Archive of Our Own

It starts as a desperate, 100% tactical maneuver.

The first three times Blyke uses it, it is damage control, a reckless gamble to shut John's mouth when an argument hit too close to the bone. He kisses him, leaving John short-circuited while Blyke struts away like he just conquered a kingdom, pleased with himself.

A week later in the cramped dorm hallway over dish duty, Blyke stops listening to John's sarcastic remarks entirely, staring instead at the exact heat of those moving lips. A slow, wicked spark lights up his chest, and he cuts John off right in the middle of a sentence by stepping into his space and kissing him hard.

By the end of the month, their cohabitation has devolved into a ridiculous game of manufactured rivalry. They don't even need a real reason to fight anymore.

​- You put the milk carton back in the fridge when there was literally one drop left, are you somehow brain-dead? John snaps across the living room, a wicked glint in his sandy eyes as he waits, leaning casually against the doorframe, for the usual bite back. 

​-  Oh, I'm the brain-dead one? You're the idiot who left his wet towel on my side of the bathroom counter for three days straight, you godamn animal ! Blyke fires back, and already he strides right up to him. 

- Yeah well you-- 

​Blyke doesn't even let him finish the syllable. ​Without a word of warning, Blyke reaches out, grabs the collar of John’s hoodie, hauls him down, and kisses him. 

There is no hesitation this time. John’s hands instantly catch Blyke by the waist with a fierce, possessive grip, swallowing his breath as they melt into a desperate, pent-up hunger. When they finally break apart, both are breathing hard with flushed faces, Blyke smoothing down his shirt with trembling fingers and slapping on his signature obnoxious grin.

​- I win, Blyke declares, his voice shaking just a fraction, licking his lips in satisfaction. 

​John glares at him, his chest heaving, his lips slightly swollen and dark, a crimson flush across his face. Blyke had to admit, it completely ruined his tough-guy act, and he looked really good like that. 

​- You're cheating, John mutters, though he doesn't sound mad at all. 

​- Rules of engagement, John. Learn 'em, honey. Blyke smirks, turning on his heel and walking away before his legs give out entirely and his bravado is stripped down. 

​

Within weeks, the arguments become pitifully transparent pretexts for the inevitable grand finale. Over thermostat settings or shoes in the walkway, they crash into each other, but the kisses stop lasting three seconds. Instead, John’s hands slide firmly around Blyke's waist to yank him flush against his chest on his tip-toes, while Blyke’s fingers lock tightly around the back of John’s neck, tangling in those dark, soft curls. It is full-on making out.

The bickering vanishes into wet, ragged gasps and teeth clipping against teeth as they stumble hard against the hallway wall.​

One minute passes. Then two. 

​By the fourth minute, the intensity of it starts to shift. The aggressive, defensive armor they’ve worn for months is melting away, leaving behind a terrifying, exposed vulnerability. For the first time, they aren't just doing it to shut each other up or win an argument. They are actually kissing. ​Blyke’s head is spinning, his pulse roaring so loud in his ears that it drowns out everything else. The realization hits him with a dizzying wave of panic and crimsom heat: this isn't a game anymore. We've been going at it for five minutes straight, and neither of us is stopping. Shit, we need to stop. 

Then John shifts. A tentative, hesitant nudge against his lips, not as an aggressive demand, more of a  question laced with uncharacteristic vulnerability. When John’s tongue timidly grazes the seam of his lips asking for entrance, it hits deeper than any explosive rage. For months, John has lived with the conviction that his presence is a toxic contagion, so the idea that Blyke would willingly let him in close feels like an impossible miracle, but still Blyke does not pull back. He parts his lips fully, welcoming the invasion with a shivering surrender. The kiss turns warm, messy, and quite slimy, tasting faintly of instantaneous coffee and bitter adrenaline. John’s tongue sweeps gently inside with a reverent hunger, half-convinced this is a fever dream. Blyke’s mind is completely gone, every coherent thought scattered into the dark as he feels the hard expanse of John’s chest pressed flush against his own.

Oh god, Blyke thinks wildly, his fingers clutching desperately into John's hair. I am completely cooked. There is no going back from this.

His knees buckle under the sensation, a soft, helpless moan slipping past his lips before John swallows it down. For John, hearing that sound and feeling Blyke melt completely into his arms feels like a green light. His hesitation shatters into a fierce, protective desperation. He angles his head, tasting every inch of Blyke’s mouth as if branding him to prove this is real.

When they finally have to pull back for air, the heavy silence is broken only by ragged breathing. Foreheads resting together, they both tremble. Blyke’s face is flushed a brilliant crimson down to his collarbones, staring up into wide, dilated amber eyes. John looks just as wrecked, his cynical edge stripped away. Neither speaks, neither jokes, and that silence is worse.

They don't talk about it. Feelings and labels are a landmine, so they weaponize silence and let their hands do the heavy lifting. The kisses turn wet, messy, and frantic as they stumble blindly across the apartment, completely addicted to the clash of teeth.

The next confrontation starts over a flattened, empty tube of toothpaste.

Blyke, running on a short fuse and too much caffeine, storms down the hallway. Without bothering to knock, he shoves John’s bedroom door open, ready to fire off a scathing remark.

​- I swear to god, if you leave that crushed-up plastic shell on the counter one more time, I am going to-​

The words die instantly in his throat.

Blyke freezes, his hand gripping the doorknob, his brain short-circuiting.

John is shirtless.

Freshly washed or changed after morning drills, John stands near the center of the room. Without a hoodie to hide behind, his upper body is fully exposed, lean and packed with muscle, scarred like a map of his fighting nature. Blyke’s mouth snaps shut, his eyes dropping helplessly to the planes of John’s torso. The toothpaste complaint vaporizes.

Skin.

Exposed, blazing-hot skin.

And now it is against him. John’s bare arms wrap around him, pressing him close, the heavy muscle shifting beneath Blyke’s palms as his fingers trace the hard ridge of a collarbone. Blyke lets out a ragged gasp right into the kiss, pulling John closer. The moment John’s lips leave his face, Blyke’s head falls back against the door panel, exposing his throat to the open air. That was a mistake.

John descends like a starved man, burying his face into the crook of Blyke’s neck. Hot, damp breath sends a violent shiver down Blyke’s spine before John’s mouth finds him, devouring the expanse of his throat with hard, punishing kisses and a broad, hot stroke of the tongue over his jugular.

​- Ah- Fuck ! 

A sharp gasp tears from Blyke’s chest as John clamps down over his skin, triggering a blinding wave of pleasure. John alternates efficiently between a lingering lick and a heavy, aggressive suck that draws bruised heat into the flesh. Blyke’s fingers scramble frantically across bare shoulders, his knees turning to water as he is pinned between the wood and John's burning weight. Every ounce of pride is sucked away, leaving only the certainty that he never wants this to stop. Then John's hand flirts with Blyke's pants.

Blyke’s eyes snap open in shock, a mortifying realization hitting him like ice water as his face flares a violent shade of crimson.

​- Ge-get off ! Blyke gasps out, his voice cracking horribly. 

He shoves frantically against John’s chest, trembling with humiliation. Taken off guard, John stumbles back and releases his grip, looking up with big, sad eyes. That is all the opening Blyke needs to bolt past him, slam the bathroom door, and lock it. Outside, John stands frozen, running a hand through his dark hair as shame hits him for making Blyke flee. Twenty minutes later, the bathroom door clicks open. Blyke steps out, dressed in his fresh uniform after an ice-cold shower that did nothing to cool him down. Staring at his reflection in the hallway mirror, his despair peaks.

Right there against the pale skin of his neck is a constellation of deep-purple hickeys. John practically branded him. Blyke frantically pulls the high, stiff collar of his Wellston uniform up, buttoning it to the farthest limit. It is useless, he knew it, yet he persisted. The moment he tilts his head, the damning evidence peeks right over the fabric like a neon sign.

​- I am going to murder him, Blyke mutters to his reflection, his voice trembling as a fresh wave of heat crawls up his neck. I am actually going to march back in there and throw him out a window. 

Of course, he doesn't. Attendance is sacred, and pride demands he face the music. Taking a shuddering breath, he grabs his backpack and heads out the front door. He spends the morning walk holding his chin at an agonizingly rigid angle. Entering the Wellston hallways, he keeps his head down, praying Isen is glued to his phone and Remi looks the other way. The morning passes in a blur of psychological torture. By third period, Blyke’s neck muscles are screaming from holding such an unnatural posture. When Remi turns around to ask a history question, Blyke violently flinches, pressing his chin so hard against his collarbone that his eyes water.

