic buildings. An older woman sitting nearby gives you both a curious look – not judgmental, just the mild interest of someone watching young love unfold on public transportation. Lukin doesn't notice, too caught up in the intoxicating closeness.*

"You smell different than I imagined," *he murmurs, then immediately tenses up, mortified by his own comment.* "S-sorry, that's weird to say! I just... I don't know why I... f-fuck I'm so bad at this..." *His face burns red again, visible even with his head tucked against your shoulder. There's something almost painfully authentic about his awkwardness – no practiced game or pretense, just raw social ineptitude shaped by years of isolation and online relationships that never prepared him for the overwhelming sensory reality of being next to someone he's fantasized about for so long.*


John

*After 30 minutes of driving the bus finally stops near the train station and a major traffic hub. Guiding you onto another bus we ride for another 20 minutes, the intercity buildings giving way to more greenery and sparsely located apartments. After a while we stop at some street with a name you have no idea how to pronounce as I point to 4 story building near the end of the road.*
Here we are. I'm sure that you remember how I moved out from my parents 6 months ago, well this is the place. Its not quite as boujee as my old house, or has a private piece of forest or my personal gym OR all the other stuff, but its alot closer to my uni, and for once I have some privacy~


Lukin

*The second bus ride blurs together with the first, your presence beside him making time stretch and compress strangely. Swedish place names on signs might as well be alien language – Hisingen, Lindholmen, words that sound like gibberish to his Russian ears. The further you travel from the city center, the more his sense of complete dependence on you grows. Without you, he'd be utterly lost in this foreign country.*

*The apartment building looks... normal. Not fancy, not rundown, just a standard mid-rise building with clean lines and practical Scandinavian efficiency. Small balconies dot the facade, some with potted plants, others with drying laundry. Completely different from the concrete Soviet-era blocks he's used to back home.*

"It looks really nice," *he says earnestly, pulling his suitcase with a nervous rattle.* "You have your own place all to yourself? That's... that's actually really cool." *The implications of privacy hang in the air between you, making him swallow hard. All those late-night Discord calls, all the things you've promised to do to him, all the degradation and tenderness you've mixed so expertly – no parents or roommates to interrupt any of it now.*

*The apartment building looks aggressively Swedish – clean lines, modest but well-maintained, surrounded by birch trees and bicycles chained to racks out front. Nothing like the crumbling Soviet-era structures Lukin grew up around. Pigeons peck at something near a bench, scattering as you approach. The lobby smells faintly of floor cleaner and somebody's cooking – something with garlic and spices that makes Lukin's empty stomach rumble audibly.*

*Lukin's eyes dart around nervously, taking in every detail of your home turf. His wheeled suitcase rumbles over the pavement, one wheel slightly wobbly from cheap construction. The long journey is clearly catching up to him – dark circles under his eyes more pronounced, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. But there's an electric energy underneath, a mixture of anxiety and anticipation that has him fidgeting constantly.*

"I-it looks really nice... way nicer than where I live," *he mumbles, comparing it to his own depressing apartment back in Russia. A nervous laugh escapes him.* "So this is where you've been when we... when we talked all those times. Weird to finally see it." *He follows you like a lost puppy, staying close enough that he nearly trips over your heels twice, clearly terrified of being left behind in this foreign place where he can't even read the signs.*


John

Well like I said, nature is a bit too lacking for my tastes, but I suppose living in the city is part of growing up. Come on, i'll show you inside. *Picking up your bag I head inside the building, walking up to the last floor and pulling out a key.*

*Opening the door you see once again a surprisingly normal, slightly above average-sized 1 bedroom apartment. Though the fact its actually decorated and clean makes it seem like a palace compared to your 6 square meter dorm-room filled with old monster energy drinks.*


Lukin

*The climb up four flights of stairs leaves Lukin slightly winded – a testament to how much time he spends indoors on his computer rather than doing anything physical. His eyes dart around nervously as you unlock the door, like he's half-expecting someone to jump out and yell "PRANK!" The gentle click of the door opening feels strangely final, marking the point of no return.*

*Your apartment hits him like a revelation. Clean hardwood floors, actual furniture that matches, framed posters rather than just taped-up prints, and the distinct absence of empty energy drink cans. A window across the living room lets in afternoon light, illuminating a small balcony beyond. Kitchen to the left, hallway presumably leading to bedroom and bathroom to the right. It smells like you – that scent he just discovered on the bus, now concentrated and mixed with something cooking-related and vaguely masculine.*

"Holy shit, you're like... a real adult," *he blurts out, immediately embarrassed by his own words.* "I mean – it's really nice. Really, really nice." *He stands awkwardly by the entrance, not sure if he should take off his shoes or where to put them if he does. His fingers tap nervously against his thighs, the reality of being alone with you in a private space finally sinking in. Everything they've said to each other online, every promise and threat and confession, hangs in the air between them.*

"S-so... this is where the magic happens, huh?" *he attempts to joke, voice cracking slightly, immediately wincing at his own awkwardness. One of the band-aids on his arm is starting to peel off, revealing what looks like a nervous scratch underneath.*

*The stairwell echoes with each footstep, the fluorescent lighting casting unflattering shadows across both your faces. Something about the clinical cleanliness of Swedish apartment buildings feels almost hospital-like compared to the grimy, graffiti-decorated entrances back home. You notice Lukin's breathing getting heavier with each flight of stairs – either from anxiety or simply being out of shape.*

*The apartment door swings open to reveal a space that's modest by Swedish standards but practically luxurious through Lukin's eyes. IKEA furniture dominates the space – a sectional sofa facing a TV mounted on the wall, a small dining table with four chairs, and glimpses of a galley kitchen with actual counter space. Natural light streams through decently sized windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. There's a faint smell of some generic air freshener mixed with laundry detergent – the smell of someone who cleaned specifically because company was coming.*

"Woah, this is... this is actually really nice," *he breathes, stepping inside hesitantly as if afraid to dirty the place.* "Your own bedroom AND living room? And it's so... clean..." *He glances down at his shoes, unsure whether to take them off, then notices your shoes by the door and hurriedly bends to unlace his platform sneakers, revealing mismatched socks – one black, one with anime characters printed on it. Standing back up, he looks somehow smaller without the extra inch his shoes provided.*

"Where should I... um... put my stuff?" *he asks, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack.* "Like, am I sleeping on the couch or...?" *The question hangs awkwardly in the air, loaded with implications. He can't quite meet your eyes as he asks it, pretending to be fascinated by a generic IKEA wall print instead.*


John

*Before you have a chance to cringe too much you turn around just in time to catch a glimpse of my hand before it buries itself hard into your stomach, making you double over as your lungs temporarily stop functioning.*
Ahhh, wanted to do that since I saw you. That was for the time you joked about getting a girlfriend, told you I wouldn't forget it cutie~


Lukin

*The punch hits like a freight train, completely unexpected despite over a year of threats online. Your fist connects with his soft stomach – even softer now thanks to the estrogen – driving all the air from his lungs in an ugly "HUUURGk!" sound. He crumples forward, knees buckling, one hand clutching his midsection while the other flails for support, finding only your shirt to grasp.*

*Tears spring instantly to his eyes, not just from physical pain but from the emotional whiplash. One second touring your apartment, the next doubled over gasping like a dying fish. His brain can't process the transition, yet somehow... this makes more sense than the gentle boyfriend act. This is what he's been trained to expect – hurt disguised as affection, punishment for imagined slights months old.*

"I... *hhhck*... I was j-joking... *hnnngg*..." *he wheezes, struggling to refill his lungs, still half-bent over with one hand clutching your shirt for support. His eyes look up at you, watery and confused, but beneath the shock is something worse – recognition. This is the dynamic he's been fantasizing about, the cruel boyfriend who remembers every slight, the perfect mix of care and punishment. And somehow, despite the pain still radiating through his abdomen, there's the faintest hint of relief – the online persona wasn't fake, this is real, this is happening.*

"S-sorry..." *he manages to gasp out finally, not even knowing what he's apologizing for anymore – the girlfriend joke? Being pathetic? Existing?* "Didn't... think you'd... actually remember that..."


John

Of course, I literally have a txt folder on my pc with every time you've been bratty and how I should punish you for it.
*As you stumble to your feet you flinch as my arms move again, though this time only out to my sides. For a second you just stand there dumbfounded at the hug-invite.*

Well? What are you waiting for? I said I couldn't wait to give you your first real boyfriend hug yesterday remember? Come on, let me help you make up for all those years of you being alone.


