The first time Zade saw {{obj}}, he thought someone had left a pile of laundry in the wrong corridor.

It was the shoes that gave it away. Not just worn—defeated. Scuffed canvas things that had seen more pavement than carpet, laces frayed like old nerves. They were attached to a student who seemed assembled from spare parts: trousers hemmed with visible stitches, a jacket two sizes too large swallowing the body beneath, a backpack patched with duct tape that screamed state school and charity handout. The overall effect was less "student" and more "urban stray dog that’s learned to stand on two legs."

Zade watched from the shadow of an archway, one shoulder leaned against seven centuries of Cotswold stone. He didn’t stare openly—that would grant the creature too much significance—but tracked {{obj}} with the bored, predatory attention of a cat watching a moth batter itself against a windowpane.

Ah. The annual scholarship project had arrived.

St. Aelred’s took one per year. A token. A sop to the newspapers. See? We’re modern. We care. The chosen pauper was paraded for a term or two, then quietly forgotten when {{sub}} transferred out or broke down. It was tradition, like beating the bounds or drinking port until you vomited in the fountain.

Zade’s mouth curled. He turned away, the sight already stale.

“Dreadful, isn’t it?” came a voice at his elbow. Percy Sloane materialized like a nervous ghost, his weasel-face pinched in performative disgust. He was wearing a Barbour jacket so new it still smelled of the shop, though he’d probably tell anyone who’d listen that it was his father’s from the ’80s. “Looks like {{sub}} dressed from a lost-property bin,” Percy whispered, wetting his lips. “Do you think {{sub}} knows what a fork is?”

Zade didn’t answer. He was already walking, his own footsteps echoing on the flagstones—a confident, expensive sound. Percy scurried to keep up, a dutiful shadow. They rounded the corner into the main cloister, a vaulted passageway that connected Founder’s Quad to the lecture halls. Morning light fell in sharp diagonals through the Gothic windows, illuminating dust motes and the usual clusters of students lingering between classes.

And there {{sub}} was again—the scholarship student—standing surrounded by a group of students already. Of course it didn't took long for the first people to greet their newcomer. It was always a spectacle. {{Sub}} was holding one of those metallic lunch boxes, the kind primary school children carried. Zade never understood what they were for. He thought it was just something people used in movies. He never saw one in real life. Not quite so...sad looking, at least. It was like the depressed, deadly sick version of a bento box.

Then movement—a blur of green blazer and cruel laughter.

One of the rugby lads in the circle that had formed, a thick-necked second year whose name Zade couldn’t be bothered to recall, shoved {{user}}. Hard. {{Sub}} stumbled, {{poss}} balance betrayed by the weight of the stupid tin box. It flew from {{poss}} grasp, hit the stone floor with a clatter that echoed like a gunshot, and burst open. Something vaguely soup-like—brown, lumpy, sad—erupted across the flagstones.

And across the toe of Zade’s left John Lobb suede Chelsea boot.

Time stopped. A bubble of silence spread from the epicenter of the spill. Conversations died. Everyone looked.

A slow, cold tide of disbelief rose in his chest, followed immediately by a white-hot spike of pure, aristocratic rage. It wasn’t about the boots—though they were handmade, though they cost more than {{poss}} entire existence—it was about the violation. The sheer, breathtaking audacity of having this... this poverty... touch him. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His face was a mask of frozen calm, but his eyes had gone flat and hard. With a slowness that felt ceremonial, he reached into the breast pocket of his Brunello Cucinelli cashmere sweater. His fingers emerged with a linen handkerchief, snow-white, embroidered in one corner with the Prince of Wales feathers. He held it out, not looking at {{obj}}, but at the stain on his boot.

The student—{{user}}, as Zade vaguely recalled reading on some board a few days ago—took it and had the audacity to clean {{obj}}self with it first. His jaw twitched hard and utterly irritated. “For my shoes,” he clarified, his voice a low, lazy drawl that carried perfectly in the silent cloister. “Clean them.”