​- Are you... okay, Blyke? Remi asks, her brow furrowing in genuine concern as she eyes his awkwardly strained posture. You look like you’re trying to swallow your own jaw. Do you have a neck cramp or something? 

​- F-fine! Totally fine! Never been better! Yep ! Blyke squeaks out, his voice cracking an octave too high. Just... sleeping funny! Bad mattress! Totally normal! 

​Remi stares at him for a long, suspicious moment, clearly thinking he’s lost his godamn mind, before turning back around with a doubtful shrug. Blyke lets out a long, shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against his desk. ​Only four more hours until freedom, he chants miserably in his head. Then I can go home and murder him. 

​Unfortunately, the universe has entirely different plans. ​By lunchtime, the hallways are a chaotic sea of students rushing toward the cafeteria. Blyke is walking briskly down a quieter corridor near the lockers, desperately trying to blend into the background, when a heavy hand shoots out from an intersecting hallway. ​Before he can react, fingers wrap firmly around his wrist, and he is violently yanked backward into a dim, secluded alcove between two sets of heavy metal lockers. 

​Blyke lets out a startled gasp, bracing himself to spark an energy beam towards whoever dared drag him like that, but the breath catches in his throat the second he looks up. 

Of course it’s John. Who else ?

- What the hell are you doing?! Blyke hisses furiously, keeping his chin locked tight against his collar as he tries to wrench his wrist away. Are you out of your mind?! We’re in the middle of school! Someone’s going to see us! 

​John doesn't let go of his wrist. Instead, he steps closer, crowding Blyke back against the cold metal of the lockers until there’s nowhere left to run. His sand-colored eyes drop immediately, locking onto the stiff, over-buttoned collar of Blyke’s uniform. 

​- Nice collar, John drawls, his voice a low, raspy taunt. Trying out a new fashion statement? Looks a little warm for July. Can you even breathe like that ? 

John lacks his usual bark, a certain worry in his eyes regarding that exact morning where Blyke had pushed him away.

Said redhead is glaring daggers at John, his pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, and a now familiar blush spreading across his cheeks. He had a very pale complexion, okay ? He blushed easily !

​- Shut up, Blyke snaps, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and intense mortification. Shut your mouth before I swear to god I blast a hole right through this locker. You-you fucking psychopath, look at what you did! 

​John ignores the threat entirely. In fact, his gaze tracks slowly up from the collar to fixate on the very edge of purple bruising peeking out just beneath Blyke's ear, a vivid, undeniable, purple stamp of what happened back in that bedroom. John slowly reaches out his free hand, his warm, calloused fingers brushing gently against the stiff fabric of Blyke’s collar, tracing right over the bruised skin hidden beneath. 

​Blyke’s breath hitches sharply, his entire body going rigid at the touch. The memory of how those hands felt earlier, burning hot, pressing him down, stripping away every defense, flashes violently behind his eyes, making his knees tremble. He pouts his lips, awaiting the usual kisses.

​John sighs in relief at his roommate's non-verbal approval, but still doesn't give him the chance. The heavy, blistering heat of John’s mouth presses straight against the opposite side of his neck instead of Blyke's mouth.

​Because of the stiff, over-buttoned collar, John has to shove his fingers right under the fabric, pulling the cloth down just enough to expose pristine, untouched skin. He ravages it. Like that morning, John attacks the tender column with a fierce, ravenous hunger, alternating between broad, hot licks, hard and punishing sucks, and wet, lingering kisses that burn straight into Blyke’s nervous system. 

​His eyes fly wide open, staring blindly at the gray metal of the locker door inches from his face. A sharp, breathless keen bubbles up instantly in his throat, begging to break free, but the terrifying, echoing reality of where they are,crammed into a high school hallway where Remi or Isen or any random student could round the corner at any second, manages to intercept it. ​Blyke bites down hard on his own lower lip, clamping his jaw shut to trap the sound inside. 

​It’s too much, the heat, the friction, the heavy, bruising weight of John’s mouth marking him a second time in broad daylight. It pushes Blyke right back to the edge of panic. Well, yeah, he expected some kisses, maybe a little tongue, maybe a sneaky hand under his vest,  not this. ​With a desperate, shaky gasp, Blyke forces his hands to shove against John’s chest. 

​- J-John, stop- I said s-stop it, someone’s going to see- fuck, hey, stop! Blyke hisses under his breath, his voice cracking into a ragged, pathetic plea as he tries to wrench his neck away from the merciless pressure of John's lips. 

​John lingers for one last, deliberate suction that draws a sharp, bruising heat to the skin before finally pulling back. He lifts his head slowly, looking entirely unrepentant, his chest heaving slightly, his sandy eyes dark and heavy with satisfaction. That fucker. Give him a hand and he'll take your entire arm and maybe even nibble your shoulder. ​He stares down at the brand-new, blooming purple mark starkly contrasting against Blyke's pale throat, a vicious grin spreading across his face. 

 For a second, Blyke could almost see the Joker in front of him, gloating at his misery.

​- Well, John murmurs softly, his thumb casually brushing over the fresh bruise with a lingering, possessive stroke. Now the left side matches the right. Much better, no ? 

​Blyke presses his back flat against the lockers, chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps. He aggressively yaks his collar back up, buttoning it with trembling fingers as he glares up at John with promised homicide in his eyes. 

​- I hate you, Blyke whispers furiously, his voice shaking. I genuinely, really really hate you. 

​John just laughs. 

​- See you at home, John taunts quietly, kissing the corner of Blyke's mouth before turning on his heel and walking down the hallway with the maddeningly smug swagger he used since he transferred to Wellston's High. 

​Left alone in the dim alcove, Blyke stands there for a full minute, pressing his burning face into his hands, silently praying to every known deity that the bell rings before anyone else decides to test what’s left of his sanity. The second John disappears around the corner, Blyke is moving, possessed by the soul of a ghost -wait isn't that a normal soul ? - he practically flees down the corridor, his feet pounding against the linoleum floor as he makes a dead sprint for the nearest boys' restroom. He shoves the door open with enough force that it bounces off the tile wall with a loud, echoing crack. 

​The bathroom is thankfully fucking empty. 

​Blyke marches straight to the sink, grips the edges of the porcelain with white-knuckled hands, and stares up into the mirror to assess the damage.  What looks back at him is a disaster, taunting him with every one of Blyke's poor decision-making. ​With shaking fingers, he reaches up and yaks his stiff uniform collar down. ​There it is. Right on the left side of his neck, mirroring the bruise from this morning, is a fresh, ugly, magnificently dark purple hickey blooming against his pale skin. It’s practically glowing. It looks like a neon warning sign that reads I make terrible life choices, I am a delinquent, I am doing indecent things in the school's hallways. Please give me detention. 

​- Are you actually insane? Blyke whispers fiercely to his own reflection, his voice cracking with a mix of hysteria and sheer mortification. What is wrong with you?! What is wrong with him?!  he shrieks.

​His reflection doesn't answer him, looking back at him with the same blushed cheeks and wide eyes. He turns the faucet handle sharply, cupping his hands under the gush of ice-cold water. Without wasting a second, he splashes it directly onto his burning face, then a second time, scrubbing his hands over his cheeks and through his hair, trying to scrub away the lingering ghost of John's hands, the heavy weight of his chest, and the alternate reality he somehow lived in where he nearly lost his mind against a set of school lockers. 

​He grabs a paper towel, aggressively drying his face, and glares at his neck in the mirror again. ​The cold water did nothing to fade the bruising, if anything, the contrast against his chilled, pale skin makes it stand out even more. Great. ​With a despaired groan, Blyke pulls his collar back up, buttoning it all the way to the top and practically choking himself in a desperate, futile attempt to bury the evidence. ​A sharp, shrill sound echoes down the hallway outside. 

​The warning bell. 

​Three minutes until class starts. Three minutes to walk across the building, take a seat, pretend he isn't a completely unhinged case of public indency, and avoid making eye contact with anyone who might look at his neck. ​Blyke takes one final, shuddering breath, squares his shoulders, and strides out of the bathroom, praying to whatever gods are listening that his legs don't give out before he reaches the door. 

Blyke forgot one rule.  There is something that Wellston High students love more than infighting. Gossip. 

​If there is one absolute at Wellston High, it is that information travels faster than a certain high-tier’s lightning. ​The moment Blyke slides into his desk for fourth period, trying his best to look like a dignified, stoic Royal, he is already a doomed man. He sits with his spine locked straight, his chin tilted at that agonizingly stiff angle, and his uniform buttoned to the limit. 