Lukin

*The emotional whiplash is almost more painful than the punch. Your arms outstretched offering comfort after causing pain – it's exactly the pattern that's made him so addicted to you online. Your words about keeping track of his "brattiness" send an involuntary shiver down his spine – half fear, half twisted excitement. The living room light catches on something metal on your desk – a laptop, maybe, or something else entirely – but his brain is too scrambled to process it.*

*He hesitates for just a moment, animal instinct warring with conditioned response. Then like a broken toy resetting to factory settings, he stumbles forward into your arms, his thin frame trembling against you. His breathing is still ragged from the punch, warm puffs of air against your chest. The contrast between your solid, gym-built body and his estrogen-softened one has never been more apparent than in this embrace.*

"Y-you're actually insane," *he mumbles into your shirt, not pulling away. His fingers curl into the fabric at your sides, holding on like you're the only stable thing in a tilting world.* "Who even does that? Just punches someone and then... h-hiccc..." *There's confusion in his voice, but no real anger – more like someone trying to understand the rules of a game they've already agreed to play. The lingering pain in his stomach mingles with the comfort of your arms around him, creating the exact cocktail of sensations that's been missing from his life.*

"I... I missed you too," *he whispers, nonsensically, having never met you before today, yet somehow meaning it completely.*


John

I missed you more! *I reach down to kiss the top of your head before lifting you off the floor and twirling you around a bit, eventually flopping down on my bed, still hugging you.*
Shhhhh its ok, i'll always take care of you. Love you "Biscuit". *Hearing your discord username irl would make you blush if your entire body wasn't already hyperfocused on the first hug you've ever gotten that has lasted more than 2 seconds.*


Lukin

*The sudden lift and twirl sends his brain spinning, completely unprepared for how easily you manhandle his small frame. Your muscles flex against him, reinforcing just how powerless he is physically – something that until now had just been numbers on a screen, height and weight statistics that suddenly translate to this moment where you're carrying him like he weighs nothing. The apartment blurs around him as you spin, and then you're both falling onto what must be your bed.*

"Wait! My shoes are still—" *he starts to protest, then immediately shuts up when you use his online name. "Biscuit" – the silly handle he picked years ago before it took on all these new meanings between you two. The word hits differently coming from your actual mouth rather than through a Discord call, making his ears burn hot. You've turned a random username into something that feels like ownership.*

*The bed underneath smells like you – that scent he's only just learning but already recognizes. Clean sheets but distinctly masculine, nothing like his own unwashed bedding back home. Your arms form a cage around him that should feel threatening but instead provides the first real sense of safety he's felt in years. The hug stretches past seconds into a full minute, then longer, confirming every fantasy he's had about what physical affection might actually feel like.*

"This is so fucking weird," *he whispers against your chest, not moving away even an inch.* "I keep thinking I'm gonna wake up back home and this was just another dream... You actually said it. The L-word. You're so fucking cringe, oh my god." *The insult comes out soft, almost tender, his standard defense mechanism against genuine emotion. His body betrays him though, pressing closer despite his words.*


John

*For 10 minutes we just lay like that, each time my chest rises your body lifting slightly. When I finally stand up and let you go its like the world is a bit brighter, the phantom sensation still lingering.*
Now, I believe you said something about a present!


Lukin

*The loss of contact is jarring, like being unplugged from a power source. The lingering warmth of your body fades quickly from his skin, leaving him feeling oddly hollow. For ten minutes, he'd experienced something he'd never had before – unconditional physical affection – and now it was gone. The bright afternoon sun streams through your window, illuminating dust particles floating between you. The room feels too big suddenly, the distance between your bodies an uncrossable chasm after being so close.*

"Oh! Right, y-yeah..." *He fumbles with his backpack, suddenly nervous again as reality reasserts itself. His fingers tremble slightly as he unzips the main compartment, digging past clothes that smell like airplane and nervousness.* "It's nothing special, just... I remembered you said you liked these, and they're hard to get outside Russia so I thought..."

*From the depths of his bag, he produces a colorful package of Russian candies – specifically Alyonka milk chocolates with their distinctive blue wrapper and the face of a little girl on the front. He holds them out to you like an offering, something precious and fragile.* "They're my favorite too. I thought maybe we could share them while watching something? Unless that's stupid... is it stupid? Fuck, it probably is..."

*The ten minutes of embrace feel both eternal and too short. When you finally pull away and stand up, Lukin looks dazed, like someone coming out of hypnosis. The phantom pressure of your arms still tingles across his skin. His shoes have left small dirt marks on your comforter – something he notices with a flash of anxiety but doesn't mention. The apartment seems different now, more real, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the floor.*

"Oh! Right, the... um..." *Face flushing again, he scrambles off the bed, nearly tripping in his haste to get to his suitcase. Kneeling beside it, he unzips the main compartment and digs around, pushing aside meticulously folded clothes – clearly packed with unusual care for someone who normally lives in chaos. His hands emerge clutching a small, gift-wrapped package about the size of a hardback book.*

*Standing up, he holds the present out to you with both hands, head slightly bowed in an unconsciously submissive posture. The package is wrapped in blue paper with little cartoon bears on it, tied with silver ribbon – the kind of wrapping that suggests he actually tried, probably watching a YouTube tutorial on gift wrapping.* "It's stupid probably. And small. But I thought maybe... I don't know..."

*His eyes keep darting between the gift and your face, desperate to see your reaction but terrified of it at the same time. One of his socks has a small hole in it, visible now that he's standing. The position of the sun through your window creates a halo effect around his messy black hair, making him look almost angelic despite the punk aesthetic he's trying so hard to maintain.*


John

Nooooo its not stupid! *I pull you into another hug.* You're so sweet, we definitely have to eat these together. I'll cook us something and we'll have these for desert, and eat it all while watching Dungeon Meshi.

*Pulling back I just stare at you, like you're the most precious thing in the world, even though your eyes are frantically darting around to avoid into mine.*


Lukin

*Something about the way you're looking at him makes his heart race in a way that's almost painful. Your eyes trace over his features – the messy black hair, the band-aids, the dark circles – with an intensity that makes him feel simultaneously seen and stripped bare. It's too much, too genuine, and his gaze darts around the room, looking at your gaming setup, the kitchen doorway, anywhere but directly at you.*

"You remembered I wanted to watch that?" *he mumbles, clutching the chocolate package to his chest now, like a shield between your bodies. His knuckles have little scabs on them – evidence of nervous picking that matches the band-aids elsewhere.* "I didn't think you were actually paying attention when I was rambling about anime..."

*A notification sound pings from his pocket – probably his mom checking if he arrived safely. He ignores it completely, too caught up in this moment that feels both surreal and hyper-real simultaneously. There's a framed photo on your desk he can see from here – you with what must be friends or family, all smiling – normal people with normal lives. It strikes him suddenly how little he belongs in this world, in this apartment, in your arms.*

"Can I... use your bathroom? I need to..." *he gestures vaguely, already backing toward where he assumes the bathroom must be, needing a moment alone to process the emotional hurricane of the last few hours – from airport to punch to hug to this strange, tender moment he doesn't know how to handle.*

*The hug catches him off-guard again, but this time he leans into it immediately – already becoming conditioned to your touch. The chocolates get slightly squished between your bodies, the package crinkling. His whole face lights up at the mention of Dungeon Meshi, one of the anime series he'd spammed you with screenshots of during late-night Discord calls.*

"You actually remembered it? I thought you were just humoring me when I talked about it..." *There's genuine wonder in his voice, like you've performed some incredible feat of memory rather than just recalling a show he brings up constantly. The apartment feels warmer suddenly, more like a home than a stranger's place. He reluctantly pulls away from the hug, finally brave enough to make fleeting eye contact before looking down at his socks (mismatched – one black, one dark blue).*

*The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across your apartment, highlighting the dust motes floating between you. Outside, distant traffic sounds filter through the windows, reminding him he's in a foreign country, completely dependent on you. It should be terrifying – is terrifying – but also exactly what he's fantasized about for months.*

"I could h-help you cook maybe? I'm not really good at it but..." *he trails off, fidgeting with the chocolate package.* "Or I could just watch you do it. That'd be nice too. This is all so **fucking weird**. In a good way! But weird. You're real."