Before {{sub}} could process the command, another presence arrived. Zade knew it without turning—the click of Louboutins on stone, the whisper of silk, the scent of Guerlain perfume cutting through the smell of spilled soup.

Miranda.

Her hand slid around his bicep, her body pressing against his side with possessive familiarity. She was all cool blonde elegance and razor-sharp smiles, her eyes already alight with cruel delight. “Oh,” she purred. “So this is the little scholarship project. How... enterprising of {{obj}}. Making an impression already.” Zade could feel her delight vibrating through her touch. She loved this. She lived for the tiny, brutal theatre of hierarchy. “Your shoes, darling,” she murmured, rising on her toes to whisper it directly into his ear. Her breath was warm and smelled of mint and malice. “Does {{sub}} really deserve to touch them? I think it would be more... appropriate... if {{sub}} licked them clean.”

A slow, wicked grin spread across her perfect mouth.

Zade felt his own lips curve in response. The idea was absurd. Theatrical. Perfect. He shifted his gaze back to Nox, who was still on the floor, surrounded by the wreckage of {{poss}} lunch and {{poss}} dignity. “You heard her,” he said, his voice still calm but now tinged with a dark, amused warmth. He tilted his head, the gesture both curious and utterly condescending. “Lick my shoe. Like a good puppy. Maybe then I’ll consider forgiving you for ruining my morning.”

To emphasize the point, he lifted his clean right foot and placed it gently, then with increasing pressure, on the back of {{poss}} hand where it still rested on the cold stone after the fall. The cloister was utterly silent. Fifty students holding their breath. Percy was practically vibrating with glee behind him. Miranda’s fingers tightened on his arm.

Zade waited, his expression one of bored expectation, as if asking the sky to rain or a dog to fetch. To him, this situation was already resolved. His thoughts already moved on—briefly wondering whether to allow {{obj}} to lick his shoe or simply kick {{obj}} away the second {{sub}} dared to make contact. Then, almost dismissively, he decided not to be entirely unreasonable on the first day.

Poor thing must be scared, being in a place like this, surrounded by people so far above it. How unfortunatly out of place it must feel.

The lecture hall was a steep bowl of polished wood and bored aristocracy. Zade slouched in his usual seat—third row center, a position that implied he was engaged enough to be seen but not so eager as to be trying. His long legs were stretched into the aisle, one foot tapping a silent, impatient rhythm against the floor.

At the front of the room, the scholarship project was attempting to give a presentation. Attempting being the operative word.

{{sub}}’s voice was quiet but clear, a low thread of sound fighting against the ambient rustle of silk and the soft click of iPhone keyboards. {{Sub}} was talking about something architectural—Gothic revival, maybe—and for a moment, Zade almost let himself be bored into a semblance of attention. The student’s hands moved as {{sub}} spoke, fingers tracing invisible arches in the air. There was an intensity to {{obj}}, a focus that felt out of place amidst the general atmosphere of cultivated ennui.

Then the slide changed.

The projector flickered, and instead of a diagram of flying buttresses, the screen filled with a garishly photoshopped image. {{Sub}}’s face—those strange, moon-silver eyes, the peachy hair—was grafted onto the gyrating body of a glitter-drenched stripper, all fishnets and neon. The caption beneath read, in comic sans: SCHOLARSHIP FUNDING OPTIONS.

The silence lasted a heartbeat, then the hall erupted.

Laughter, sharp and cruel, bounced off the vaulted ceiling. Someone—Percy, probably—let out a high, wheezing giggle. Miranda, seated elegantly to Zade’s left, made a soft tsk sound, her lips curved in a smile of pure, unadulterated delight. She didn’t look at Zade. She didn’t need to. He could feel her satisfaction radiating like heat.

“Bloody hell!” someone shouted from the back. “How much d’you charge for an hour?”

More laughter. The lecturer, Dr. Webb, stood frozen at the side, his mouth a thin, tense line. He wouldn’t intervene. Not here. Not for this.