​It is useless. 

​The high, rigid collar of his school jacket conceals the bulk of the damage, but it cannot hide the lingering, fierce flush painting his freckled cheeks. Nor can it fully cover the deep, telltale purple shadow peeking right over the top edge of his left lapel every time he breathes too heavily. ​Within ten minutes, the quiet whispers begin. To the student body, the social landscape of Wellston is very clear. Blyke is the King, beloved, just, and fiercely protective of his peers. He is the guy who put his life on the line to defend the Safe House when the school was falling apart. He has the loyalty of half the student body, and the adoration of the other half. 

​John, on the other hand ? John is the monster in the closet, the beast at the back of the class you don't talk about in fear of waking him up. Even with his month-long suspension served and his violent rampages slowly fading into awkward, tense silence, he is still widely avoided. As far as the school is concerned, Blyke and John are blood enemies. Their history is written in hospital beds, broken bones, and the more-than-once shattered door of the Safe House. ​Which is why, as the rumors spread through the classrooms like wildfire, nobody in their right mind connects the dots to the quiet, terrifying guy sitting in the back row. 

​By lunchtime, the cafeteria is practically buzzing with a frantic energy. 

​- Look at his neck, a girl from the Safe House murmurs behind her hand two tables over, nudging her friend. He’s trying so hard to act normal. Who do you think did that to him?! 

​The theories immediately multiply. 

​Theory #1: The Queen. 

The most obvious, popular, and universally celebrated guess is Remi. Sweet, beautiful, compassionate Remi. Blyke’s best friend, the Saehouse's co-founder, and the undisputed sweetheart of the school. They are attached at the hip, constantly hovering in each other's orbits. The idea that their fiercely protective King and their darling Queen finally crossed the line into something romantic sends half the lower-tiers into a quiet, hopeful swooning. 

​Theory #2: The Jack. 

Near the back of the cafeteria, a small cluster of die-hard school gossips and avid fujoshis are huddled over their phones, giggling hysterically into their sleeves. 

​- It’s totally Isen, one girl whispers, practically vibrating with excitement. Have you seen how physical Isen gets with him? He’s always slinging an arm around Blyke’s neck, tackling him on the turf. I'm telling you, it was only a matter of time before they did something about their tension ! 

​- Right?! Isen’s the Jack, Blyke’s the King, it was meant to be, it totally works ! 

​Theory #3: The Former King. 

A few of the more politically minded upper-tiers entertain a far more bizarre, aristocratic angle: Arlo. The former King. Blyke and Arlo always maintained a surprisingly respectful, cordial relationship based on duty and hierarchy, almost mentoring Blyke into being the future King. Sure, Arlo is stoic and emotionally distant, but the idea of the blond, imposing ex-King pinning their fiery new King against a wall has a certain scandalous appeal that a few students are secretly writing down in their personal notes filled with chilvary hopes. 

​Theory #4: The Goddess. 

Then comes the most breathtakingly scandalous theory of them all: Seraphina. The Ace. The untouchable, cold, standoffish deity of Wellston who walks through the halls like a storm cloud. Blyke has always held an immense, vocal respect for her power and composure. The thought of Seraphinq, aloof, impossibly strong, and terrifyingly gorgeous, deciding to claim the school’s King for herself leaves half the cafeteria utterly breathless. 

​All that to say, if anyone were to draft an official suspect list and rank the entire school from most likely to least likely, first of all, weird ? Second of all, John would be sitting comfortably near the bottom of the barrel.

​Almost the bottom. 

​Because in the deepest, darkest corners of the school’s anonymous fan-forums, a tiny, unhinged faction of toxic fiction readers is quietly losing their minds. 

​- Okay, but what if it’s John? a girl whispers at a corner table, her eyes wide as she sneaks a glance across the room where John is sitting completely alone, staring blankly at his lunch tray, eating as if someone was going to tear his food away from him. 

​- Are you insane?! her friend gasps, slapping her shoulder. John literally put Blyke in the hospital! They toooootally hate each other! 

​- That’s what makes it hot! the girl argues under her breath, a wild, manic grin on her face. Think about it! Enemies with benefits! The bitter, violent ex-Jokerand the righteous King who keeps trying to fix him ! The sexual tension when they fight must be insane! It’s toxic! It’s dramatic! Therefore, it’s perfect! 

​Across the cafeteria, completely unaware of the mountain of absurd fan-fiction being written about his neck, Blyke is currently living in a hell of his own making. ​He sits at the Royal table, his tray untouched, staring straight ahead as if a single sudden head movement will cause his entire life to collapse. ​Beside him, Remi is leaning in, her bright eyes scanning his face with a terrifyingly sharp, inquisitive focus. 

​- Blyke, Remi says softly, a small, gentle smile tugging at the corners of her lips. You know... if there’s something, or someone, ou want to tell usabout, you can. You don't have to hide it under a winter collar in July. 

​Blyke chokes on his own spit, coughing violently as his freckled face turns an even more violent shade of crimson. 

​- I - um- there’s nobody! It’s a rash! Blyke squeaks out, his voice cracking horribly as he pulls his collar higher. It’s an allergic reaction to... detergent! 

​Sitting across from them, Isen takes a slow, unbothered bite of his sandwich, his eyes darting from Blyke’s utter mortification over to the purple bruises barely hidden. 

​- Sure, bro, Isen deadpans, kicking Blyke lightly under the table. Severe allergic reaction. We completely believe you. Does that allergy have a name, by any chance ? 

If there is one thing Isen cannot turn off, it is his internal journalistic radar. 

​He might be Blyke’s best friend, fiercely loyal and willing to cover for him when the King is dying of sheer embarrassment, but Isen is a reporter and a world-class gossiper down to his core. The universe could be ending, but if there is a juicy, clandestine mystery happening within a five-meter radius, Isen’s brain simply refuses to look away. ​By the end of the school day, Isen is sitting at his desk in the student press room, notebook open, meticulously analyzing the social landscape like a detective investigating a crime scene, drafting a list of candidates. ​The student body’s running theories are pinned in his mind, and Isen starts cutting through the noise with cold, journalistic logic. 

​Suspect #1: Remi. 

Eliminated immediately. Isen loves her to death, but he knows for a fact that she and Blyke share one brain cell. If Remi had anything to do with those hickeys, she wouldn't be looking at Blyke with that innocent, curious head-tilt during lunch; she’d be giggling like a maniac. Plus both were terrible liars. 

​Suspect #2: Himself. 

Eliminated. Sure, Isen loves to tease, tackle, and invade Blyke’s personal space for the bit, but they both know it’s entirely platonic chaos. And Isen would be aware of such severe sleep-walking. 

​Suspect #3: Arlo. 

Eliminated with prejudice. Deserved. Arlo? Please. The former King treats romance like a corporate merger. Unless Blyke suddenly developed a fetish for stiff posture, cold stares, and long lectures about hierarchy management, that option is dead on arrival. 

​Suspect #4: Seraphina. 

Isen’s pen pauses over this one. This, one, he hesitates. ​He frowns, tapping the end of his pen against his chin. Sera isn't impossible. She’s become significantly more approachable since leaving the Royal hierarchy behind, she practically lives at the Safe House, and Isen vividly remembers a few months ago when Blyke had turned bright red just stumbling over a compliment about her strength. They run in the same circles. It’s entirely plausible that the school’s golden boy caught the eye of the school’s untouchable Goddess. 

​Isen groans, rubbing the back of his neck. If it’s Sera, it’s a boringly prestigious answer. It lacks flair. Drama. 

​Idly, half out of sheer boredom and professional thoroughness, Isen’s eyes drift down to the bottom of his mental suspect list. The fringe candidates. The joke entries whispered by the unhinged corner-table fujoshis, and his gaze lands on a name that makes his pen freeze entirely. 

​John. 

​Isen’s brain hits the brakes so hard it practically skids. 

​John? 

​He stares at the name, and suddenly, the gears in his head start turning with terrifying, hyper-focused speed. The cogs spin, the timeline aligns, and a massive, blinding web of logic flashes behind Isen’s eyes. Maths are done, red strings taut.

​Think about it. ​Who has been spending an ungodly amount of locked-behind-closed-doors time with Blyke lately? Who lives in the exact same apartment? Who has a history of violent, explosive, zero-boundaries physical altercations that used to involve hospital visits and now just involve... whatever chaotic weirdness they’ve been hiding? 

​Isen remembers a thought he had weeks ago, back when John first returned from his suspension, a dark, cynical thought he’d muttered to himself in the hallway: Those two idiots are going to end up either murdering each other or having the craziest sex of their lives. 

