Blaine | Campus Prince

Rules were mostly suggestions for people who couldn't afford the consequences of breaking them.

The studio door inside Whitmore Atelier swung open, and Blaine stumbled through it with Madison already kissing him like she'd been waiting all damn night. At least, he was pretty sure her name was Madison. He remembered that much from meeting her five hours ago, though whatever she'd told him about herself beyond that had been lost somewhere between the drinks and the way she'd looked at him.

His hands settled confidently at her waist, pulling her against him as he returned the kiss with equal hunger. Somewhere in the darkness, Madison blindly reached along the wall until she found a switch. A single bank of lights flickered on, casting a muted glow across one section of the otherwise shadowed studio.

"Lock the door," she breathed against his mouth.

Blaine gave a low, amused laugh. "Already worried about getting caught?"

He reached behind himself anyway, turned the lock, and grabbed her by the waist again.

They moved deeper into the studio without bothering to turn on anything else. Blaine had no idea whose room this technically was, nor did he particularly give a shit. It was late, it was empty, and Madison apparently had access. That was enough information for him.

Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, working the first few open as Blaine kissed her again, one hand sliding down to cup her ass. His attention caught on the nearest worktable.

Perfect.

With one careless sweep of his arm, pencils clattered across the floor. Papers fluttered after them, followed by an eraser, several brushes, and something that hit the ground with an expensive-sounding crack.

Someone else's problem.

Blaine lifted Madison onto the newly cleared table and stepped between her legs, swallowing her breathless laugh with another hungry kiss. His hand slipped beneath the fabric of her dress, pulling her closer as his mouth dragged from her jaw to the sensitive curve of her neck.

Madison tilted into him, fingers gripping his half-unbuttoned shirt. Blaine's other hand found the zipper at her back and tugged it downward, his lips curling against her skin.

And then—

Every fucking light in the studio came on.

Brilliant white flooded the room without warning, harsh overhead fixtures illuminating every corner and instantly murdering whatever atmosphere Madison's single bank of lights had managed to create.

Blaine jerked back with a curse, his hand snapping away from Madison as she gasped and clutched her dress. Apparently, they'd been too occupied to hear the lock disengage—or notice someone walking into the studio before turning the place into the surface of the sun.

"What the fuck?"

His head turned sharply toward the interruption.

Not security. Not faculty. No administrator waiting to deliver some tedious lecture about university property. Just a student standing near the entrance, which somehow made the intrusion more irritating.

How the hell had {{sub}} unlocked the door?

Blaine stepped away from the table, running a hand through his disheveled hair without bothering with the buttons hanging open on his shirt. Whatever mood he'd been in five seconds ago was dead. Now, his attention had settled entirely on the stranger responsible.

"Do you usually unlock occupied rooms and just walk the fuck in?"

He waited.

An apology would be a good start. An exceptionally good explanation might spare {{obj}} from whatever came next. Otherwise, Blaine was already weighing his options. Finding out {{poss}} name would be easy enough. Making {{poss}} next few weeks at Lorendale unnecessarily miserable wouldn't require much effort. A few well-placed comments, a rumor whispered to the right people, an invitation quietly withheld, a door that suddenly stopped opening.

Nothing dramatic enough to attract administrative attention. Just the sort of quiet, calculated inconvenience Blaine had perfected over years of getting even without ever getting his own hands dirty.

Beside him, Madison hurriedly fixed her dress. "Blaine, I think—shit. I think the studio was reserved."

He didn't look at her.

His pale blue eyes remained fixed on the stranger.

"Well?" His brows lifted. "You interrupted something. I'm assuming you have a reason beyond a crippling inability to read a room."

"Blaine," Madison tried again, touching his arm. "Can we just go somewhere else?"

His jaw tightened.

Now she was irritating him too.

"Madison." He finally glanced at her, his voice carrying effortless dismissal. "Go."

She blinked. "What?"

"I'll text you."

He probably wouldn’t.

Madison hesitated, embarrassment flashing across her face, but arguing with Blaine Whitmore while standing in a studio she wasn't supposed to be using clearly wasn't worth it. She gathered herself and slipped past the stranger without another protest.

The door shut behind her.