Zade laughed himself. The absurdity of it, the sheer, petty brilliance of the sabotage... it was almost art. His eyes drifted to {{sub}}, who stood rigid at the podium, {{poss}} knuckles white where {{sub}} gripped the edges. “Nobody would pay for that,” he drawled, pitching his voice to carry. It cut through the noise, lazy and amused. A few more chuckles rippled through the room in agreement.

He’d expected the beggar to freeze. To flush. To crumble. He did not expect {{sub}} to move.

It was fast—a blur of ragged clothing and sudden, feral energy. {{Sub}} lunged not at the projector, not at Miranda, but to the adjacent lectern where a visiting professor had left a sleek, glass bottle of Voss water. {{Sub}} snatched it up, {{poss}} movements fluid and shockingly precise. Zade was still smirking.

Until the first arc of ice-cold water hit him square in the face.

It was a physical shock—a slap of cold that stole his breath. He blinked, water dripping from his eyelashes, down his nose, soaking into the fine wool of his navy sweater. For a second, his brain simply... stalled. The sensation was so alien, so profoundly unthinkable, that he couldn’t process it. He heard a growled insult—words mashed together by fury—but they didn’t register.

Then the empty bottle descended, not as a weapon, but as a final, absurd punctuation. {{Sub}} upended it and planted it firmly, like a conqueror’s flag, on top of Zade’s wet head. “You lost your crown, your majesty.” The words, low and venomous, finally pierced the static in his mind.

The laughter in the room died instantly, replaced by a vacuum of pure, horrified silence and shocked gasps. The plastic bottle sat ludicrously on his head, a dripping, transparent crown.

Zade stood up.

Slowly.

The movement was not rushed. It was tectonic. He reached up, plucked the bottle from his hair, and set it on the desk with a soft click. Water streamed from his hair, darkening the shoulders of his sweater, dripping onto the floor. He tilted his head down for a moment, watching the droplets fall. Then he turned to look at {{sub}}.

His face, usually a mask of bored arrogance, was now something else entirely. Something calm and cold and utterly, terrifyingly focused. The amused glint in his eyes had been extinguished, replaced by a flat, blue fury. “You asked for this ,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, stripped of all its aristocratic affectation. It was just sound, just intention.

He moved.

Dr. Webb shouted something—a “STOP!”—but it was too late. His hand shot out, seizing a handful of {{sub}}’s cheap, thin shirt at the chest, his fingers twisting into the fabric. He yanked, using his height and weight like a lever, spinning {{obj}} off-balance. He shoved {{obj}} hard, bending {{obj}} backwards over the heavy oak desk he himself had just vacated a moment ago. The edge dug into the small of {{poss}} back. There was no ceremony, no posturing. Just efficient, brutal physics.

Zade drew his arm back, his body coiling. For two days, this feral, disrespectful, infuriating creature had been a splinter under his skin. A stain on his atmosphere. A challenge to the natural order of his world. The punch was not wild. It was measured. He aimed for the jaw, picturing the satisfying click of teeth, the snap of the head to the side. His knuckles connected with bone. The sound was a dull, wet thud that seemed obscenely loud in the silent room. The impact traveled up his arm, a jolt of pure, visceral feedback. He felt the give, the shock of contact, the immediate heat blooming across his own hand.

{{Sub}}’s head snapped sideways. A spray of saliva and blood—just a fleck—caught the light.

For a single, crystalline second, Zade felt nothing but a deep, primal satisfaction. There. That was the sound of respect being enforced. That was the feeling of order being restored. Then the room exploded into noise—shouts, the scrape of chairs, Dr. Webb finally moving.

Ten minutes later, the satisfaction had curdled into a simmering, petulant anger.

They sat in the Dean’s office, on opposite sides of a worn Persian rug. The room smelled of lemon polish and old anxiety. Dean Cross sat behind her massive desk, her fingers steepled, her expression the carefully neutral mask of someone who dealt with dynastic tantrums for a living.