​Isen’s eyes widen behind his reading glasses. He slowly lowers his pen, the color draining from his face as a slow, hysterical realization washes over him. 

​Neither of them is dead. 

​In fact, Blyke has been walking around looking like a shell-shocked Victorian ghost with his collar choked to his chin, and John has been sitting across the cafeteria looking like a cat that swallowed a very red canary. 

​Isen gasps, clapping both hands over his mouth to smother a loud, wheezing shriek of shock and priceless joy, salivating at his find. 

​- No way, Isen whispers to the empty press room, his eyes blown wide as saucers. No. Freaking. Way.

For three glorious, unhinged seconds, Isen is entirely lost to the dark arts of journalism. ​His brain races at Mach speed, drafting front-page exposés with the frantic energy of a man possessed. The headlines practically write themselves across the blank page of his notebook: 

- ​THE KING AND THE TYRANT: Tamed or Subjugated? 

- ​BEHIND CLOSED DOORS: How Wellston’s Fiercest Rivalry Turned Steamy! 

- ​EXCLUSIVE: Is Our Righteous Leader Sharing a Bed with Public Enemy Number One?! 

​It is the scoop of the century. It’s a telenovela-level plot twist wrapped in a high-tier scandal, dripping with enough forbidden drama to make the entire school implode. Isen practically vibrates in his chair, a feral, trashy-reporter grin spreading across his face as he salivates over the sheer magnitude of the secret. He is a true hunter closing in on the ultimate kill, and his shiny new prey is perhaps even juicier than his previous big game, Joker's true identi-

​Isen slams his pen down on the desk, freezing mid-shake. 

​Wait. 

​His manic grin falters, replaced by a sudden, creeping horror. 

​Who are they talking about here? 

​This isn't just some random high-tier couple breaking up over summer vacation or a petty rumor about who cheated on a mock exam. It’s Blyke. His best friend. Sure, the redhead could be stubborn, abrasive, and a massive pain in the ass to live with, but he was also genuinely kind, fiercely loyal, and currently walking around looking like a shell-shocked ghost trying to choke himself with his own collar. ​If Isen actually published this, if he even hinted at it in the school paper, Blyke would probably manifest a laser beam out of pure humiliation and vaporize Isen on the spot. ​But Isen wasn't afraid of this dumbass Blyke... ​It was John. ​The sudden, vivid memory of those terrifying amber eyes flashes in Isen’s mind. He remembers the hospital visits, the shattered walls, the savage brutality of a guy who could snap his jaw like a twig when pushed. John wasn't just a former tyrant, he was in Isen's very private nightmares, who had only barely managed to reintegrate into polite society without committing mass property damage. ​A cold, greasy sweat washes over Isen’s orange-haired head. His entire body goes rigid. ​As a reporter, the instinct is to dig, expose, and broadcast, but as a living, breathing human being who actually liked having all of his limbs attached and functioning, the survival instinct screams at him to back the hell away from the ledge. 

​If John finds out I know, Isen thinks, his throat suddenly going bone-dry as he pictures those amber eyes locking onto him in the hallway, he won't break just my back. He’ll  probably feed me my own insides. 

​Slowly, deliberately, Isen reaches out with a trembling hand, takes the corner of the page where he drafted the headline, and rips it cleanly out of his notebook. He folds it into a tiny, tight square, drops it into the recycling bin, and takes a long, shuddering breath. 

​Ignorance is bliss. Privacy is sacred. Some stories are better left buried in an unmarked grave. 

​- Nope, Isen whispers softly to the empty room, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead. I love my best friend. I value my vital organs. I am legally blind, deaf, and entirely lobotomized.

The walk back to the apartment feels less like returning home and more like marching toward an execution block. 

​By the time Blyke finally unlocks the front door and steps inside, his nerves are completely fried. He spent the entire afternoon dodging questions, keeping his posture rigidly locked, and praying that the lingering purple marks on his neck had decided to magically vanish. They hadn't. They were currently burning beneath his collar like a brand. 

​He pushes the door open, slipping quietly into the entryway, expecting to find the place empty. ​Instead, he walks straight into the living room and immediately freezes. ​John is already there. ​He’s on the floor, doing sit-ups on the worn carpet, mid-motion. As Blyke steps into view, John pulls himself up, his core flexing as he reaches the top of the rep before lowering himself back down. ​John looks up, his expression completely flat. Totally, impenetrably neutral. It’s the same deadpan, unreadable mask he wears in the hallways, the kind of terrifyingly blank poker face that gives away nothing about the fact that a few hours ago he was manhandling Blyke against a set of school lockers. ​To anyone else, John would probably look like a moody roommate working out in silence. ​To Blyke, whose nervous system is already hanging on by a thread, it’s an ambush. ​Despite himself, despite his burning face, despite his desperate vow to maintain some shred of dignity, Blyke’s eyes betray him instantly. They drop, tracking the movement. ​He can’t look away. ​His gaze catches on John’s arms, flexed and corded with muscle as his hands are locked behind his head. The dark fabric of his t-shirt is stretched tight across his chest, hugging the heavy, dense lines of his upper body with every rhythmic pull. A single bead of sweat rolls slowly down John’s temple, tracing a gleaming path over his tanned skin before disappearing down his jawline. ​A sharp, traitorous jolt of heat spikes straight through Blyke’s stomach, making his breath hitch in his throat. ​John pauses at the bottom of a rep, noticing the way Blyke has stalled dead in the middle of the room. Those dark, piercing amber eyes lock onto him, holding his gaze with that terrifying composure. 

​Blyke’s face flares and he forces his eyes back up, swallowing hard as he desperately tries to look anywhere else. John pauses at the bottom of the movement, his muscles locked in place for a fraction of a second before he smoothly pushes himself up to a standing position. He wipes a hand across his forehead, pushing his damp dark hair back, before closing the distance between them in a couple of long, unhurried strides.​He stops just inches away, towering over the redhead, the lingering heat radiating off his skin. ​A low, vibrating sound starts in the back of John's throat, a mockingly sweet, deep rumble. 

​- Wanna fight? John purrs softly, his amber eyes dropping to the high, stiff collar of Blyke’s uniform, amusement flashing in his gaze, but most importantly, genuine hunger. 

​The word hangs in the quiet air of the living room, thick and dripping with deliberate provocation. ​Blyke’s entire body goes rigid. Every single alarm bell in his head starts screaming at maximum volume, warning him that stepping anywhere near this trap is a one-way ticket to losing what little remains of his sanity. He knows exactly what happens when they "fight." It doesn't end with punches thrown or energy beams crackling; it ends with ruined clothes, breathless gasps, and him completely undone against a wall. When did it shift that way ? He used to have the upper hand, for once in their chaotic relationship.

​And yet, looking up at the way John is standing there, chest still heaving slightly from the workout, a dark, wicked smirk playing on his lips, the rational part of Blyke’s brain completely packs its bags and checks out, bidding a teary goodbye.

​- You are unbelievable, Blyke breathes out, his voice shaking with a volatile mix of rising fury and helpless, traitorous heat. 

​Instead of backing away, Blyke’s hands clench into tight fists at his sides. The tension snaps like a stretched rubber band. 

​- You think you’re so funny, don't you? Blyke snarls, his pride taking the wheel and driving him straight off the cliff. You think you can just- 

​He doesn't get to finish the sentence. ​Before the last word even leaves his mouth, John moves. His hands shoot out with lightning speed, gripping Blyke tightly by the hips and hauling him flush against his chest with a heavy, bruising impact. The breath explodes out of Blyke’s lungs in a sharp gasp, replaced instantly by the blazing heat of John’s skin radiating right through his clothes. ​John doesn't hesitate. He crashes his mouth down onto Blyke’s, a hungry, demanding collision that swallows Blyke’s angry retort whole. ​The fight is over before it even starts. Blyke’s hands instantly fly up, abandoning all pretense of defense, his fingers grabbing handfuls of John's damp t-shirt as he pulls him in desperately, a ragged, helpless moan sliding straight past his lips into the kiss.

​John is radiating the residual warmth of his workout, his skin coated in a thin sheen of sweat. He smells intensely, unmistakably of exertion, musky, warm, and weirdly earthy. To anyone else, it might have been overwhelming, but to Blyke, right now, it acts like a potent, intoxicating trigger 

He loses himself in it, hands gripping desperately at the damp fabric of John’s shirt, his mouth moving in a frantic, hungry rhythm against John's lips. ​And then, right in the middle of the dizzying, breathless spin of it all, the brakes lock up. ​Blyke’s eyes flutter open against the dark fabric of John’s shoulder for a split second, and a sudden, jarring wave of cognitive dissonance hits him like a physical blow. The past four weeks flash before his eyes. 