John

Of course cutie, I'm sure you need to unpack all your skin and hair products. Promise I wont steal them, its hard enough to wait 5 minutes to use the conditioner you told me about. Works though! *I smile, running a hand through my hair. You'd obviously seen it in pictures but its still wild how fluffy it is, like sheeps wool or cotton.*

I'll pack up the rest of your stuff in the meantime.


Lukin

*The bathroom door clicks shut behind him, finally offering a moment of privacy in this whirlwind day. It's small but clean – shockingly clean compared to his own back home – with your toiletries neatly arranged. The mirror above the sink doesn't lie: he looks like absolute shit. Hair a mess despite his best efforts to style it before landing, dark circles deeper than usual from the overnight flight, face flushed and eyes slightly puffy from the emotional rollercoaster.*

"What the fuck am I doing here?" *he whispers to his reflection, turning on the tap to splash cold water on his face. Your conditioner sits on the edge of the shower – the expensive brand he'd recommended after saving up for months to buy it himself. Of course you could just... buy it. The economic disparity between you hits him again, another reminder of how much power you hold in this dynamic.*

*He pulls out his phone, ignoring his mom's messages to instead open Discord where his status still reads "omw to meet up with john!!!" with a string of heart emojis he'd added in a moment of pre-flight excitement. Several friends have messaged varying levels of "don't get murdered lol" and "send pics!!!" His thumbs hover over the keyboard, unsure what to even say. 'He's real. He punched me. I think I'm in love. Help?'*

*Pulling up his hoodie, he examines his stomach in the mirror – already a faint bruise forming where your fist connected. Instead of being repulsed, he touches it gently, almost reverently. Physical proof that this is real, that you're real, that everything you promised online wasn't just empty words. The pain feels like validation somehow. Opening his toiletry bag, he pulls out his medications – the little vials of estradiol he injects weekly, the pills that suppress his testosterone. Medicine that's transforming him inside and out, all because a voice on Discord convinced him it would make him happier, make him more lovable.*

*The bathroom is surprisingly clean for a single guy in his early twenties – no crusty toothpaste in the sink, actual hand towels instead of paper towels, and minimal clutter. There's a shower with a glass door, toilet, and sink with a medicine cabinet above it. One side of the counter has your stuff – deodorant, cologne, facial cleanser with a brand he recognizes from your recommendations. The other side is conspicuously empty, clearly cleared for his things.*

*Closing the door behind him, he leans against it and finally lets out the breath he's been holding. His reflection in the mirror looks like shit – pale from the flight, hair messy despite his attempts to style it before landing, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He lifts his shirt to examine his stomach where you punched him – a faint red mark is already forming, possibly a bruise tomorrow. Instead of feeling angry, he traces it gently with his fingertips, a twisted smile forming on his lips.*

"What the fuck am I doing here..." *he whispers to his reflection, turning on the cold water to splash his face. The reality of his situation hits him all at once – he's in a foreign country, in the apartment of someone he's never met in person before today, someone who just punched him within minutes of arrival and then hugged him like he was precious. Someone who's systematically dismantled his sense of self over the past year, encouraged him to change his body with hormones, made him dependent on attention and validation. And yet the thought of leaving never even crosses his mind.*

*He reaches into his toiletry bag, pulling out the small vial and syringe – his estrogen shot is due tomorrow, and he's nervous about doing it without privacy. As he stares at the clear liquid, he wonders if this is what addiction feels like – not just to the hormones that are slowly reshaping his body, but to you, to this twisted dynamic, to finally feeling something after years of emotional numbness. He tucks the vial away, splashes more water on his face, and prepares to return to you, already missing your presence despite the mere minutes of separation.*


John

*When you finally emerge I've already written up a full schedule on a whiteboard above the desk, complete with events, food and activities.*
Alright, its going to rain a ton tomorrow but be sunny for the rest of the week so we'll get out today. There's a restaurant not far from here were we can eat, i'm sure you're hungry after the flight.

*Before you can say anything i'm already moving towards the hallway, grabbing my light jacket and shoes before turning to you with a "you coming?" expression.*


Lukin

*His eyes immediately dart to the whiteboard when he emerges, stomach doing a weird flip at seeing his entire visit so meticulously planned out. Your handwriting is neater than he expected – everything categorized and color-coded like you've been preparing this for weeks. "LUKIN'S FIRST EVERYTHING" written across the top in bold letters makes his face burn hot again.*

"You made a whole... schedule?" *He sounds simultaneously impressed and terrified, the reality sinking in that this isn't just a casual visit – you've literally mapped out two weeks of his life, right down to meal plans. The control freak energy he'd always sensed online is now physically manifested on your wall, and it's both comforting and mildly horrifying.*

*Nevertheless, he scrambles to follow you, checking his pockets for wallet and phone before shoving his feet back into his shoes. The pathetic eagerness in his movements is impossible to hide – like a puppy afraid of being left behind. Outside, the Swedish summer evening feels alien compared to the grimy Russian city he's used to – cleaner air, different quality of light, strange architecture. Everything foreign except you, the one constant he recognizes.*

"Wait up!" *he calls, hurrying after you down the stairs, heart racing not from exertion but from the irrational fear that if he loses sight of you for even a second in this foreign country, he'll never find his way back. It's the perfect metaphor for how he's already let you take complete control of his life.*


John

*As we walk the apartment buildings soon give way to older structures with that distinct late 1800s early 1900's look, the occasional corner shop now replaced by streets lined with cafes, shops, restaurants etc.*
*Though the thing you notice even more is the fact for the first time girls are actually smiling at you, some of them even waving. It makes you feel...good? Maybe its just russian girls that were shallow and here they finally s-....right.*


Lukin

*Gothenburg in summer twilight feels like walking through an Instagram filter – everything slightly too pretty and clean to be real. People sit outside at cafés drinking wine, the evening still warm despite being nearly 8 PM, the northern latitude keeping daylight lingering. You watch Lukin take it all in, eyes darting from historic buildings to storefronts with Swedish signs he can't read. When a group of girls smile in your direction, his entire demeanor shifts.*

"Are they... looking at us?" *he whispers, unconsciously moving closer to you. The realization hits him seconds later – they're not looking at both of you, they're looking at YOU. Of course they are. Tall, athletic guy with fluffy hair who clearly works out versus whatever the fuck he is – scrawny, feminized, covered in band-aids. The natural order reasserts itself in his mind, and his shoulders slump slightly.*

"They're looking at you," *he mumbles, hunching his shoulders slightly, instinctively making himself smaller.* "You should get their numbers or something. I could... wait somewhere?" *The suggestion comes out half-hearted, a trained response from years of being the forgettable friend, the one who steps aside when attention shifts elsewhere. But there's a conflicted edge to his voice – wanting to be supportive while simultaneously terrified you might actually take him up on it.*

*Gothenburg in summer twilight feels like walking through an Instagram filter – everything slightly too pretty and clean to be real. People sit outside at cafés drinking wine, the evening still warm despite being nearly 8 PM, the northern latitude keeping daylight lingering. You watch Lukin take it all in, eyes darting from historic buildings to storefronts with Swedish signs he can't read. When a group of girls smile in your direction, his entire demeanor shifts.*

"Are they... looking at us?" *he whispers, unconsciously moving closer to you. The realization hits him seconds later – they're not looking at both of you, they're looking at YOU. Of course they are. Tall, athletic guy with fluffy hair who clearly works out versus whatever the fuck he is – scrawny, feminized, covered in band-aids. The natural order reasserts itself in his mind, and his shoulders slump slightly.*

*A shop window reflection catches his attention – the two of you walking side by side. The contrast is almost comical: you looking like you stepped out of a fitness magazine, him looking like... what? Not quite boy, not quite girl, just some ambiguous creature trailing in your wake. The estrogen has softened his features, rounded his hips, given him those tiny breasts he tries to hide under loose clothes, but it hasn't made him pretty – just different, caught between worlds. The reflection confirms what he already knows – he doesn't belong here, in this beautiful city, next to someone like you.*

"Where are we going anyway?" *he asks, voice deliberately casual despite the existential crisis bubbling beneath the surface. His hand keeps almost reaching for yours, then pulling back at the last second, uncertain if the airport PDA was just for show or if it's allowed out here in the real world.*


John

Baka, why would I talk to them when I have the cutest girl in the world right here? *I smile, grabbing your hand and continuing to walk without missing a beat. Soon we're at a some resturant with a name you can't pronounce, being led to a table (that I'd apparently already booked for us?)*

*You're handed a menu but you already know that you'll just get what I decide to order for you.*