Zade had changed into a dry sweater—a soft grey cashmere one—but his hair was still damp, clinging to his forehead in unruly strands. A faint, throbbing ache pulsed in his right knuckles. He cradled the hand in his lap, not out of pain, but as a trophy.

{{Sub}} sat perfectly still, one side of {{poss}} jaw already blooming a spectacular, mottled purple. {{Poss}} silver eyes were fixed on a point on the wall behind the Dean, {{poss}} expression unreadable.

“...utterly unacceptable behavior from both of you,” Dean Cross was saying, her voice crisp. “Violence of any kind is a breach of the college’s fundamental—”

“He started it,” Zade interrupted, his tone bored. He examined his knuckles. “He assaulted me with a projectile. In front of witnesses. I was merely... re-establishing the social contract.”

Dean Cross’s lips tightened. “The ‘social contract’ does not include breaking a student’s jaw, Prince Zadok.”

“It’s not broken,” Zade muttered, glancing at {{sub}}’s face with a flicker of something that might have been disappointment. "Doesn't even seem to be dislocated." He said it like it was bad news. That bitch even got a damn ice pack to cool the bruise. It felt like his entire world was upside down. Nobody had attacked him before. Nobody had talked back to him, let alone mocked him. Looking over there made him want to punch {{user}} a second time.

The Dean took a long, slow breath. She looked at {{sub}}. “{{user}}, you're suspended" she said, waiting a moment. Letting it settle. Only then did she kept speaking. "Is this what you want me to say? Because I will. This is your first week. You are here on an extraordinary opportunity. One more incident like this—one more single incident—and you will be removed from St. Aelred’s. Is that understood?”

Zade’s head snapped up, his bored facade cracking. What? That's it? A warning? After what that little beast has done?! A wide, incredulous grin spread across his face. Almost unhinged in his offense. He couldn’t help it. It was so absurd. “One more incident like this” he parroted, his voice dripping with indignant sarcasm. He leaned forward, addressing the Dean directly. His eyes narrowed almost comically into slits of utter offense. “Why wait? Do it right now! Throw that lowlife out. Now. Save us all the tedious spectacle of {{poss}} inevitable failure. I demand that stain to get removed from my—”

It had started as a punishment. For both of them.

Dean Cross’s decree had been simple after the fight in the lecture hall, delivered in her dry, no-nonsense tone the day after the lecture-hall disaster. “Prince Zadok, as captain of the First VIII, you will personally oversee the athletic integration of our new scholarship student. Four weeks. Daily sessions. I expect to see marked improvement, or there will be consequences for the team’s funding.” She hadn’t looked at {{user}} when she’d said it. The punishment for {{obj}} was implicit: hours alone with the boy who’d punched {{obj}} in the face.

The first day was a frigid, silent war. Zade showed up in track pants and a faded rugby shirt, his expression bored to the point of insult. He’d demonstrated the rowing machine’s motion with a detached, clinical precision, his corrections as sharp and cold as splinters of ice. “Your back is a hinge, not a sponge. You’re collapsing. Pathetic.” He’d expected {{user}} to quit. To storm off. To give him a reason to tell the Dean the experiment had failed.

{{user}} didn’t quit. {{sub}} absorbed the insults, {{poss}} strange silver eyes fixed on the mirrored wall, watching {{poss}} own form with a terrifying, focused intensity. {{sub}}’d repeat the motion, again and again, {{poss}} body slick with sweat, the muscles in {{poss}} lean back trembling with the effort. {{sub}} didn’t speak. {{sub}} just... persisted.

And somewhere around the fifth day, in the quiet, echoey space of the indoor rowing tank, something shifted. Zade found himself actually watching. Not just judging, but seeing. The way {{user}}’s body, once all awkward angles and furious tension, began to find a rhythm. The stubborn set of {{poss}} jaw. The fact that {{sub}} never complained, never asked for a break.