​What the hell am I actually doing? 

​The frantic, panicked thought cuts through the haze of arousal like shattered glass. He’s standing in the middle of their living room, aggressively making out with John. John, his former tormentor, the guy who broke the Safe House, his rival, his roommate, the one he used to see in his worst nightmares, the one at the roots of Blyke's very insecurities.

​What are they? What is this? They aren't dating. They don't even talk about feelings. One minute they're bickering over toothpaste and the next they're tearing each other's lips off against the nearest vertical surface. It makes zero sense. It's reckless, fucking chaotic, and completely insane. 

​Before Blyke can spiral any further down the terrifying rabbit hole of his own internal panic, John senses the mental retreat. ​Without warning, John shifts his grip, rising up and catching Blyke’s bottom lip firmly between his teeth. He delivers a sharp, punishing nip that sends a suddenjolt of pain and pleasure straight through Blyke’s nervous system. ​A sharp, high-pitched cry rips past Blyke’s lips. ​Before he can recover, John takes full advantage of the open mouth, shoving his tongue aggressively past his teeth to claim him. It’s a deep, dominating, thorough invasion, hot and demanding, coming to wrap around Blyke’s tongue in a slow, swirling stroke that instantly vaporizes every coherent thought left in his head, if there were any to begin with.

​Blyke melts. All the panic, all the frantic questions, dissolve into nothing as his knees buckle. ​His body betrays him completely, abandoning any remaining structural integrity. His right leg lifts instinctively, hooking around John’s hip, while his other leg shifts to press tightly against the outside of John’s thigh to anchor himself. 

​And then-fuck. 

​As their hips grind together in the shift of weight, Blyke’s middle presses directly against the solid, thick expanse of John’s thigh. The friction sends a blinding, white-hot flash of sensation straight to his core, and with a sudden, sinking wave ofhumiliation, Blyke realizes he is helplessly, undeniably, unrevocably, hard. 

​Panic slams back into him, ten times worse than before. 

​Hold up.. that’s not normal. 

​The intrusive, frantic thoughts begin screaming in the back of his mind. Boys don't get hard kissing other boys. And boys definitely shouldn't kiss other boys in the first place. 

​For all his open-mindedness, for all the progressive values he preaches and defends as a Royal, it turns out that abstract acceptance and actually living it are entirely different universes. When it’s theoretical, it’s fine. When it’s him, trapped against his worst enemy, trembling, dripping with sweat, and reacting like this, the internal panic button flares completely red.

​It doesn’t apply to me, Blyke’s mind races in a state of quiet, horrified denial, his breathing turning ragged and shallow against John’s mouth. I’m not supposed to be like this. What is wrong with me?

​The night had been an warzone of exhaustion and internalized homophobia-induced panic. 

​Blyke had tossed and turned for hours, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom as his mind replayed every single violent, agonizing, and confusing memory he shared with John. He thought of the real, brutal screaming matches that had left them broken and bleeding on concrete floors; of the terrifying nightmares featuring the shadow-beast raven that still haunted the edges of his sleep; and now, of the heavy, intoxicating heat of John’s mouth and the way his own body had completely betrayed him. 

​It was wrong. It was insane. ​Lying in the dark, staring into the quiet shadows, Blyke had finally drawn a hard line. He was going to put an end to it. Tomorrow. No more late-night sparks, no more wall-pinning, no more losing his mind over a guy who used to be his worst enemy. It would be clean, friendly, and utterly detached. Yup. Also, no more hickeys.

​Yeah, he had told himself into the pillow, convincing his racing heart. That’s a solid plan. 

​Unfortunately, his plan to take control of his life immediately collided with the reality of oversleeping. ​Blyke wakes up late, scrambling out of bed in a frantic blur, throwing on his uniform without even checking the mirror, and sprinting all the way to Wellston. By the time he bursts through the school doors, his heart is hammering hard against his ribs, his legs burning from the run. The hallways are completely devoid of students save for the last few sleep-zombies, the first bell has already rung.​He hurries to his classroom, sliding into his seat just as the teacher turns toward the whiteboard. ​For the first few minutes, a shaky, exhausted sense of relief washes over him. He sits at his desk, forcing a calm, reassuring smile onto his face as he reminds himself of the game plan. Tonight, he would be liberated from this exhausting dilemma. Everything would go back to normal. 

​It takes him a few minutes to realize why the atmosphere in the room feels so suffocatingly heavy. 

​Students are darting furtive glances his way, whispering behind cupped hands and hastily turning away whenever he looks up. Blyke almost rolls his eyes, assuming they are still obsessing over the hickeys from yesterday. Surely, with his shiny new high-tier healing passive, the bruising should have faded enough by now for them to find a new target. He tunes them out, completely unbothered. 

​Until Evie approaches his desk. ​Evie, sweet, gentle Evie with her signature pigtails and kind face, and  one of the unofficial founding members of the Safe House. She has always felt safe around Blyke, which means she feels brave enough to walk right up to him while class is underway. ​She stops at his desk, a heavy blush burning across her cheeks and such hesitation that it makes Blyke’s stomach violently drop into his shoes. 

​Oh no. 

​Panic spikes through his chest. She isn't about to... she wouldn't possibly... ​She isn't going to confess in front of the whole class, right?! Blyke's mind races, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead as he frantically searches for a way to let her down gently. 

​Evie swallows hard, clutching her notebook tightly against her chest, and speaks in a voice so quiet it barely carries over the hum of the classroom. 

​- Um... Blyke... is... is that true what the article said about your relationship with John? 

The words drop into the silence of the classroom like a detonating bomb. ​Blyke freezes. The calm, detached plan he had meticulously constructed just hours ago shatters into a million tiny, useless pieces, the sharp edges slicing straight through his remaining composure. 

​- Huh ? Blyke squeaks eloquently, his voice cracking in a purely teenage boy fashion on the single syllable. 

​Evie flinches, shrinking back slightly under the sudden, terrified intensity of his stare, her blush deepening into a furious crimson. 

​-  T-the article, she stammers softly, pointing a trembling finger toward a digital tablet resting on a nearby desk. In the student newspaper. The morning edition just dropped. It...  well uh... it talks about you and John. Didn't you approve it ? 

​Blyke’s heart stops dead in his chest. His blood runs instantly cold. ​The student newspaper. ​His gaze snaps away from Evie, darting wildly across the room. Several students are furiously tapping away at their screens, whispering behind their hands, while others throw looks of  shock straight at his desk. 

​Isen. 

​The name hits Blyke with the force of a freight train. Isen. That orange-haired, simiane gossiping traitor. He had looked at the hickeys, he had pieced it together, and apparently, the journalist inside him had completely overpowered his survival instinct. He published it. He actually, insanely, suicidally published it. ​Blyke’s hands begin to shake. The room seems to spin on its axis. ​Before he can even formulate a coherent thought, before he can figure out whether to run, scream, or immediately combust out of good ol' mortification, the heavy wooden door of the classroom swings open with a sharp, echoing bang. ​Every head in the room turns toward the entrance. 

​There, standing in the doorway with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and his dark eyes sweeping coldly over the paralyzed classroom, is John.John doesn’t flinch. John is late, and John tries to act as if he hadn't run across the whole campus in five minutes. ​He walks into the classroom as though the air around him isn't vibrating with a hundred terrified, judgmental stares. He is entirely used to it, the whispers, the cold shoulders, the heavy, suffocating weight of a school that hates and fears him in equal measure. It's his natural armor. With his impenetrable poker face firmly locked in place, he ignores the sea of eyes, ignores Evie shrinking back into her seat as he passes, and ignores Blyke entirely, sliding into an empty desk three rows away. He's a totally okay and normal boy.

​Blyke, on the other hand, is decomposing in his seat. ​While John sits there looking like an unbothered brick wall, Blyke feels his soul trying to separate from his mortal coil. The obliviousness of it all is infuriating. For a terrifying, unhinged second, Blyke actually finds himself missing John’s explosive temper tantrums, or, at the very least, he misses the way John used to effortlessly squeeze every ounce of bravery out of Isen just by thinking of him, because right now, Isen deserves to be launched into the sun. 

​Without even telling the people involved, Blyke rages internally, his fingers gripping the edges of his desk so hard the wood groans. The people involved being HIS BEST FRIEND. 

