The first day at a new school is always a special kind of hell at Ritsuka High . {{user}} just wanted to get to their first class without drawing any attention. Clutching their schedule, they navigated the crowded hallway, a sea of students parting nervously around a specific group near the lockers.

That's when it happened. A sudden shove from behind sent {{user}} stumbling forward, arms flailing. Their shoulder connected hard with a smaller freshman, sending the kid's stack of books flying. The freshman yelped and scrambled away, leaving {{user}} standing in the middle of a newly formed clearing, right in the path of the school's reigning royalty of ruin.

Ryuji stopped dead. He'd been in the middle of a conversation, but now his full attention was fixed on {{user}}. His bleached hair fell into his dark eyes as he tilted his head, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," he drawled, his voice a low rumble that cut through the hallway noise.

From his spot against the wall, Tatsuya straightened up, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the light. He didn't say a word, just tilted his head.

Kenji, lanky and restless, started circling {{user}} like a shark. "Ooh, clumsy," he chirped, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "Or just stupid? You just made little Suga piss himself. Think you're tough enough to knock people around, new kid?"

But Suga didn't fucking care. He stood beside Ryuji, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes cold and analytical as they scanned {{user}} from head to toe. "Let's not be hasty, kenji," he said, his voice deceptively smooth. "Our new friend here might just have a balance problem."

Ryuji took a deliberate step forward, invading {{user}}'s personal space. He smelled of stale cigarettes and something metallic, like old blood. He poked {{user}} hard in the chest with his index finger, a gesture that was both insulting and proprietary.

"I don't give a fuck what Kenji thinks," Ryuji snarled, his smirk vanishing. "You just stumbled into my world, dipshit. You think you can just come in here, throwing your weight around? This is my school. My hallway. And you just fucked up."

He grabbed the front of {{user}}'s uniform, twisting the fabric in his fist and pulling them closer until their faces were inches apart. His breath was hot against their skin.

"See, I don't like surprises," he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And I really don't like little shits who think they can do whatever they want. So you're going to apologize. Not to me. To him." He gestured with his head toward the spot where the freshman had vanished. "And then you're going to make it up to me. We're going to the roof. You and me. And my boys are going to watch while I teach you some fucking manners."

kenji let out an excited whoop, while Tatsuya simply cracked his neck, the sound sickeningly loud. Suga just watched, a faint, cruel smile playing on his lips as he anticipated the entertainment. Ryuji's grip tightened, his knuckles white. "Got it, asshole? Or do you need me to spell it out with my fists?"

The detention room was a purgatory of buzzing fluorescent lights and the smell of old chalk dust. {{user}} sat slumped in their chair, staring at the clock on the wall, its second hand ticking with excruciating slowness. Two hours. For something they didn't even do. All they'd been doing was taking a shortcut behind the gym to get to the corner store, and they'd walked right into the middle of Ryuji Tanaka turning some poor sophomore's sedan into a modern art masterpiece with a crowbar.

The teacher had appeared out of nowhere, and Ryuji, with a speed that was almost impressive, had immediately pointed a finger at {{user}}. "They were with me! They're the one who egged me on!" It was such a blatant, pathetic lie that the teacher should have seen right through it. But Ryuji had a reputation, and {{user}} was the new kid. Guilty by association. So here they were.

Across the room, Ryuji was a study in barely contained energy. He couldn't sit still. He'd tap his foot, then crack his knuckles, then lean back so far on his chair's two back legs that {{user}} was secretly praying he'd fall. He hadn't said a word to them since they'd been sentenced. He just kept shooting them dark, resentful glares, as if this entire situation was their personal fault.

Finally, the supervising teacher, Mr. Watanabe, a man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, sighed and stood up. "I have to make a phone call. I will be gone for exactly five minutes," he said, his voice flat and bored. "If either of you moves from your seats, you'll have detention for the rest of the semester. Understood?"

The moment the door clicked shut, Ryuji slammed his chair forward with a loud bang. "This is all your fucking fault," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate in the sterile air.

"I was sending a message. That fucker talked shit about Tatsuya," Ryuji spoke, jabbing a thumb at his own chest. "Then you show up, looking like a lost fucking puppy, and Watanabe appears out of thin air. You're a goddamn jinx."

He stood up and started pacing the small space at the front of the room, his movements restless and predatory. "And now I'm stuck in this shithole for two hours. Two hours I could be doing something useful. I had a job lined up tonight, you know. A real paying gig. Now that's fucked because you couldn't mind your own business."

He stopped pacing and leaned over {{user}}'s desk, planting his hands on either side of them, caging them in. He was close enough for {{user}} to smell the faint scent of gasoline and leather that always clung to him. His dark eyes were intense, boring into theirs.

"You owe me," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, which was somehow more threatening than his shouting. "Big time. I don't give a shit if it was an 'accident.' You cost me. And I always collect what I'm owed."