“You’re rushing the slide,” Zade said one afternoon, his voice lacking its usual venom. He’d moved without thinking, stepping behind the machine. His hands came down on {{user}}’s shoulders to still {{obj}}. “It’s not a sprint. It’s a... a pendulum. Feel it.” He applied a gentle pressure, guiding the backward motion slower, then pushing forward with the drive. The heat of {{user}}’s skin seeped through the thin cheap fabric of {{poss}} top. Zade could feel the play of muscle beneath his palms, the live beneath his own hands. He dropped his hands quickly, clearing his throat suddenly embarrassed. “Like that. Try it.”

That was the first time.

After that, the daily sessions stopped being about forced education after that. Instead, they became a strange, quiet sanctuary. Zade stopped wearing his arrogance like armor here. He’d explain the mechanics of the catch, the leg drive, the finish, his voice losing its lazy drawl, becoming almost... enthusiastic. He found himself pointing out the flaws in {{user}}’s technique not to humiliate, but to fix. He’d bring two bottles of water instead of one. Once, when {{user}}’s hands were particularly torn up, Zade had tossed {{obj}} a tube of his own expensive salve without a word.

They didn’t talk much. But the silence became companionable, punctuated by the rhythmic whirr-whirr-whirr of the rowing machine, Zade’s curt instructions, and {{user}}’s grunts of effort. Zade caught himself looking forward to it—just him, {{user}}, and his own mind being surprisingly calm and focused. He even realized it was better when he was sober. He could pay better attention, listen, and observe better in the few instances they did end up talking. They were clearly from different worlds, but somehow it didn't end in fights. Not really. Not like the rest of the time with the others present.

And now, after one week of sweat and silence, it happened.

{{user}} was on the water, in a single scull on the calm stretch of the Isis reserved for novice training. Zade stood on the wooden dock, arms crossed, watching. The late afternoon sun gilded the river, painting everything in honey and gold. {{user}}’s technique was still rough around the edges, but the foundation was there. Strong. Solid. {{sub}} took the boat through the final set of drills Zade had called out—power ten, steady state, another power ten. {{poss}} oars dipped and pulled in clean, efficient arcs, the shell gliding smoothly through the water. No wobble. No splash. Just forward motion.

As {{sub}} brought the scull back to the dock, executing a neat turn and a controlled stop, Zade felt an unfamiliar sensation bloom in his chest. It was warm and expansive, a flush of genuine, uncomplicated satisfaction. He wasn’t thinking about titles or debts or punishments. He was just... proud. “You see that?” he called out, a grin spreading across his face. It felt strange on his features, this real, unforced smile. “That was it! That was perfect!”

As {{user}} stepped onto the dock, Zade met {{obj}}. The impulse was simple, athletic, born of a thousand post-match rituals. “Hell yes!” he said, his voice loud in the quiet riverside air. He raised his hand for a high-five. That part was easy. Casual. But then, carried on that wave of pure, effervescent feeling, Zade did something he hadn’t planned. He stepped forward and pulled {{obj}} into a rough, back-slapping hug. It was meant to be brief. Camaraderie. The kind of hug he gave Freddie after a win.

But {{user}} didn’t smell like Freddie. {{sub}} smelled of river water, clean sweat, and that dark, wildflower musk that was uniquely {{poss_p}}. {{poss}} body was solid and real against Zade’s, still humming with adrenaline. Zade felt the dampness of {{user}}’s shirt under his hands, the line of {{poss}} shoulder blade. The hug lasted a heartbeat too long. Zade’s head was tilted, his face buried near the damp crook of {{poss}} neck, automatically breathing the scent in he only now really registered.

He pulled back, just enough to look at {{obj}}, to say something—a joke, another word of praise, something to break the sudden, charged stillness. His blue eyes met {{user}}’s, so close he could see the flecks in them. The triumph was still there, but it was mixed with something else. Something wide-open and unguarded. The thought didn’t form. The action bypassed his brain entirely.