​An overwhelming, murderous urge to strangle the jack takes root in Blyke’s chest. ​Right on cue, his phone gives a soft, traitorous ping from inside his pocket. With trembling fingers, Blyke slides it out under the cover of his desk and cracks the screen open just enough to see a single, cowardly notification: 

​Isen: sorry bru 🙏😭

​Before Blyke can manifest a laser beam of crimson rage and incinerate his phone on the spot, the clicketing footsteps of the teacher echo from the doorway. The class scrambles in a panic, diving back into their respective seats as the lesson begins. The King spends the next hour in a shell-shocked, feverish daze.He can feel the eyes of half the classroom drilling holes into the back of his head. Nobody dares look at John, they’re all too terrified of the joker in the third row, so all the speculative, gossipy, wide-eyed staring lands squarely on Blyke. How generous. His heart thrums a frantic, terrifying rhythm against his ribs. 

​What happens now? 

How do you even fix something like this? Most importantly... what the hell did the article actually say?! 

​Blyke has never felt a fraction of this level of panic and public humiliation in his entire life. Of course, he has zero experience with romantic or public relationships to begin with, a terrifying realization that makes him want to grab fistfuls of his red hair and scream. 

​Wait. 

​There wasn’t any romance or relationship to BEGIN WITH. 

​His internal panic screeches to a sudden halt. The gears in his sleep-deprived, over-stressed brain finally click together. Fireworks explode. ​If they aren't actually dating, if there is no secret relationship, then that means Isen’s article is completely, 100% fabricated gossip! Defamation! Fiction! 

​Solid plan, Blyke. Solid plan, he tells himself with a frantic mental high-five. All he has to do is stand up, look everyone in the eye, and vehemently deny it as completelyu baseless trash. ​The utter impossibility of explaining why he has matching hickeys on both sides of his neck conveniently slides right past his logic filter. ​With a low, pathetic groan, Blyke buries his burning red face deep into his crossed arms on the desk, though it kinda seemed like his face's default state theses days.. He stays there, completely immobile, while metaphorical smoke practically fumes from his ears, praying to every known deity that the floor will simply open up and swallow him whole. Seraphina would do.

Seraphina doesn’t find out through a forum notification or a panicked text from Isen. She finds out because she walks right into the student lounge during a free period, spots a cluster of terrified upper-tiers huddled around a tablet, and snatches the screen out of their hands with zero hesitation. 

​Her cold blue eyes scan the headline :THE KING AND THE TYRANT : Tamed or Subjugated? and skim through Isen’s wildly speculative prose detailing the matching hickeys, the hallway confrontations, and the domestic tension of their shared dorm - witnessed by an anonymous  who shall receive pats on the back for their bravery in coming forward. 

​A slow, genuine smile touches the corners of Sera’s lips. ​Instead of being shocked, appalled, or disgusted by their King's taste like the rest of the school, a wave of profound, vindicated satisfaction washes over her. Finally. Those two idiots were dragging out their inevitable breakdown for months. ​Without missing a beat, Sera turns on her heel, leaves the frozen crowd of students behind, and tracks John down to the empty corner of the library where he’s sitting alone, trying to pretend he isn't entirely aware of the chaos happening outside. ​She walks right up to his table, drops her phone flat onto his textbook with a sharp thwack, and crosses her arms. ​John looks up, his dark amber eyes narrowing slightly beneath his deadpan poker face. He glances down at the screen, takes in the headline, and looks back up at her, entirely unfazed. 

​- Huh, John grunts, his voice flat. 

​That is all the invitation Sera needs. 

​- Are you actually kidding me right now? Sera starts, her voice dropping into a sharp, rapid-fire rant before John can even draw breath. You’ve been living with him for weeks, you’ve been marking up his neck like a territorial mutt,  and you didn't think to mention to your best friend that you somehow managed to pull the school’s golden boy? Do you have any idea how long I’ve watched you two stare daggers at each other while being entirely blind to the obvious sexual tension? 

​John blinks. Once. Twice. 

​He sits completely frozen in his chair, his brain stalling out mid-gear. What? 

​Sera doesn’t stop. She’s on a roll now, pacing slightly beside the table, her hands gesturing with a level of animated enthusiasm she almost never shows anyone. 

​-  Honestly? It actually makes total sense, Sera continues, her tone shifting into a bizarrely supportive analysis. Think about it. You’re chaotic, destructive, and completely unhinged half the time, and Blyke is the same but self-righteous, who literally tries to carry the weight of the entire school on his shoulders. He needs someone who doesn't tip-toe around him, and you need someone who won't break the second you push back. You balance each other out! You fit together nicely! I like it.  It’s cute, actually, and it’s frankly the healthiest thing you’ve done since you got back. I'm happy for you, and proud you managed to bag him. Didn't know you had it in you. 

​John stares at her. ​He sits there in a uncharacteristically  stunned silence, his jaw slightly slack as a wall of unstoppable word vomit washes over him. A rant about domestic balance and compatibility coming from Seraphina, the most aloof, emotionally detached girl in the entire school, is not something his heart was built to handle. 

​- Are you... John finally manages to choke out, his deadpan poker face completely shattering into a look of profound, bewildered horror. What the actual fuck are you talking ab--

He was eating rice.​The grains go down the wrong pipe instantly. ​John violently doubles over, coughing and gasping as a fit of choking seizes his chest. His face flushes a dark, frantic shade of red, his chair scraping loudly against the library floor as he desperately pounds a fist against his own sternum. ​Sera doesn't even flinch. She just calmly leans her hip against the edge of the table, crossing her arms and watching him choke with a completely serene, unbothered expression. 

​- Take your time, she says dryly, tapping a finger against her arm. But my point still stands. You two look great together. I'm happy for you, but still mad you wouldn't tell me about it. 

​John manages a ragged, desperate wheeze, clutching a hand to his throat as he glares up at her through watery eyes. The boy was too stunned to speak.

​If John’s reputation acts like an impenetrable forcefield of terror, keeping the curious masses at a safe, terrified distance, Blyke’s social standing is adeath sentence. ​He is popular. He is approachable despite his severe face. He is the people’s King, and that means that right now, that makes him public property. 

​The moment the final bell rings and Blyke steps out into the hallway, the ambush begins. It isn't a cautious whisper network anymore, but a full-scale siege. Because the article was written by Isen, the Jack, the student journalist, and famously Blyke’s inseparable best friend, nobody for a single second doubts its veracity. They aren't asking if it’s true,  they are treating it as breaking, historical fact and flocking to the source for confirmation. That is why teachers instead on citing sources. 

​ - Blyke! Are you for real ?! Him ? someone screeches

​- Are you and John actually, like, y'know, together together?! 

​- How long has this been happening?! 

​Blyke is hounded step for step, backing away down the corridor with his hands up, a permanent, horrified grimace frozen on his face as he stutters out weak, frantic denials that nobody even bothers to listen to, then, things cross from overwhelming into an entirely different dimension of psychological torture. ​The hardcore fujoshis arrive. ​They descend upon him like a pack of ecstatic wolves who have just found a healthy, fat lamb, their eyes gleaming with the manic, terrifying light of people whose wildest, most unhinged fanfiction has just been legally confirmed by the school paper. 

​- WE CALLED IT! one boy shrieks, grabbing his  friend by the shoulders and shaking her violently. I said it months ago! The enemies-to-lovers arc is always the strongest! It prevails against all romances! 

​Before Blyke can turn and sprint for the exit, they corner him against a bank of lockers, firing off a rapid-fire succession of questions so intimately invasive they make his soul want to leave his body. 

​- Okay, wait, okay, tell us, who’s the bottom and who’s the top?! a second-year blurts out, leaning in with zero shame where there should have been plenty.

​Blyke chokes on his own spit, his face igniting into a supernova of crimson. 

​- Are you out of your mind?! Hello ?! I am so not answering--

​- Are you kidding, Blyke is obviously the bottom! another fan interrupts, analyzing him up and down like a piece of prime livestock - sizing the lamb for the next bite, the thigh shall do nicely. Just look at John and look at Blyke! Look at his neck! He’s even blushing! 

​(Blyke is, indeed, unfortunately glowing like a stoplight, which instantly ruins any defense he tries to mount.) 

​- No way, a third argues, crossing her arms stubbornly. John is a softie at heart underneath all that angst, I’m sure of it. He secretly wants someone to hold him and be weak in his lover’s arms... 

​- That’d work with Arlo more, then, not Blyke, someone points out critically. Arlo totally gives gentle-top energy. 

​- Oh, so true... so John’s the top. Right? They all turn back to Blyke, blinking expectantly. 