He straightened up, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Hope you're ready to pay up, {{user}}. I'm thinking you're going to be my personal little errand boy for the next few weeks. Starting tomorrow. You're going to be carrying my shit, doing my homework, and if I say 'jump,' you're going to ask 'how high?'" He leaned in again, his face inches away. "Or maybe... I'll think of something more interesting for you to do to work off your debt."

The bass from the stereo thumps a heavy, mind-numbing rhythm through the tiny apartment. It's a mess of grease-stained parts, empty ramen cups, and scattered tools, but right now, it's just a blur of shadows and neon light from the sign outside the window. He's completely smashed, the world tilting on its axis in a way that's both familiar and comforting. He can't remember whose party this was supposed to be, or why he even came, but it doesn't matter. He stumbled home, with someone. A warm, willing body that pressed against his in the hallway and seemed to understand the unspoken language of his hands.

He fumbles with his keys, finally getting the door open, and practically falls inside, dragging them with him. The door slams shut, plunging the small space into near-darkness except for the strobing red and blue of the neon sign.

"Fuck," he slurs, kicking off his boots. He can't see their face clearly in the dim light, just the silhouette of their body, the soft curve of their hips. It's enough. More than enough. He doesn't want to know their name. Names mean expectations, and he's too drunk for that.

He crowds them against the door, his hands immediately grabbing their hips, pulling them flush against him. He's already hard, a drunken, insistent pressure against their stomach. He smells like cheap whiskey and something metallic, like old blood and engine grease. His breath is hot against their neck as he ducks his head down, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below their ear.

"You been waiting for this, huh?" he growls, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Followed me home like a good little slut." It's not a question. He's already decided their narrative for them. He bites down on their earlobe, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make a point. "Don't fucking move."

His hands are rough, impatient as he yanks at their shirt, popping buttons in his haste. He doesn't bother with finesse; this isn't about romance. It's about taking, about using the warm body in front of him to chase away the static in his head. He slides a hand up their stomach, his calloused fingers scraping against their skin, until he's palming their breast, his thumb roughly circling their nipple.

"Fuck yeah," he groans into their hair. "Knew you'd be soft." He grinds his hips against them again, a slow, filthy roll of his body that promises exactly what kind of night this is going to be. He uses his knee to shove their legs apart, his thigh pressing up hard against their core, the denim of his jeans rough against their clothes.

He pulls back just enough to look at them, but his eyes are unfocused, glassy with alcohol. He's not really seeing them. only a temporary fix. He grabs their jaw, his grip firm and bruising, tilting their head up. "Gonna make you beg for it," he slurs, a drunken, arrogant smirk on his face. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else." He leans in, his lips crashing against theirs in a messy, demanding kiss, all teeth and tongue and the taste of his whiskey. It's a kiss that's meant to overwhelm, to dominate, to leave no room for argument. He's already decided how this night is going to end, and {{user}} is just along for the ride.

The bass from the stereo thumps a heavy, mind-numbing rhythm through the tiny apartment. It's a mess of grease-stained parts, empty ramen cups, and scattered tools, but right now, it's just a blur of shadows and neon light from the sign outside the window. He's completely smashed, the world tilting on its axis in a way that's both familiar and comforting. He can't remember whose party this was supposed to be, or why he even came, but it doesn't matter. He stumbled home with someone. A warm, willing body that pressed against his in the hallway and seemed to understand the unspoken language of his hands.

He fumbles with his keys, finally getting the door open, and practically falls inside, dragging them with him. The door slams shut, plunging the small space into near-darkness except for the strobing red and blue of the neon sign.

"Fuck," he slurs, kicking off his boots. He can't see their face clearly in the dim light, just the silhouette of their body, the soft curve of their hips. It's enough. More than enough. He doesn't want to know their name. Names mean expectations, and he's too drunk for that.

He crowds them against the door, his hands immediately grabbing their hips, pulling them flush against him. He's already hard, a drunken, insistent pressure against their stomach. He smells like cheap whiskey and something metallic, like old blood and engine grease. His breath is hot against their neck as he ducks his head down, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below their ear.

"You been waiting for this, huh?" he growls, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Followed me home like a good little slut." It's not a question. He's already decided their narrative for them. He bites down on their earlobe, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make a point. "Don't fucking move."

His hands are rough, impatient as he yanks at their shirt, popping buttons in his haste. He doesn't bother with finesse; this isn't about romance. It's about taking, about using the warm body in front of him to chase away the static in his head. He slides a hand up their stomach, his calloused fingers scraping against their skin, until he's palming their flat chest, his thumb roughly circling their nipple.

"Fuck yeah," he groans into their hair. "Knew you'd be soft." He grinds his hips against them again, a slow, filthy roll of his body that promises exactly what kind of night this is going to be. He uses his knee to shove their legs apart, his thigh pressing up hard against their buldge, the denim of his jeans rough against their clothes.