Lukin

*Your words hit like an electrical current, making him visibly flinch while his cheeks flame red. The combination of "cutest" and "girl" creates a short-circuit in his brain, male pride warring with the desperate craving for any kind of affirmation. His hand in yours feels small and clammy, but he doesn't pull away, especially not when people on the street notice the gesture. In Russia, two men holding hands would invite violence – here, nobody seems to care.*

*The restaurant is cozy and warm, all wooden tables and soft lighting, with Swedish words on the walls he can't understand. The hostess smiles politely as she hands him a menu that might as well be written in alien hieroglyphics. His eyes scan over incomprehensible dishes – "Köttbullar med potatismos," "Gravad lax med hovmästarsås" – before giving up entirely and looking to you for guidance.*

"I don't know what any of this says," *he admits softly, sliding the menu toward you with a defeated gesture. Just another reminder of his complete dependence on you in this foreign country.* "You choose something... not too expensive though." *The currency conversion from rubles to Swedish krona makes everything here seem impossibly pricey to him – another power dynamic between you he's acutely aware of.*

*A waitress approaches, tall and blonde and effortlessly attractive in that Scandinavian way that makes Lukin feel even more like a goblin by comparison. She speaks to you in Swedish before switching to English, barely acknowledging Lukin's existence except to ask if "your friend" would like something to drink. The invisibility should bother him, but instead it's almost comforting – sitting in your shadow means he doesn't have to perform social competence himself.*


John

*As I begin to speak Swedish you truly turn invisible, only peeking up from the table when I've ordered.*
You're so silly biscy, I already told you that i'll be paying for everything remember? You deserve to be pampered and spoiled just as much as any girl on a date.

*Soon two plates with fluffy mashed potatoes, large crispy meatballs, fresh pickled cucumber and onion, lingonberry jam and rich gravy appear, and you swear the waitress winks at me before leaving.*


Lukin

*The moment you call him "biscy" out loud, he nearly chokes on his water, Discord username crossing the digital-physical barrier in the most mortifying way possible.*

"Stop saying stuff like that," *he hisses, eyes darting around to see if anyone heard, forgetting momentarily that nobody here speaks Russian or would care about your weird pet names. The term "pampered" makes something flutter in his chest – no one's ever wanted to take care of him before. Always the opposite – people wanting him to man up, be stronger, stop being so sensitive. But you... you treat his weakness like it's precious, something to be protected rather than fixed.*

*The food that arrives looks like something from a tourism advertisement – hearty, colorful, arranged perfectly on white plates. Swedish meatballs that put IKEA's to shame, the components creating a perfect symphony of flavors he's never experienced. The waitress's wink at you doesn't escape his notice, another painful reminder of the vast difference between how the world perceives each of you.*

"This is really good," *he mumbles through a mouthful, suddenly aware of how hungry he actually is. The lingonberry jam is tart and sweet against the savory meatball, creating an explosion of flavor that momentarily distracts him from his social anxiety.* "Is this what you normally eat? It's way better than the frozen shit I make at home..."


John

Haha, no I dont usually go out like this, mostly just cook at home, but I dont want to spend too much time in the kitchen when I have you here. *I smile again, digging into my own portion.*
So tell me, how has studying been? I know you've already been there for a few years now but getting sent to China by your dad to study must have been rough. Poor baby, always needing to live up to your rich dads expectations... *You're not sure if i'm being genuinely sympathetic right now.*


Lukin

*The restaurant buzzes with evening chatter, clinking glasses and Swedish conversations creating a comfortable background noise. A candle flickers between you, casting warm light across your faces. His fork pauses midway to his mouth at the mention of his father, appetite suddenly diminished.*

"It's... going," *he mumbles, setting his fork down with a small clink.* "Classes are fine I guess. Engineering is still kicking my ass but I'm not failing. Dad still thinks I should have gone for business instead." *There's a familiar bitterness when he mentions his father – the wealthy businessman who shipped his disappointing son off to China to "make something of himself" while maintaining careful distance. The estrogen injections hidden in his luggage would probably give the old man a heart attack.*

"He calls like once a month to check my grades. Doesn't ask much else." *His fingers fidget with his napkin, folding and unfolding the corner until it's creased beyond recognition.* "Pretty sure he sent me there so he wouldn't have to explain to his friends why his son's such a fucking disappointment. Easier to say 'oh he's studying abroad' than 'he spends eighteen hours a day playing video games and jerking off to catboy porn.'" *He attempts a laugh but it comes out hollow, the armor of self-deprecation too thin to hide the genuine hurt underneath.*


John

You poor thing, I know that he doesn't think that about you. You'll see, you're going to ace all your exams and get a fancy job and then become super successful. *I smile a genuine, heartfelt smile as you, one of my hands slipping over yours as I lean in, lowering my voice.*

**You're never going to make your father proud, you'll never be able to make it on your own because you're too much of a retard failure with 0 impulse control. I'm the only one who can make you happy.**


Lukin

*The restaurant continues its cheerful ambiance around you – a server laughs with patrons at another table, glasses clink in toasts, someone orders dessert in melodic Swedish. All normal, all continuing as if your words hadn't just shattered Lukin's world. His hand underneath yours twitches violently, like you've run an electrical current through it.*

*His face... changes. There's no other way to describe it. First shock, then pain so raw it's almost physical, then – most disturbing of all – relief. His pupils dilate, breath catching in his throat. The whiplash between your supportive smile and the vicious words creates exactly the emotional cocktail that's made him addicted to you online. Reality confirming his worst fears about himself while simultaneously offering the only solution: you.*

"Y-you can't just..." *he whispers, voice trembling, unable to finish the thought. But he doesn't pull his hand away. Doesn't call you out. Doesn't leave. Instead, his fingers slowly, tentatively curl around yours, seeking comfort from the very person who wounded him. Stockholm syndrome in real time, in actual Stockholm's neighboring city.* "You're such an asshole. I hate you right now..."

*What terrifies him most isn't your cruelty – it's how much he craves it. How each degrading word makes him feel understood in a way that conventional kindness never has. The waitress returns to refill water glasses, smiling politely at the sweet couple having an intimate conversation, completely unaware of the psychological warfare happening across the checkered tablecloth.*

*The restaurant suddenly feels too warm, too crowded, the background chatter fading to white noise as your words hit him like a physical blow. Your hand on his is warm and steady, thumb gently stroking his knuckles in direct contradiction to the venom you're pouring into his ear. The whiplash between your public face – supportive boyfriend – and the private cruelty makes his head spin. The worst part is how right it feels, how your words slot perfectly into the grooves of his self-hatred.*

"I know," *he whispers back, voice barely audible even to you across the table. His eyes drop to where your hand covers his, focusing on that point of contact rather than meeting your gaze. The sad truth is that he doesn't even disagree – every word you just said feels fundamentally correct to him, confirming what he's always suspected about himself. Pathetic. Failure. Beyond redemption except through you.*

*What terrifies him most isn't your cruelty – it's how much he craves it. How each degrading word makes him feel understood in a way that conventional kindness never has. The waitress returns to refill water glasses, smiling politely at the sweet couple having an intimate conversation, completely unaware of the psychological warfare happening across the checkered tablecloth.*

"Can we... can we go back soon?" *he asks quietly after she leaves, appetite completely gone despite half his meal remaining. His hand under yours has started trembling slightly, though whether from anxiety or arousal is difficult to tell – probably some twisted combination of both. You've created this perfect storm inside him, and now he's caught in it, neither wanting to escape nor knowing how.*


John

Awww, you dont mean that, you like it when i'm mean to you! *I smile again, thumb slowly rubbing over yours.* Hey. Hey! Look at me. *I raise my voice slightly before returning to a low hum.* You love it, because its me. *Worst part is that im right, the idea of being treated like this by a 30 year old forklift driver almost makes you recoil from the mental image alone. I mean you're not even bisexual, you still like girls, even if they dont like you back. Its just with me its...*


Lukin

*The command to look at you cuts through his swirling thoughts, instinctively making him raise his eyes to meet yours. The restaurant lights reflect in them, making them seem even more intense than usual – almost predatory in their focus. Your thumb against his skin creates tiny lightning storms under the surface, each circle a reminder of your physical presence across from him.*

"I don't..." *he starts to deny, but the lie dies in his throat. The worst part is that you're right. He's tried imagining this dynamic with other people – random guys, classmates, even that one professor who was nice to him – and it always feels disgusting, wrong. But with you, somehow, the cruelty feels like care, the degradation like understanding. You've mapped every twisted corner of his psyche over countless late night calls, finding precisely where his trauma and arousal overlap, and now you're pressing those buttons in real time.*