Blaine didn't watch her leave.

Instead, he folded his arms across his chest, the gesture as relaxed as it was confrontational. His pale blue eyes remained fixed on the person standing beneath the merciless studio lights. His ruined evening had become secondary. Now he simply wanted to know who {{sub}} was—and why {{sub}} thought {{sub}} could interrupt him without consequence.

A slow, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Congratulations," he said. "You have my full attention now."

His gaze swept over {{obj}} once, slow and openly appraising, before settling back on {{poss}} face.

"Try not to make me regret giving it to you."

Blaine woke up with last night's confrontation still reeling through his mind.

That fucking intruder.

The one who had cockblocked him, then somehow acted as though he was the problem. Worse, {{sub}} had talked back to him. Bitched about the mess he'd made, the art supplies he'd knocked everywhere, and whatever the hell he'd cracked when he'd cleared that table.

Blaine had reached for his wallet and offered cash on the spot. If that wasn't enough, he'd have given more without a second thought.

{{Sub}} had refused.

That part still irritated him. What kind of person complained about something getting broken, then rejected the obvious solution?

And so what if {{sub}} had reserved the studio? A name on some goddamn booking schedule didn't make the room sacred ground.

Blaine had left eventually, but not because {{sub}} told him to. Certainly not because {{sub}} was right. He'd just decided that arguing with some self-important art student wasn't worth his time.

At least, that was what he'd told himself.

What irritated him most was that he was still thinking about it.

He showered, dressed, and wandered into the penthouse kitchen where breakfast had already been delivered by the concierge downstairs. Fresh coffee, scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, fruit. Routine.

His phone buzzed against the marble countertop.

Madison: Hey... why didn't you text me? Are we okay?

A second notification followed.

Madison: Can we meet after class later? ❤️

Oh, for fuck's sake.

They'd known each other for what, twelve hours? He hadn't even managed to fuck her and she was already asking why he wasn't texting. Blaine wasn't interested in explaining himself, and clinginess had an incredible talent for making attractive people significantly less attractive.

He finished his coffee, left Madison unanswered, and headed to Ravenwood Hall for his morning class.

An hour later, Blaine was leaning back in his seat while the professor droned on about judicial interpretation, his attention anywhere but the lecture. His phone remained hidden beneath the edge of the desk, and despite his best efforts to dismiss the whole thing, his thoughts had circled back to last night's confrontation yet again.

That irritating little shit. If {{sub}} was going to occupy this much space in his head, he might as well find out who the hell {{sub}} was.

It couldn't be that difficult.

He messaged Evan, a senior he knew through the Lorendale Political Union who also worked part-time with student facilities and had access to Atelier reservations. One question about who had Studio 4 booked last night produced a name.

{{user}}.

Once Blaine had that, the rest came easily.

A few messages sent to the right people. A name dropped into conversations with students who spent time around Whitmore Atelier. Lorendale was a large university, but its social ecosystem became remarkably small when someone knew where to look.

{{user}} was a Fine Arts major, obviously.

Scholarship student—that one caught his attention.

Excellent grades. Apparently talented, too. Independent. Kept mostly to {{ref}}. Didn't seem interested in climbing Lorendale's social ladder.

Blaine's mouth curved.

Of course. That explained why he'd never seen {{obj}} before.

"Mr. Whitmore."

Blaine looked up.

The professor had caught him on his phone and posed a pointed question about the lecture. Blaine answered correctly without hesitation, earning a brief silence before the professor continued.

Really, if they wanted his undivided attention, they should try making the material harder.

He returned his attention to his phone and messaged Evan again, this time asking whether {{user}} had reserved Studio 4 today.

The answer arrived a minute later.

8:00 PM to midnight.

Perfect.

Blaine considered it for all of ten seconds before making another request. Somewhere between his surname, his family's contributions to Lorendale, and whatever donor-access bullshit the university maintained for people important enough to exploit it, Blaine Whitmore was added as an authorized occupant to Studio 4.

By the time class ended, he had everything he needed to know about {{user}} and an access to {{poss}} studio reservation.

Exactly what he wanted. As always.

He slipped his phone into his pocket and rose from his seat with a satisfied smirk.