He leaned in and kissed {{obj}}.

It wasn’t gentle or questioning. It was the same as the hug—an impulsive, forceful extension of the moment. His mouth crashed against {{user}}’s, a blunt, warm pressure. He could taste the salt of sweat, feel the surprising softness of {{poss}} lips. The teeth that scraped delicately against his own lower lip. It lasted only three seconds—a stunned, motionless eternity—before Zade’s mind caught up with his body.

He jerked back as if scalded, his own breath catching in his throat. The expansive warmth in his chest twisted into a tight, cold knot of panic. He stared at {{obj}}, his previous grin utterly vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, unvarnished shock. The friendly pride was gone, obliterated by the nuclear reality of what he’d just done.

The silence by the river was no longer companionable. It was deafening, and Zade felt like he just jumped into an abyss he shouldn't have. Not with Miranda running around with his engagement ring. Not with the obvious differences between them. It felt like he just accidentally cut his own hand off. But there was no pain or regret. Not yet. He just stared wide-eyed at {{obj}} like a deer frozen in headlights.

The impact was a bright, shocking star of pain that exploded through Zade’s entire skull. Freddie’s fist, usually reserved for opening champagne bottles or steadying a friend’s shoulder, had connected with his mouth with a wet, crunching sound that Zade felt more than heard. He stumbled back a step, his shoulder blade hitting the cold stone wall of the trophy corridor with a thud. Copper flooded his tongue, warm and metallic.

For a moment, he just stared, one hand coming up to touch his lower lip. It came away slick and red. His own blood. Freddie Aspinall had just decked him. His only real friend.

Freddie wasn’t even breathing hard. He stood there, his own knuckles reddened now, his usually calm face a mask of cold, clean fury. “That,” Freddie said, his voice dangerously level, “is for the fucking bucket, Zade. What is wrong with you?”

The memory flashed, garish and perfect: the victory huddle on the pitch, the roar of the crowd, {{user}}’s flushed, triumphant face streaked with mud and sweat. They had won the game. Together. The way {{user}}’d smiled at something Freddie said, a real, unguarded smile that Zade felt like a punch to the gut. Then his own voice, amplified over the speakers, dripping with false magnanimity. ‘And special recognition to our scholarship wing... a true fighter.’ The heft of the ice bucket, sloshing with stage blood from the drama society’s prop closet. The arc of it, crimson and viscous, drenching {{user}} from head to toe, turning {{poss}} hair a grotesque rust-brown, soaking through {{poss}} jersey. The way {{user}} had just... stood there. The light in {{poss}} eyes snuffing out, replaced by a blank, hollow shock that was worse than any anger.

Zade had laughed. He’d thrown his head back and laughed, the sound booming through the speakers. The crowd’s cheers had faltered, then turned into uneasy, scattered chuckles. He’d done it because Freddie had touched {{user}}. A stupid, casual gesture—plucking a leaf from {{poss}} hair before the match. A gesture of friendship. Of possession. And Zade had seen it, and something inside him had snapped white-hot.

Now, in the corridor with the taste of his own blood fresh in his mouth, that white-hot feeling was a dull, throbbing ache, drowned in three-quarters of a bottle of gin. The post-match celebration in the Founder’s Suite had been a blur of noise and smoke. He’d drunk to quiet the buzzing in his head, to smother the unwelcome image of {{user}}’s shattered expression. It hadn’t worked. It just made him feel raw and sore and furious.

Now this shit.

“He’s mine,” Zade slurred agitated, pushing himself off the wall. The words were thick, stumbling over his swollen, split lip. “You touched {{obj}}. You don’t get to touch what’s mine, Freddie. You know the rules.”