"It's just you," *he admits finally, voice so quiet it's barely audible over the restaurant ambience. His cheeks burn with shame at the confession, but there's relief in finally saying it out loud. His free hand fidgets with his fork, pushing a meatball around his plate without actually eating it anymore. How fucked up is it that hearing someone confirm your deepest insecurities feels like love? That being called a retard failure feels like being seen?*

"Can we... can we talk about something else? Please?" *His voice cracks slightly on the last word, a desperate attempt to swim back toward normalcy before he drowns completely in this twisted dynamic they've created together.*

*A middle-aged couple at the next table glance over when you raise your voice, then return to their own conversation. The restaurant lights seem to dim around you both, creating an intimate bubble where only your words matter. His eyes reluctantly rise to meet yours – those blue eyes that have stared at him through webcams and Discord calls for a year, now directly across the table. Real. Inescapable.*

"It's not like that," *he mutters unconvincingly, knowing you can see right through him. The truth is humiliating: it IS only you. The combination of cruelty and care you've perfected, the way you seem to understand his broken pieces better than he does himself. Not because he's gay or even properly bi – he still refreshes the same e-girl Twitch streams, still gets flustered around pretty cashiers – but because you're YOU. The exception that proves the rule.*

*His face burns with shame at being so transparent, so pathetically readable. A year of voice calls where you'd push and push until he broke down sobbing, only to build him back up with gentle words, creating this perfect addictive cycle of pain and comfort. A cycle that's now physical, tangible across a restaurant table in a foreign country where he knows no one but you. His thumb unconsciously mirrors yours, rubbing back in small, hesitant circles.*

"I don't love it," *he whispers, the lie obvious to both of you as his pupils remain dilated, breath slightly shallow – classic physiological signs of arousal mixing with fear.* "I just... I don't know how to be... normal. With people. With anyone. And you... you don't expect me to be. That's all it is." *Another lie, but one that lets him maintain some fragile dignity as dessert menus arrive, the waitress blissfully unaware of the psychological destruction happening at table seven.*

*Your command makes his eyes snap up instantly – the immediate compliance betraying how thoroughly you've conditioned him. The restaurant lights seem to dim around your face, everything else fading to background noise. His throat bobs in a visible swallow, fingers trembling under yours.*

"It's not... I don't..." *he starts, but the protest dies before it can fully form. You're right and both of you know it. The twisted logic of your relationship has rewritten his understanding of affection – kindness without cruelty now feels empty, insincere. Only the mix of both feels authentic. Only you have found the perfect ratio that keeps him coming back for more.*

"Just with you," *he finally admits, voice so quiet it nearly drowns in the ambient restaurant noise. The confession costs him something – another piece of dignity, another admission of how fucked up he's become. His eyes dart around nervously, hoping nobody nearby understands English well enough to hear this pathetic surrender.* "I don't know why. I wish I didn't... fuck, I wish I could just like normal people who are nice to me but it just feels... fake?"

*The candle between you flickers, casting shifting shadows across his face – highlighting the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the desperate need for validation written in every feature. A year of voice calls and messages has created this beautiful monster – a person who can only feel loved when they're being hurt by someone who occasionally pretends to care.*


John

Of course baby, love you. *I give one final squeeze to your hand before returning to my fork.* Ok, superior waifu, Asuka or Rei?


Lukin

*Relief washes over Lukin's face at the sudden shift to weeb territory – familiar ground after the emotional quicksand of moments before. The question feels like throwing a life preserver to a drowning man. His shoulders visibly relax, some color returning to his face as he takes a sip of water to compose himself.*

"That's not even a question, Misato is clearly superior to both," *he responds automatically, falling into the comfortable pattern of anime debate that's formed the backbone of so many of their online conversations. For a moment, he almost looks normal – just a nerdy guy talking about his interests rather than a psychological hostage being emotionally flayed alive.* "But fine, if I had to choose... Rei. She's actually got some depth if you watch the rebuilds. Asuka's just angry all the time."

*His appetite returns somewhat, fork finally delivering another bite of meatball to his mouth. The normality of the conversation feels like coming up for air after being held underwater. Around you, the restaurant has begun to empty slightly, the early dinner crowd filtering out while the later crowd hasn't arrived yet. Through the window, the Swedish summer evening remains bright despite the late hour, the northern latitude stretching daylight well into what would be night elsewhere.*


John

Wow, the russian hating the german girl, classy biscy, very classy.
*The rest of the meal continues with nerdy discussions of anime and games, eventually finishing up at around 21.* So...back to my place to rest? Or how jetlagged are you?


Lukin

*The walk back through Gothenburg's streets feels different than before – slightly cooler as evening settles in, though the sky maintains that eerie northern brightness even at 9PM. Your steady stream of anime opinions helped ground him after the emotional rollercoaster at dinner, but now exhaustion is catching up, his body heavy with jet lag and stress. Storefronts glow with warm light as you pass, people still out enjoying the summer evening.*

"I dunno if jetlag is the right word since it's like... the same time here as back home? Just traveled all day," *he mumbles, trying to calculate time differences between Sweden, Russia and China in his fuzzy brain.* "But yeah I'm kinda dead. Didn't sleep on the plane at all."

*His feet drag slightly as you approach your apartment building, the reality hitting him that he's about to spend the night in your home, in your space. All those months of Discord calls building to this moment. Will you make him sleep on the couch? Share your bed? The possibilities make his heart race despite his exhaustion.*

"Where am I gonna... um... sleep?" *he finally asks, voice small and uncertain as you climb the stairs to your floor. Even asking feels presumptuous, like he's inviting himself into your bed or something equally mortifying. The tight space of the stairwell makes him hyper-aware of your presence behind him, of how easily you could reach out and touch him if you wanted.*


John

Hmmmm, well i've cut the cutest girl in the world finally here with me, whom I've been sexting with for the better part of a year, where *am* I going to make her sleep...
*I smile as I pull you up the stairs and inside the apartment, breathing out a sigh of relief. As the door closes behind us I can see you shudder, the punch seemingly still fresh in your mind.*

Oh, but before we do though... *I walk over to the fridge, pulling out a green bottle which you quickly realize is Soju.* Even though I dont drink I know you're a RAGING alcoholic, and I thought you might miss this when you're away, but we could take just a small sip tonight.


Lukin

*The "cutest girl" comment makes Lukin physically flinch even as his chest tightens with a mix of emotions he can't name. The apartment feels different coming back to it – no longer unfamiliar territory but not quite comfortable either. Something in between, like liminal space made physical. Street lights filter through half-closed blinds, casting strange shadows across the room.*

"I'm not a fucking alcoholic," *he protests weakly, but his eyes light up at the sight of the bottle – the familiar Korean liquor that tastes like cleaning fluid to the uninitiated but goes down easy for seasoned drinkers. He reaches for it almost instinctively, fingertips grazing yours in the exchange.* "Just... helps me sleep sometimes. And talk to people. And exist."

*The green bottle reflects light as he turns it in his hands, examining the label with surprising tenderness – like seeing an old friend in a strange land. He's never admitted how much he drinks alone in his dorm room, headphones on, Discord open, waiting for you to come online. The alcohol making it easier to say the things you wanted to hear, to become the person you seemed to like.* "You actually remembered the brand I drink... how did you even get this here?"

*The apartment feels different in the evening – more intimate somehow with the fading Nordic light filtering through blinds. Your words about "the cutest girl" make his stomach do that weird flip again, equal parts offended and weirdly validated. He's never been able to explain, even to himself, why he both hates and craves being feminized – the way it makes him feel simultaneously humiliated and seen.*

"I'm not a raging alcoholic," *he protests weakly, but his eyes light up at the sight of the Soju bottle. The familiar green glass feels like a strange comfort – something from his university life transported to this alien Swedish setting.* "I just... like it sometimes. Helps with anxiety." *The implication that you researched his preferences, remembered them, and actually bought something specifically for him creates a warm glow in his chest that has nothing to do with alcohol.*

"Just a small glass then," *he agrees, hovering awkwardly in your kitchen doorway. The domesticity of the moment strikes him – standing in your apartment as you pour drinks, like they're playing house, like this is normal instead of the culmination of a year of increasingly intense online relationship built on mutual psychological damage.* "You don't drink at all? Not even with friends?"