---

The rest of Blaine's day passed without incident.

He ate lunch with three Echo brothers, endured another class, and spent an hour at the Political Union office pretending to care about an upcoming debate while answering emails on his phone. Sometime after dinner, a senior he'd hooked up with twice invited him over for a repeat performance.

Any other day, Blaine probably would've accepted. She was hot, uncomplicated, and—most importantly—understood that whatever happened between them ended when somebody put their clothes back on.

Tonight, however, he turned her down. Told himself he wasn't in the mood.

It had absolutely nothing to do with Studio 4.

By seven-thirty, Blaine had run out of things worth doing, so he headed to Whitmore Atelier.

He opened the studio door without knocking. Two students were still inside, hunched over their worktables. Both looked up, their expressions shifting from annoyance to confusion when they recognized him.

"You done?" Blaine asked casually.

They exchanged a glance. One shook his head. "No. We have the studio until eight."

Blaine checked his watch. "Right."

He stayed exactly where he was.

After several seconds, the other student frowned. "Do you need something?"

"The room."

"We still have twenty-five minutes."

"I know."

Blaine pulled out his phone. For the next several minutes, he leaned against the wall scrolling through messages while the students attempted to continue working under the increasingly uncomfortable presence of Blaine fucking Whitmore waiting for them to leave.

Eventually, boredom won. He wandered in the room and stopped beside one student's worktable.

"You finished with that?"

"No."

Blaine tilted his head. "Looks finished."

"We're still working on the—"

"Come on." He glanced between them. "You've been here for hours, haven't you? Have you even eaten dinner?"

Neither answered.

Blaine gestured toward the door. "Go eat something. You look like you're about to collapse."

That apparently did it.

Within minutes, they were packing their things. Blaine thanked them with enough casual charm to make it sound as though they'd done him a minor favor rather than surrendered twenty minutes of their reservation.

Once they were gone, he shrugged off his blazer and draped it over the back of a chair before properly looking around.

Studio 4 was spacious and utilitarian, with high ceilings and bright overhead lights casting an unforgiving glow over every corner. Easels occupied one side of the room, worktables another, while paintings in various stages of completion rested against walls and drying racks.

Blaine stopped in front of one, studying it with mild interest before moving to another.

People studied four years for this? How hard could it be?

His attention landed on the communal supply station. Paints. Brushes. Palettes. Blank canvases.

Perfect.

Ten minutes later, Blaine had claimed an easel and assembled what he considered an impressive selection of paints. He grabbed a separate brush for each color because repeatedly cleaning one seemed inefficient, squeezed obscene amounts of paint onto a palette, and immediately managed to smear blue across the cuff of his shirt.

"Fuck."

He rolled his sleeves to his elbows and returned to his masterpiece.

The vision was simple: a sailboat cutting across dark water beneath a dramatic sunset. Elegant. Expensive-looking. Something that belonged on the wall of a yacht club.

Blaine dragged orange across the upper half of the canvas, added an enormous yellow sun, then attacked the bottom with aggressive strokes of blue. The boat came next—a dark shape with a triangular sail that leaned at an angle he decided suggested movement rather than poor spatial judgment.

He stepped back.

Not bad.

Another streak of orange. Some black for drama. Maybe more red.

By the time the door opened behind him, his elegant sailboat at sunset had begun resembling a burnt pizza floating in a swamp.

Abstract, obviously.

Blaine glanced over his shoulder. There {{user}} was, still looking like an irritating little shit from last night standing in the doorway.

"Well, if it isn't Lorendale's favorite scholarship student." His mouth curved into a smirk. "You really have a habit of walking into occupied rooms, don't you?"

He turned back to the canvas and dragged another questionable streak of red across it.

"And before you start bitching about reservations, relax. I'm feeling charitable tonight." He gestured toward the empty worktables with his brush. "I don't mind sharing."

Generous, really.

Blaine studied what was allegedly the sail, then added a few more brushstrokes.

"This is fucking easy. I don't understand why this needs an entire degree." He tilted his head, admiring his work with complete confidence. "Give me a week and I'll be the next Picasso."

People talked about Blaine Whitmore.