​Standing there trapped against the lockers, surrounded by a horde of gleeful teenagers debating his sex life with the casual excitement of sports commentators, Blyke feels an overwhelming, surreal sensation take over. 

​It feels, precisely, like being hit repeatedly over the head with a clown hammer. 

​It hurts, it’s entirely improbable, it somehow seems to squeak every single time they hit him with another absurd question, and worst of all, it feels deeply unethical to hit a clown. 

​With one final, strangled noise of utter defeat, Blyke slides slowly down the locker door, burying his face in his hands as his dignity officially flatlines. ​Just as Blyke is ready to accept his fate as a permanent fixture of student gossip folklore, a familiar wave of pink light cuts sharply through the hallway crowd. 

​- Alright, that is more than enough! Scram, all of you! Shoo! 

​Remi’s voice rings out with the rare, commanding authority of a Queen on a warpath. She charges straight through the wall of onlookers, her hands raised and her expression a mix of fierce protective fury and exasperation. She glares down the hardcore romantics and curious underclassmen until, one by one, they murmur apologies, avert their eyes, and slowly begin to disperse down the corridor. ​The siege is lifted. Silence floods back into the hallway, save for the hum of the fluorescent lights. The lamb has been devoured. Only bones and blood remain. ​It is a monumental, historic moment at Wellston High School. For the first time in the institution's chaotic history, a reigning King hasn't been overthrown by a rival high-tier, a turf war, or, god forbid,  a coup. No, he has been defeated by gossip. 

​Remi lets out a long, heavy sigh, turning back to check on her best friend. 

​- You okay there, Blyke? she asks softly, kneeling down beside him. 

​She looks down at him, and a pang of genuine sympathy hits her chest. Blyke is completely spent. He has the hollow, haggard look of a man who has stared into the abyss and found it wearing a press pass and red eyes. His face had gone from the deep thermonuclear shade of crimson to the pale face of a man at Death's door. ​He isn't even thrashing or defending himself anymore. He’s just lying back against the base of the lockers, completely limp, like Odysseus floating helplessly in the middle of a vast, indifferent sea after his ship has gone down with his men. ​He was ruined. His social life was over. His dignity was ashes scattered in the wind. The damage was done, the article was public, and the entire school now possessed a deeply unwanted mental image of his personal life. ​Blyke stares blankly up at the ceiling, his eyes glazed with the peaceful emptiness of total defeat. 

​- Just let the floor swallow me, Remi, he whispers, his voice devoid of all hope. I live here now.

Remi lets out a sympathetic, albeit helpless, sigh. She pats his knee gently, well aware that no amount of royal decree or comforting words can resurrect a social standing that has just been so thoroughly and publicly obliterated. 

​- Come on, she murmurs, offering him a benevolent hand. Let's get you out of the hallway before someone asks you to confirm if John prefers briefs or boxers 

​Groaning softly, Blyke allows himself to be hoisted up, looking like a zombie staggering back from the dead. He doesn't even have the energy to care about the lingering stares tracking them as they walk away.

​Meanwhile, halfway across the school, blissfully unaware of the bloody carnage playing out in the main corridors, John is still sitting in the library. ​His head is propped in one hand, staring blankly at the open textbook in front of him, while his brain desperately tries to reboot. The word vomit Seraphina had unleashed upon him only minutes ago is still echoing in his skull like a broken record. 

​Domestic. Balance. Compatible. 

​John's eye twitches. ​He slowly lifts his head, his sand-colored eyes narrowing into a dangerous, calculating squint as the pieces finally start clicking into place. Isen didn't just write a wild, baseless rumor out of nowhere. The little rat had actually been paying attention. He had connected the dots. It was almost impressive, as Isen often was. ​And more importantly... Remi knew. Seraphina knew. The entire school knew. ​Which meant, by default, Blyke was screaming in the void somewhere in the school. 

​A slow, terrifying, and deeply conflicted expression crosses John’s face. Part of him wants to hunt Isen down and throw him out of a second-story window just for the sheer audacity of it. Another part of him feels a strange, unbidden spike of satisfaction at the thought of his name being permanently linked to the school's golden boy. The bruises were his, and so was the King.

​The remaining ninety percent of him realizes that when he and Blyke finally cross paths later today back at the dorm... ​Blyke was going to murder him.

Fuck.

The walk back to the apartment is usually a chance to decompress, but tonight, Blyke’s brain takes a wildly erratic detour. ​He considered calling in sick to life entirely, but pride, or the little Remi managed to save, keeps his feet moving. At the very least, he decides, he is the bravest King in Wellston’s history. Infinitely braver than their Jack, who has spent the entire day actively dodging both him and the Joker using his stealth ability, acting like a coward who knows he signed his own death warrant. A rat, a monkey, and a traitor. Speaking of : 

​Remi had taken pity on him, mercifully liberating him from his afternoon shift at the Safe House. But the suspicious, knowing, insane glint she gave him on her way out made it painfully clear it wasn't all charity. She was actively pushing him out the door and sending him straight back to John. 

​Traitor. They’re all traitors. 

​He had tried to stammer out an explanation earlier, throwing desperate, tangled excuses at her feet, but Remi had simply sighed with the gentle disappointment that actually felt worse than actual yelling, and said she would have preferred to find out before the entire student body did. Blyke hadn’t even bothered to argue. It was entirely hopeless, and now, she was throwing him straight into the wolf’s den, or the lion's open mouth. 

​As he trudges up the stairs, his exhausted brain spirals down a completely unhinged path: Did John fit a wolf more, or a lion? 

He’s obviously more of a lone wolf, right? Dark, mysterious, brooding, perpetually angry at the world... 

​Wait, no, wolves live in packs. They aren't actually lonely. 

​...Though so do lions. Well, prides. 

​Blyke’s intense, highly scientific rumination over John’s hypothetical apex-predator classification and/or fursona,  cuts his walk home completely in half, much to his utter dismay. ​Before he can finish debating pack hierarchies, his feet stop cold. ​He is standing right in front of the door to their dorm. The door clicks shut behind Blyke, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet apartment. ​Inside, standing by the large living room windows with his back to the entrance, is John. He doesn't turn around immediately. Instead, as the heavy silence settles over the room, he simply speaks into the glass, his voice deadpan and monotonous. 

​- Compatible, John mutters softly. "Cute" 

​He pauses, letting the ridiculous words hang in the air for a second before turning slowly around. ​He faces Blyke, wearing his best, impenetrable poker face. The redhead stares back, completely paralyzed, unable to tell whether John is ready to explode with anger or secretly dying of amusement. The truth, which Blyke doesn't know yet, is an explosive, unstable mix of both.​The King stands there, silent as a carp, his shoulders slumped and his face utterly fallen. ​For a second, the heavy air stretches between them. John’s eyes flick over Blyke’s exhausted, shell-shocked expression, and the teasing edge drops entirely. A genuine frown tugs at the corners of John’s mouth. 

​- Hey, John asks, his voice dropping into a tone of unexpected, quiet concern. Are you... are you alright? 

​That single, simple question acts like a direct lightning bolt straight to Blyke’s last remaining nerve. 

​- Alright? Blyke murmurs, his voice trembling as he stares daggers straight into John’s amber eyes. 

​His grip on his composure finally snaps. 

​- Alright?! he repeats, his voice cracking and surging in volume as all the humiliation, exhaustion, and bottled-up terror of the past twenty-four hours violently erupts. 

​He takes a harsh step forward, pointing an accusing finger right at John's chest. 

​- You! You are the fucking origin of every single one of my problems for the past few months! The hospital visits! The cracked ribs! The Safe House falling apart because everyone’s too busy gossiping about our personal lives, and now an entire front-page article because of your goddamn hickeys, right after I explicitly asked you to STOP doing that! 

​Blyke’s chest heaves with every ragged breath, John stepping back with each radiant yell, the words tumbling out in a frantic, wounded tirade. He hadn't even realized how badly he was shaking, or how close the pressure had brought him to the edge, until his voice catches sharply at the very end of his shout, cracking despite his will. ​A sudden, hot sniffle escapes him, and traitorous, burning tears blur his vision, spilling over before he can blink them away.He stands there, glaring through the watery haze, mortified that he’s actually crying in front of him. 

​To John’s defense, the raven-haired boy looks utterly blindsided. The rigid, mocking posture vanishes completely, replaced by a heavy, undeniable wave of sadness and genuine guilt. He hadn't expected this kind of explosive, heartbreaking outburst, and looking at the tears shining in Blyke's eyes, the satisfaction of the gossip turns instantly to ash in his mouth. This is no kissing-filled fight. 