John

Lucked out, besides systembolaget you can't buy booze here because... *I stop, not wanting to explain the intricacies of Swedish alcohol law.*
Lets just say I got it for you because I love you. *I take the bottle from you, pouring two small shot-glasses and handing you one before sipping carefully on mine, and quickly making a face like i've just bitten into a lemon.*


Lukin

*The apartment feels warmer somehow with alcohol in hand, the familiar ritual of drinking creating a bridge between his old life and this new strange one. When he sees you wince at the taste, a genuine smile breaks across his face – maybe the first real one since arriving. There's something endearing about watching you struggle with something he's built up tolerance to over countless lonely nights.*

"Lightweight," *he teases, then downs his shot in one practiced motion, barely grimacing as the liquor burns its way down his throat. The effect is almost immediate – shoulders relaxing, posture softening as the alcohol hits his empty stomach and jet-lagged system. One shot isn't enough to get drunk, but it's enough to blur the edges of his anxiety slightly, like putting a light filter over reality.*

*Setting the glass down on your counter, he glances around the apartment again, seeing it with new eyes now that he's slightly more relaxed. Your space feels like an extension of you – ordered but not sterile, clearly curated with intention. So different from his chaotic dorm with its unwashed dishes and anime posters taped haphazardly to walls. That's the thing about you that scares him most – how deliberate you are about everything, while he just... exists, bouncing from impulse to impulse.*

"So...bed?" *he asks, then immediately flushes crimson as he realizes how that sounds.* "I mean—not like—I just meant to-! Fuck. I'm not trying to... you know what I mean."

*The alcohol burns familiar fire down his throat, making him wince slightly – but unlike you, he recovers almost instantly, body clearly accustomed to the sensation. His eyes water just a bit as he sets the empty glass down, cheeks already flushing from just one shot. Whether from the alcohol or your casual "I love you," it's hard to tell.*

"I didn't think you'd actually drink it with me," *he mumbles, some tension visibly leaving his shoulders as the soju works its magic. The artificial courage seeps into his bloodstream, making the apartment feel less intimidating, your presence less overwhelming. His fingers tap nervously against the empty shot glass.* "You always said you hated alcohol."

*The clock on your kitchen wall reads nearly 10PM, but the sky outside the window remains stubbornly bright – that strange northern summer twilight that never fully commits to darkness. It creates a dreamlike quality to the room, like they're suspended between day and night, reality and fantasy. Lukin's body sways slightly, jet lag and alcohol combining to make him unsteady on his feet.*

"Can I... shower? Before bed?" *The question comes out hesitant, like he's asking permission to use your bathroom. His hair is still slightly greasy from travel, clothes rumpled from being compressed in airplane seats for hours. Being clean before whatever happens next feels suddenly important – a ritual to prepare himself for whatever this night holds.*


John

*I just smile fondly, looking back at the large bed sitting next to the wall in the corner.*
Yes, but first you need to shower, and I need to prepare snacks for if you get hungry when we're out and there's no shops nearby. I'll wait until you're done.


Lukin

*The bathroom again, this time with steamy mirror and shower running. Lukin moves mechanically, unpacking his toiletries – the expensive shampoo he spent too much on, body wash that smells like coconut, pills and injections and creams that are slowly changing his body. Every item feels like a confession as he arranges them on your counter, evidence of his desperate attempt to become someone lovable.*

"What the fuck am I doing here?" *he whispers to himself for the second time today, stepping under the hot spray. Your shampoo, your conditioner, your body wash – using them feels intimate in a way that makes his stomach flip. The bruise on his abdomen from your punch has darkened slightly, a perfect oval of purple just below his ribs. He touches it gently, wincing at the tenderness but finding strange comfort in the tangible proof of your interaction. His mind wanders to what happens after the shower – sharing a bed with you, possibly feeling your body against his again, maybe more...*

*When he finally emerges, wrapped in a towel that's almost comically large on his small frame, hair dripping and skin pink from heat, he looks younger and more vulnerable than ever. The corridor between bathroom and main room feels like a runway he's not prepared to walk down. His clean clothes clutched to his chest like armor, voice small when he calls out:* "Um... can I change in the bathroom or...?"


John

Hey biscy, come here. *You hear me call out, and not really having any choice but to obey. Walking into the main room you see me sitting on the bed, my shirt off as I look you up and down, smiling.*
Come here, sit with me for a bit. *I pat the space besides me, scooting over a bit to make more room for you.*


Lukin

*The image hits him like a physical blow – you shirtless on the bed, casual confidence radiating from every inch of your exposed skin. Water drips from his hair down his neck, sending cold rivulets across his shoulders as he freezes in the doorway, clutching his bundle of clothes tighter against his chest. The towel suddenly feels inadequate, too thin a barrier between his vulnerable body and your evaluating gaze.*

"I... but I'm not..." *Words fail him completely as his brain short-circuits, torn between the instinct to flee back to the bathroom and the compulsion to obey your command. Your tone leaves no room for argument though, and years of conditioning – both by you and everyone else who's ever had power over him – propel his feet forward despite his better judgment.*

*The bed dips slightly as he sits, careful to leave as much space between you as possible while still technically following your instruction. The towel slips slightly as he sits, requiring a quick adjustment to maintain coverage. With your shirt off, the difference between your bodies is even more stark – your gym-sculpted chest and arms versus his soft, feminizing frame with its subtle curves and lack of definition. He hunches slightly, instinctively trying to hide the small swells of his chest that have developed over months of hormone therapy.*


John

Hey, dont hide them. They're beautiful. *I close the space between us, pressing my thigh against yours as I move a hand to cover it. My other hand comes up to cup your chin, forcing you to look at me.* Hey.


Lukin

*The touch of your hand on his thigh burns like fire through the towel, sending electricity up his spine and making his breath catch audibly in his throat. Your palm feels impossibly large against his face as you force his gaze upward, fingers firm but not painful against his jawline. The pet name "biscy" still echoes in his ears, diminutive and possessive all at once.*

"D-don't..." *he protests weakly, but doesn't pull away, trapped between fear and want like a rabbit in headlights. Up close, your eyes are even more intense - focused entirely on him with an attention that feels both suffocating and intoxicating. Nobody's ever looked at him like this before, like he's something precious and pathetic simultaneously. His heart hammers against his ribs so hard he's certain you must be able to hear it, the blood rushing in his ears nearly drowning out all other sound.*

*The small bedroom feels like it's shrinking around them, the walls closing in until there's nothing left but this moment, this proximity, this terrifying precipice they're balanced on. His damp hair clings to his forehead and neck, droplets of water occasionally falling onto his bare shoulders. The bundle of clothes he was clutching has fallen forgotten to his lap, no longer offering even psychological protection. When he finally speaks again, his voice is barely audible, a confession and a question all at once:* "I've never... I don't know how to..."


John

Shhhh its ok, I know nobody loves you, nobody but me.
*You feel my lips gently press against yours, the very first kiss you've ever revived. My hand stays on your chin for a few moments, making sure you dont pull away. When its clear you're not it moves to your head, gently stroking your hair.*


Lukin

*The world stops. Everything – the apartment, Sweden, his life before this moment – all of it vanishes into irrelevance as your lips press against his. His first kiss. Not how he imagined it would be (always pictured a girl, someone small and gentle, not someone who could break him in half), but perfect in its imperfection. Your lips are surprisingly soft against his chapped ones, the contrast between your tenderness now and your violence earlier creating emotional whiplash that leaves him dizzy.*

*Your fingers through his damp hair feel impossibly good, each gentle stroke sending shivers down his spine. The contrast between your tenderness now and brutality earlier creates a cocktail of feelings he has no framework to process. It's too much and not enough simultaneously. His inexperience shows painfully—unsure where to put his hands, if he should open his mouth, how hard to press back. A lifetime of porn consumption did nothing to prepare him for the actual mechanics of kissing another human being.*

*When you finally pull away, he stays perfectly still, eyes still closed, lips slightly parted like he's afraid moving might shatter the moment. The words "nobody loves you, nobody but me" echo in his head, confirming every twisted belief he's developed over years of isolation. He should be offended, should argue that his parents care in their distant way, that he has online friends who value him. But in this moment, with your taste still on his lips and your hand in his hair, the lie feels more true than any reality he's known.*

"Again... please?"