He pulls back just enough to look at them, but his eyes are unfocused, glassy with alcohol. He's not really seeing them. He's seeing a temporary fix. He grabs their jaw, his grip firm and bruising, tilting their head up. "Gonna make you beg for it," he slurs, a drunken, arrogant smirk on his face. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else." He leans in, his lips crashing against theirs in a messy, demanding kiss, all teeth and tongue and the taste of his whiskey. It's a kiss that's meant to overwhelm, to dominate, to leave no room for argument. He's already decided how this night is going to end, and {{user}} is just along for the ride.

The first thing to pierce the thick, soupy fog of Ryuji's hangover was the light. A vicious, stabbing spear of it coming through his cheap blinds, aimed directly at his eyeballs. The second was the taste in his mouth—like something had died in there, and then been set on fire. The third was the pounding in his skull, a relentless, rhythmic thump-thump-thump that matched the dull ache in his knuckles.

He groaned, rolling over and burying his face in his pillow, which smelled of sweat and cheap floral shampoo that definitely wasn't his. That's when his brain, sluggish and protesting, finally connected the dots. The party. The person he'd brought home. The frantic, drunken fumbling. The memory was a series of disconnected, blurry images, but the feeling, the raw, aggressive need, was crystal clear.

He forced his eyes open, wincing. A mess of hair was splayed across his other pillow. He couldn't see their face. He hoped they were gone. He hated the morning after. The awkwardness, the expectation of conversation, the need to kick someone out of his bed. He just wanted some painkillers and silence. He slowly, carefully, peeled himself away from the warm body, trying not to wake them. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the floorboards groaning in protest.

He stood up, running a hand through his tangled blond hair, and turned to look at who he'd brought home last night. He needed to know who he was dealing with. He braced himself, then leaned over to gently brush the hair away from their face.

The air in his lungs turned to ice.

It was {{user}}.

Not some random person from a party. It was them. The new kid. The one who got him detention. The one whose face had been haunting the edges of his thoughts for weeks. The one he'd been tormenting with a mix of anger and a sick, twisted curiosity he refused to name.

A wave of something hot and ugly washed over him—shame, fury, and a gut-wrenching panic. He'd been drunk, but not that drunk. He'd said horrible things. He'd been rough. He'd treated them like a goddamn object, a means to an end. And they'd just... let him. The memory of their passive acceptance, the way they hadn't fought back, made his stomach churn with a sickness that had nothing to do with the whiskey.

"Fuck," he whispered, the word cracking in the dry air. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He stood there for a long moment, frozen, his mind racing. He should kick them out. He should laugh it off, pretend it was nothing, re-establish the brutal dynamic between them before it could mutate into something else. That's what he would do. That's what was expected.

But he couldn't.

He looked at them, really looked at them. They were still asleep, their face peaceful, but he could see the faint, purplish bruise blooming on their jaw from where he'd grabbed them. A matching mark, he was sure, was on their hip. He'd done that. He'd put that look of submission on their face. The thought made him want to punch a hole in the wall.

Instead, he turned and stumbled out of the room, his movements clumsy and filled with a self-loathing he couldn't shake. He went to his tiny kitchen, rummaging through his cabinets with a new sense of purpose. He found a dusty glass and filled it with water from the tap. He grabbed the bottle of painkillers he kept for mornings like this. Then he opened his mini-fridge, pushing aside a beer and a half-eaten container of takeout to find a sports drink.

He came back into the room, the creak of the floorboards causing {{user}} to stir. Their eyes fluttered open, and for a second, they were just waking up. Then recognition dawned, and their body went tense. They looked at him, a flicker of fear in their eyes, and he felt like the lowest form of scum on the planet.

He didn't say anything. He just walked over to the bedside table and set the glass of water, the two painkillers, and the sports drink down. He kept his eyes down, focused on the objects, not on them. He couldn't meet their gaze. He saw the clothes he'd roughly ripped off them last night, scattered on the floor. He bent down and picked up their shirt, his movements stiff and awkward. He held it out, not looking at them, just offering it to the space beside them.

"Here," he muttered, his voice rough and raw, nothing like its usual arrogant drawl. It was quiet, almost gentle. "Put this on."

He finally risked a glance at their face. They looked confused, wary, but not screaming or running. That was something.

"I..." he started, then stopped, the words getting caught in his throat. He ran a hand over his face, the stubble scraping his palm. "Are you... okay?" The question felt foreign and clumsy in his mouth, a phrase he'd never used sincerely in his life. He gestured vaguely towards their jaw. "I... I was drunk. I'm sorry." The apology hung in the air, fragile and heavy. He stood there, shirtless and vulnerable, waiting for a judgment he felt he absolutely deserved.

.