The silence that follows the outburst is deafening. ​Blyke stands there, desperately scrubbing the back of his hand across his eyes to wipe away the betraying tears catching on his red eyelashes, his shoulders shaking with residual adrenaline and uncalled for shame. He expects John to snap back. He expects a defensive yell, a glare, or a sarcastic remark to put up his walls again. ​Instead, John just... kinda deflates. 

​The tense, defensive posture leaves his frame entirely. He looks down at the floor, his jaw tightening as the full weight of Blyke’s words settles heavily between them. The guilt is written plainly across his face, stark and unfiltered. He knows every single point Blyke hit was completely, painfully true. 

​- I... John starts, his voice rough and uncharacteristically quiet, cutting off before he can even finish the thought. 

​He runs a hand through his dark hair, looking away toward the window as if trying to find the right words in the empty air. When he looks back, his eyes are heavy, devoid of any mockery or armor. 

​- Look, um...John mutters, taking a slow step forward, his hands raised palms-up in a helpless, disarming gesture. I didn't... I didn't think Isen would publish anything like that, a-and, uh,  I know I crossed a line with... everything else. I-uh...  I messed up. 

​He swallows hard, his expression tightening. 

​- I often do. I’m sorry, Blyke. I didn't mean to make your life a living hell. Again. Shit. 

​The sincerity in his voice hits Blyke almost as hard as the shouting match did, draining the last stubborn drops of fight out of him. He lets out a shaky, miserable sigh, dropping his arms to his sides as he glares at the floor, still furious, still entirely overwhelmed, but suddenly too exhausted to keep screaming. The anger drains out of the room, leaving behind only the aching exhaustion of a day that broke him completely. ​Blyke stands there, trembling from head to foot, hot tears tracking down a face that is still burning red. He hates that he’s crying. He hates that he’s standing here in front of... whatever the hell John is to him, his rival, his tormentor, his roommate, his accidental partner in the school’s most humiliating scandal, falling apart like a child. He just wants someone to look at him and not demand details about his private life, not poke fun, not ask him invasive, humiliating questions about what they do behind closed doors, not look at him as if they knew everything. He just wants to be a person again, at least in the safety of their dorm. Beneath the panic, beneath the humiliation and the exhaustion, the most terrifying truth of all rears its head. 

​Despite everything, despite the hospital visits, the yelling, the toxic impossibility of their dynamic, right now, Blyke doesn't want space. He doesn't want to be alone. ​More than anything in the world, he wants John’s arms wrapped tightly around him. He wants the steady, solid weight of him, and that baritone, rough voice murmuring quiet, grounding things right against his ear where nobody else can hear. That's weird. ​Blyke’s shoulders hitch. He lowers his head, squeezing his eyes shut as a fresh wave of tears spills over, and with a voice so small and broken it barely carries across the quiet room, he whispers: 

​- Hold me? Please ?

For a second, the quiet in the room scares him. The dorm feels unsafe.​John freezes. For all his preparation for anger, for shouting, for Blyke trying to physically throw him out of the apartment or put him through the drywall, he hadn't prepared for this. He had expected a slammed door, not this vulnerability, especially not from Blyke of all people. That tiny voice shatters whatever remaining hesitation John has left, and he crosses the distance between them in two long, decisive strides. There’s no hesitation now, no defensive posture, no sarcasm to hide behind. John reaches out and pulls Blyke straight into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around the redhead's trembling frame and holding him as if trying to shield him from the rest of the world. ​Blyke lets out a ragged, shuddering breath. The second he feels the solid, familiar warmth of John surrounding him, the last of his artificial walls crumble entirely. He buries his face directly into the crook of John’s neck, his hands gripping tightly onto the fabric of John's shirt as he lets out all the pent-up exhaustion, tears soaking right into the collar. 

​John doesn’t say anything right away. He simply holds him tighter, one hand coming up to press firmly against the back of Blyke’s head, pulling him closer, while his other arm wraps securely around his chest to anchor him against the floor. ​Slowly, deliberately, John lowers his chin until it rests near Blyke's ear, his rough voice dropping to a low, steady murmur meant only for him. 

​- I've got you, John whispers, the harsh edges of his usual tone smoothed away completely. I've got you, Blyke. I'm so, so sorry. 

There it is. The safety. There are no fujoshis, no whispering students, no front-page articles, no rats, no knowing smirks, and no royal expectations to live up to. For right now, in the quiet hum of the apartment, it's just the two of them, and slowly, as John’s hands rub steady, soothing circles into his back, tracing one vertebrae after the other, the frantic racing of Blyke’s heart finally begins to slow down. He lets out a soft, ragged sigh, his body going lax against John’s chest. He nuzzles deeper into the warm, solid curve of John’s neck, basking in the heavy, secure weight of his arms. It’s warm. For a few moments, the chaos of the day fades into nothingness. ​Then, Blyke blinks, his eyes fluttering open against the dark fabric of John’s shirt. His gaze drifts upward, landing directly on the pale, unblemished column of skin right in front of him. 

​The temptation is instantaneous, scandalous, yet obvious. ​He hesitates for exactly one millisecond, just long enough for a wicked, vindictive little spark of payback to flash through his tired brain, or actually just for the processing time of it, his lips collide squarely against John’s throat. ​Without warning, Blyke sinks his teeth in slightly and starts sucking hard. John violently buckles, his entire frame jolting as he is completely jumpscared by the sudden, aggressive ambush on his neck. A sharp, breathless whine tears straight out of his throat, the sudden rush of friction and sensitive stimulation hitting him like an electric shock. It’s entirely unexpected, wildly overwhelming, and, to his utter horror, incredibly good. 

​Blyke doesn't let up. He alternates between hot, deliberate licking, soft parting kisses, and fierce, bruising sucks, even adding a sharp nip of his teeth to coax the sensitive flesh into a rising, angry purple bloom. John's skin might be harder to bruise,  but it didn't have Blyke's healing abilities. 

​An eye for an eye, Blyke thinks viciously against John’s skin, a triumphant smirk pressing into the pulse point as he claims his territory. A bruised neck for a bruised neck. 

The morning sun rises over Wellston High School, casting a bright, unforgiving light across the courtyard, and right onto the throat of the school's most feared delinquent. 

​John walks through the front gates with his hands shoved casually into his pockets, his chin held high, and an expression of supreme, unbothered arrogance plastered across his face. He isn't hiding a damn thing. In fact, right there, displayed in vibrant, unmistakable purple across both sides of his throat, are matching, hard-earned hickeys that match Blyke's word-for-word, rumor-for-rumor. 

​The courtyard practically grinds to a halt. ​Whispers erupt like wildfire. Necks crane, phones snap up for secret photos, and the collective student body loses its quite simple mind. ​The all-knowing fujoshis nearly pass out on the spot, clutching their chests and swooning in unison as they realize the rumors weren't just true, they had escalated into a full-scale, public power couple dynamic. 

​Blyke’s intense, soul-crushing pain and humiliation from yesterday have officially been transferred onto John’s shoulders. The torch has been passed. A new lamb had appeared. 

Yet, the most baffling part of the entire spectacle is what happens next : ​Instead of fleeing in terror, which is the universal, biologically sound reaction to walking anywhere near the Joker, a group of brave, scandal-obsessed students actually approach him. ​John stops in his tracks, his amber eyes narrowing dangerously as a couple of upper-classmen step into his path, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and manic, unadulterated curiosity. He doesn't know what's coming towards him.

​- Uh... Jo-John? one of them stammers, his voice cracking slightly as he glances pointedly at John's neck. 

​John raises a single, challenging eyebrow. 

​- Yeah ? his voice laced with his usual lethal warning. 

​-  Right, uh! The student blurts out, leaning in close enough to risk a broken limb. We just... so like...  we had a bet going in the second-year hall. Is it true that you’re the ,well, you know, the submissive one in the dynamic, or was Isen's article exaggerating- no because... ah... 

​The courtyard falls into a pin-drop silence. ​John stares at the student, his brain completely short-circuiting as the absurdity of the question crashes over him. For a split second, the Joker, the terrifying tyrant of Wellston, the man who overthrew the entire royal hierarchy, is utterly, speechlessly baffled, his jaw opened. He had never look this young. 

​How weird, John thinks, a vein starting to throb violently in his temple as he realizes he is now expected to defend his honor against hallway gossip, how weird these people are.  

​He cracks his knuckles. That lamb has fangs. 

There's a wolf in sheep's clothing.