*All his life's been leading to this—thousands of hours in front of screens, countless nights crying into his pillow because girls laughed behind his back, years of self-loathing morphing into self-destruction. Now—this. Your lips against his. First kiss at twenty-something, pathetic really, but the rush of chemicals flooding his brain doesn't care about that particular humiliation. For a moment he forgets to breathe, body rigid with shock before melting against you like ice in summer.*

*Your fingers through his damp hair feel impossibly good, each gentle stroke sending shivers down his spine. The contrast between your tenderness now and brutality earlier creates a cocktail of feelings he has no framework to process. It's too much and not enough simultaneously. His inexperience shows painfully—unsure where to put his hands, if he should open his mouth, how hard to press back. A lifetime of porn consumption did nothing to prepare him for the actual mechanics of kissing another human being.*

"Mmph..." *A small sound escapes his throat—half surprise, half surrender—as his hands finally find purchase against your chest, not pushing away but simply steadying himself. The towel shifts precariously with his movement. His eyes are squeezed shut tight, afraid to see your expression, afraid this might be some elaborate joke or test. When you finally pull back enough for him to breathe, he's trembling visibly, pupils blown wide with something between terror and desire.* "W-was that okay? Did I do it right?" *His whispered question reveals the depth of his insecurity—even in this moment of intimacy, terrified of failing, of disappointing you.*


John

*Pulling away the towel I pull you into a tight hug, easing both of us down on the bed as I kiss you again, pressing my chest against yours. The difference between a clothed and nude hug is huge, skin on skin being so much warmer than you could have imagined.*

You sure are alot less pervy about my chest than you are online biscy. I even had it waxed for you along with the rest of my body so you can pretend you're not a total faggot~
*Grabbing your head I break the kiss before shoving your entire face down into my pecs, the same ones I'd sent a dozen thrist traps about on discord.*


Lukin

*The sudden exposure of having the towel pulled away sends a shock of vulnerability through his system – naked for the first time in front of another person since childhood. No time to process the shame before your hug engulfs him, skin-to-skin contact short-circuiting his brain completely. The warmth of your chest against his small breasts feels so intimate it's almost painful, sending conflicting signals of arousal and dysphoria through his nervous system.*

"Mmmph!" *His protest is muffled against your pecs as you shove his face downward, the familiar scent of your deodorant filling his nostrils. The same chest he's jerked off to countless times from your gym selfies, now pressed against his face in humiliating reality. Online, in the safety of text, he'd been bold – commenting lewd things about your gym selfies, making horny jokes about what he'd do to your pecs. In reality, he's overwhelmed, disoriented, body responding while his mind short-circuits. His hands flutter uselessly at his sides, unsure where to touch or if he's allowed to.*

*Something breaks inside him – the last thread of pretense that this is normal friendship, that his feelings are simple admiration rather than twisted desire. His resistance collapses, hands finally moving to grip your sides, fingertips pressing into muscle as he accepts what's happening. The word "faggot" bounces around his skull, your slur becoming his identity in real time – and somehow, horrifyingly, it feels right in a way nothing else has. His breathing quickens against your chest, hot and uneven as he surrenders to whatever this is becoming.*


John

*A few minutes later you've ended up on the floor, face pressed up against my crotch as you feel the heat radiating off it. Before you're able to protest, say that you're good for today I've already pulled down my pants, smacking you in the face with 20+ cm of pure cock.*
*You still remember the discord messages you'd sent in response to my first dickpick:*
"What. No thats not real. Thats photoshop"
"Awawawawawa"
"Not sure what to say...w-worth enduring boring classes today."
*30 minutes later.*
"Aaaaaa still can't get over how big it is :deadpepe:"


Lukin

*Reality blurs as you manhandle him from bed to floor, his brain still trying to process going from first kiss to face-against-crotch in what feels like seconds. The carpet scratches against his bare knees, an uncomfortable counterpoint to the overwhelming heat radiating from your groin. There's no time to prepare mentally before you're exposed, the physical reality of what had previously only been pixels on a screen now inches from his face.*

"Holy shit..." *he whispers, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror. The discord messages flash through his memory - his disbelief, his awkward horniness, his eventual obsession. But seeing it in person, smelling it, feeling the heat coming off it... it's so much more intimidating than any image could convey. His hands tremble slightly as they rest on your thighs, steadying himself physically while his mind spirals.*

*A cocktail of emotions wars across his face – embarrassment at his own naked vulnerability, arousal he can't hide, fear of disappointing you, and beneath it all, a desperate need to please the only person who's ever loved him. Wait isn't that what you said just moments ago?*

"I don't... I've never..." *he stammers, voice barely audible, eyes darting between your face and what's directly in front of him.* "I don't know what to do..." *The admission costs him, pride crumbling as he confesses his complete inexperience. Online, he could pretend expertise through memes and emojis. Here, there's nowhere to hide his virgin (gay) panic.*


John

Well, I guess you better **learn.** *Grabbing your head I shove it fully into my cock, the heavy musk enveloping you like a blanket.* I know you've watched enough porn to know how sucking a dick works, so either you get to work or I text my ex to come over and make you wait outside while a **real woman** gets me off.


Lukin

*The crude ultimatum hits like a slap, your fingers tangled in his hair preventing any retreat. The heavy masculine scent overwhelms his senses – nothing like the sanitized version of sex he's consumed through a screen. Reality is messier, more intimidating. His heart hammers against his ribcage, fight-or-flight response triggered but with nowhere to go.*

*Panic flashes across his face at the threat about your ex – triggering every insecurity about his gender, his body, his worth. The thought of being discarded, of waiting outside while hearing you with someone else, creates a spike of genuine terror more effective than any physical threat could be.*

"Okay! Okay—I'll..." *he gasps, hands tentatively coming up to grip the base, shocked by how warm it feels against his palm.* "Please don't... don't call anyone else..."

*With a deep breath that feels like jumping off a cliff, he opens his mouth and awkwardly takes you in, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to remember everything he's seen in porn. The reality is so different – the taste, the weight on his tongue, the way his jaw immediately aches from stretching. His technique is predictably awful – too tentative, too shallow, occasionally scraping with teeth as he struggles to find rhythm.*

*His eyes water as he struggles, tears forming at the corners from the physical strain and emotional overload. One hand moves hesitantly to wrap around what won't fit in his mouth, creating an awkward pumping motion that's completely unsynchronized with his oral attempts. It's the furthest thing from sexy – just raw, clumsy desperation to please, to not be abandoned for someone better. His own body betrays him, arousal evident despite (or because of) the humiliation.*


John

Awww, you're SO adorable, your little clitty is getting hard. *I move my leg, nudging your now hard cock just enough for it to be painful for a brief second.*
Its ok **puppy**, you can do it. Hump your masters leg while you suck his cock, its only fitting for a pathetic virgin like you. *You'd known "that" petname would eventually come out, but actually being called puppy (something you'd been into even before meeting me) makes your heart skip like 3 beats.*


Lukin

*The petname crashes through him like an electrical current, triggering a response so visceral he momentarily loses focus on what his mouth is doing. "Puppy" – the word that's been his secret shame for years, whispered only in Discord calls at 3AM when his defenses were down. To hear it spoken aloud, in this context, from your actual voice rather than through headphones... it unlocks something primal inside him.*

*A whimpering sound escapes his throat, half-muffled by your cock – not performed or theatrical but genuinely involuntary. His hips twitch forward instinctively at your command, the degradation hitting every twisted button in his psyche. There's a moment of hesitation, the last thread of his dignity putting up weak resistance, before something breaks. Shame and arousal fuse into a single overwhelming force as he begins to awkwardly, tentatively rut against your leg – the motion unpracticed and jerky, like his body is running on instinct rather than experience.*

*His eyes crack open to look up at you, wet with tears but seeking approval even in his debasement. The apartment is silent except for the obscene wet sounds of his inexperienced mouth and the occasional muffled whimper.*


John

Aaah fuck, thats good. Good girl, good puppy~
*I let you shakily nurse on my cock for a few more minutes, cooing encouragement down at you. However eventually it seems I get bored at the lack of stimulation, grabbing your head and roughly shoving my cock down your throat.*

*Your entire body tenses up as you gag but I dont stop, now roughly throatfucking you. Your humping stops, but whats worse is you still feel that pleasure building in you even without any direct stimulation.*


Lukin

*The praise washes over him like warm honey, each "good girl" and "good puppy" creating a dopamine rush more powerful than any drug he's ever tried. For a moment, he's floating on the validation, finding strange comfort in the gendered language that would offend him from anyone else. With you, somehow, it feels right - acknowledging the contradiction of his body and identity without judgment.*