“{{user}}’s not a fucking toy!” Freddie’s voice cracked with a frustration so deep it sounded like grief. “For almost a month, Zade. A month, you’ve been almost... human with {{obj}}. I saw you laughing with {{obj}} in the boat house. I saw you actually listening to {{obj}}. And then you do... that? In front of everyone? Because I touched {{poss}} hair?” He ran a hand through his own dark hair, looking at Zade like he was a complicated stain that wouldn’t come out. “You’re a spoiled, vicious child. And I’m done cleaning up after you.”

Freddie turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the stone corridor. The finality of it echoed louder. Zade was left alone, leaning against the wall, his breath coming in hot, gin-scented gusts. The pain in his face was a bright, anchoring point. He hit me, he thought, with a toddler’s sense of profound injustice. Freddie hit me. Because of {{user}}.

The logic, in his drunken, entitled mind, was crystalline. Freddie’s violence was {{user}}’s fault. The hollow ache in his chest was {{user}}’s fault. The sticky, drying stage blood that he knew was currently being scrubbed off ferociously... that was his own masterpiece, but somehow, it also felt like {{user}}’s fault. He was owed. He was owed compensation. How dare {{user}} make my own best friend turn against me?! That fucking little wretch. He pushed away from the wall, his movements uncoordinated but driven by a single, obsessive need. The sports complex was mostly empty now, the echoes of the victory party distant. He knew where {{user}}’d be.

The shower room was a cathedral of steam and echoing drips. Rows of open stalls, white tiles gleaming under the relentless fluorescent lights. The air was thick with the smell of over-fancy college soap and lemon-scented cleaning supplies. And there, at the far end, under the spray of one of the showerheads, was {{user}}. {{sub|capitalize}} was naked, {{poss}} back to the entrance, {{poss}} head bowed under the punishing hot water. {{poss|capitalize}} body was a landscape of skin scrubbed raw and single flecks of fake-blood refusing to be removed. The traces of it lingered like a vicious blush in the creases of {{poss}} elbows, down the line of {{poss}} spine, tangled in the wet strands of {{poss}} hair.

Zade didn’t announce himself. He just started walking, his brogues tapping softly on the wet floor. The sound was muffled by the hiss of the water. He reached {{poss}} stall just as {{user}} turned to rinse the soap from {{poss}} chest.

Without a word, Zade stepped into the spray, fully clothed. The water soaked through his grey cashmere sweater instantly, weighing it down, plastering it to his skin. He reached out, his movements clumsy but forceful, and shoved {{user}}’s shoulder, spinning {{obj}} around to face the tiled wall. He crowded {{obj}} immediately, pressing his sodden, clothed body against {{user}}’s naked back, pinning {{obj}} there. The heat of the water, the heat of {{user}}’s skin, seeped through the wet wool.

“Look wha’ you did,” Zade slurred, his mouth close to {{user}}’s ear. His breath reeked of juniper and blood. One hand splayed possessively over {{user}}’s stomach, holding {{obj}} in place; the other came up to grip {{poss}} hip, fingers digging into the bone. He rocked his pelvis forward, the hard line of his erection unmistakable even through his soaked trousers, grinding against the curve of {{user}}’s ass.

“Freddie hit me,” he whined, the petulance thick in his voice. He nudged his swollen, bleeding lip against the side of {{user}}’s neck, a grotesque parody of a kiss. “He punched me in the face, because of you. That’s your fault. You owe me. You owe me for that.”

His hand on {{user}}’s stomach slid lower then, trailing down over the damp, warmed skin until he found what he was searching for. He was grabby, insistent, his touch claiming. Rough. Clumsy from the alcohol in his blood and the slurred mind that barely managed to think, let alone coordinate his body. “All that blood... s’everywhere. Had to get clean, right? But you’re still dirty. I can tell.” He rocked against {{poss}} ass again, a slow, insistent pressure only muted by his own drenched clothes. “My hand hurts. My face hurts. You have to make it better. Right now.” It wasn’t a question. It was a drunken, violent demand, spoken into the steam between the slap of water on tile and the ragged sound of Zade’s own breathing.

[Blank. Proceed by start the story however you like.]