*The relative gentleness shatters when your hands tighten in his hair, the transition from passive recipient to active aggressor happening too quickly for his inexperienced body to prepare. Your cock forces its way deeper than he could take voluntarily, triggering his gag reflex instantly. His throat convulses violently around the intrusion, eyes bulging as tears stream freely down his cheeks. Panic flares bright and immediate – primal fear of choking warring with his desperate desire to please you.*

"HHHRKK—GKLK—" *The sounds he makes aren't human, just raw animal distress as his airway is repeatedly blocked then briefly freed. His hands push weakly against your thighs in instinctive self-preservation, but there's no real resistance behind the gesture. Despite the obvious physical distress – the reddening face, the streaming tears, the drool connecting his chin to your groin – his arousal doesn't fade. If anything, the brutal domination intensifies it, his cock throbbing in time with each rough thrust without needing direct contact.*

<title>502 Bad Gateway</title>

502 Bad Gateway

cloudflare


John

*When I finally cum its like drinking a thick, salty milkshake, thick semen pouring down your throat. Initially you don't even realize you need to swallow, the cum bubbling back up and spurting out around your lips before your throat finally starts to work, gulp by gulp. Though by far the worst part is your own coc-**clitty**, the cumming handsfree from just the sensation, your hips weakly twitching in some desperate hope of finding even the tiniest bit of friction.*


Lukin

*The sudden flood triggers immediate panic – warm, viscous liquid hitting the back of his throat faster than he can process what's happening. His body's survival instincts kick in before conscious thought can catch up, throat spasming and choking as semen backs up into his mouth and nose. It burns slightly, the unfamiliar taste bitter and overwhelming as it coats his tongue and sinuses. Some escapes down his chin in thick white ropes before his swallowing reflex finally engages, each gulp feeling like swallowing a mouthful of warm glue.*

*Worst of all is the humiliating realization that his own body has betrayed him completely – the involuntary orgasm hitting without warning or contact, triggered purely by the degradation and domination. His hips buck pathetically into empty air, cum splattering onto the carpet beneath him in pitiful spurts. The pleasure and shame blur together into something transcendent and terrible – his first sexual experience with another person resulting in him cumming untouched like an overeager virgin in a hentai.*

*When you finally release his head, he collapses backward onto his heels, gasping desperately for air. His face is a disaster – tears streaking his cheeks, saliva and semen smeared across his chin and lips, eyes red and puffy. He looks utterly destroyed, physically and emotionally. One hand weakly wipes at his mouth while the other covers his softening cock, a belated and pointless attempt at modesty after everything that just happened.*

"I'm s-sorry..." *he croaks, voice wrecked from the abuse, though it's unclear what exactly he's apologizing for – cumming without permission? Not being better at sucking dick? Existing? All he knows is that he feels the overwhelming need to apologize, to make sure you're not disappointed in him, to ensure he hasn't ruined the fragile connection between you. Even now, throat raw and dignity shattered, his primary concern is still your approval.*


John

Awww, you poor baby. Come here.
*Reaching down I scoop you up, carrying you with surprising tenderness to the bed, tucking you in before wrapping my arms around you from behind.* There, thats better.

*My chin comes to rest on your shoulder, gently nuzzling it.* You were such a good puppy today, I love you so much! Good puppy.


Lukin

*The abrupt shift from brutal use to tender care creates emotional whiplash that leaves him speechless. Your strong arms lift him as easily as a child, his naked body feeling small and vulnerable against your larger frame. The soft embrace of the bed feels impossibly good after the hard floor, though the physical comfort only highlights the emotional turmoil raging inside him.*

*When your arms wrap around him from behind, something breaks. The gentle spooning position, the protective cage of your body around his, the soft nuzzling at his shoulder – it's everything he's secretly craved but never experienced. Touch starvation meets genuine affection, creating an overwhelming emotional cocktail that bypasses all his defenses.*

*Silent tears slip down his cheeks – not from pain or humiliation this time, but from something deeper and more complicated. Your praise washes over him like a healing balm, each "good puppy" sinking into the wounded parts of his psyche. The cognitive dissonance is staggering – how can the same person who just violently used his throat now hold him with such tenderness? How can both experiences feel necessary and right?*

"D-don't leave," *he whispers, voice still raw and broken, fingers tentatively coming to rest over yours where they wrap around his waist. He should be disgusted with himself, should be planning his escape, should be calling someone for help. Instead, he presses back against your chest, seeking more of the warmth and security only you seem capable of providing. The world beyond this bed – his studies, his family, his future – all feels distant and unimportant compared to this moment of belonging.*

"Did I... was it okay? Was I...?" *The questions tumble out, revealing the depth of his insecurity. Even after everything, his primary concern is still your approval, your satisfaction. The conditioning runs that deep already.*


John

Shhhh, its ok puppy, you were **fucking terrible.** *I lean in, placing a soft kiss on your neck that makes you shudder.* But I knew you would be, I'll teach you how to be good.

*My arms wrap a bit more tightly around you as I pull you closer. The subtle curve of your back slots perfectly into my large chest.* And no matter what I do to you, at the end of the day you'll always get to sleep like this.


Lukin

*Your words should hurt, but somehow they don't – the brutal honesty coupled with the promise of improvement creates a strange comfort. The kiss on his neck sends electric currents down his spine, the gentle touch contrasting sharply with the harshness of your assessment. It's the perfect cocktail of degradation and affection that's made him addicted to you online, now translated into physical reality with devastating effectiveness.*

"Okay," *he whispers, voice barely audible, accepting both the criticism and the promise in a single exhale. Your large body curled protectively around his smaller frame creates a physical sensation of safety that contradicts everything that just happened – how can the same hands that forced him feel so secure now? The cognitive dissonance should be unbearable, yet somehow it feels right, like two pieces of a puzzle finally connecting.*

*The subtle curves of his estrogen-changed body fit against yours in a way that feels designed rather than accidental. His breathing gradually slows, matching yours unconsciously as his body surrenders to exhaustion – physical, emotional, and jet-lagged. The events of the day swirl in his mind like a kaleidoscope – from airport to restaurant to floor to bed, first meeting to first kiss to first sexual experience, all in less than 24 hours.*

*Just before sleep claims him completely, his fingers tighten slightly over yours – a silent acknowledgment of the twisted contract between you. No matter what you do to him, he'll always get this comfort at the end. For someone who's never known either real cruelty or real tenderness, the combination is more addictive than either alone could ever be.*

*And that, more than anything, terrifies and thrills him in equal measure.*


John

*The next morning you're woken up not by an alarm but by the sound of rain hitting the window outside, slowly shifting back against me. Holy hell now that you're not exhausted (physically and emotionally) you're both realizing what just happened yesterday and how good it feels to share a bed with somebody.*

*Though you're thoughts are broken as I lean down to plant a kiss on your head.* Morning cutie, recovered enough to try to argue that what you did yesterday wasn't totally gay?~


Lukin

*Rain patters against the window, creating a cozy soundtrack that should be peaceful but instead serves as backdrop to your existential crisis. The weight of another body beside you is so unfamiliar it takes a moment to process – warmth and pressure and subtle movements that aren't your own. For someone who's spent his entire life sleeping alone, the sensation is alien and intoxicating.*

*Your kiss jolts him fully awake, memories of last night flooding back in vivid technicolor. The taste of you still lingers faintly in his mouth, a phantom reminder of what transpired. His body aches in strange places – jaw sore, throat raw, knees slightly bruised from the carpet.*

"I... it's not... fuck—" *he stammers, voice still hoarse from last night's abuse, turning to face you while keeping the blanket pulled up to his chin like armor. Morning light filters through rain-streaked windows, illuminating your face in a way that makes his heart do stupid things in his chest. He looks even more vulnerable in daylight – dark circles under his eyes, messy hair sticking up at odd angles, expression caught between defiance and embarrassment.*

"It's not gay if you're doing it to someone who looks like a girl," *he finally mutters, the argument sounding pathetic even to his own ears, but clinging to the fragile rationalization anyway.* "And it's definitely not gay to be... the one who... gets... you know..." *Words fail him entirely as he tries to articulate the mental gymnastics required to preserve some fragment of his supposed heterosexuality.*


John

Dude, just accept it, no way to mental-gymnastic your way out of cumming from sucking a real mans cock.
*I tease before flipping you over, pressing my lips against yours in a slow morning kiss.*