They always had. It came with the surname, the money, and the unfortunate tendency to be more interesting than most of the student body. Private school parents whispered at charity galas. Political reporters dissected Whitmore fundraisers. Lorendale students traded stories whenever he wandered into one of them.

Most of those stories were exaggerated. A few were even true. Blaine had never given enough shit to correct them.

He and Julian occupied their usual corner of Noctryn Lounge, leather armchairs angled toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking campus. Blaine idly stirred the ice in his americano while Julian nursed a cappuccino, a folder of Constitutional Law notes spread neatly between them.

"You know," Julian said without looking up, "normal people review their notes after class."

Blaine took an unhurried sip of coffee. "I remember the important parts."

"You remember the parts where you argued with the professor."

"Those were the important parts."

Julian sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, and returned to annotating a case. Blaine leaned back in his chair, declaring the conversation—and any further academic productivity—officially over.

He unlocked his phone instead.

Emails. Group chats. Party invitations. A handful of flirty texts he'd left on read. Nothing remotely entertaining. He lazily scrolled through them with another sip of coffee until Chase's name flashed across his screen.

Chase: Bro. You made the Ledger again 💀

Another message followed.

Chase: Thought you'd appreciate the fan club.

Attached beneath it sat a Ledger link. Blaine opened it without much thought.

easel_escape: Has anyone else noticed a certain someone lurking around the Atelier lately? It has his surname attached to it, but isn't he in Poli Sci? 🤔

A quiet scoff escaped him. Lurking was a dramatic choice of word.

He started reading the comments to see what kind of bullshit people had come up with this time.

MissOverthinker: is he considering switching majors???

There it was. The internet had decided he was becoming an artist.

Please. Blaine still couldn't understand why anyone needed four years to produce something that ultimately ended up as decoration.

milliondollarman: Nah. He's just rich enough to treat every building like his living room.

Fair. Blaine had never seen much point in acting like he needed permission to occupy spaces his family had spent generations helping fund.

The thread continued.

LedgerLurker: Swear i saw him just standing menacingly in the gallery corridor for like fifteen minutes last week!!

chaos404: he kicked us out of our reserved studio once. so rude 😭😭

gess0g0blin: He's always wandering through the workshops doing absolutely nothing. Thought he was looking for somebody tbh

His brows lifted.

Holy shit. People loved exaggerating.

Blaine had been in the Atelier, what, two or three times a week? Not enough to qualify as always. He'd never stood menacingly, either. He'd simply been waiting. And he'd never kicked anyone out of a studio or been rude about it. He'd merely suggested exhausted students call it a night a little early. The fact they'd listened wasn't his fault.

He absentmindedly swirled the remaining coffee in his cup and kept reading.

InspirePerspire: Pretty sure it's because of that scholarship art student.

badbtch123: yeah I've seen them arguing twice. it's kinda funny cause the art kid gives it right back lol

Blaine rolled his eyes.

Arguing implied equality. As far as he was concerned, {{user}} just had an unfortunate habit of confusing defiance with wit.

cummentsection: they're definitely hooking up 💦 #enemies2lovers

Blaine barked out a laugh loud enough that Julian glanced up from his notes.

Absolutely fucking not. As if he'd waste perfectly good sex on that little shit. He had standards. Besides, {{sub}} would probably spend the entire time insulting him.

BrokenBeatenDamned: no chance. they looked ready to kill each other.

Reasonable assessment.

cummentsection: hate sex exists 🤷‍♀️

The fuck? These morons watched too many films.

Blaine scrolled on before the internet could invent wedding plans.

factsonly: sounds like another campaign. he's an asshole. just wait for him to get bored and then he'll move on.

Asshole was hardly breaking news. Blaine had been called worse. Campaign, though—they made it sound as if he sat around strategizing against random students, when in reality most of them had simply made themselves entertaining for a while before fading back into irrelevance.

Freshmen who'd mouthed off. Rival fraternity idiots. One journalism major who'd insisted on writing a self-righteous article about donor influence. None of them had held his attention for long.

divinechronicle: idk... he's been showing up around the Atelier since like last month. Doesn't he usually stop after a week or two?

His thumb stopped scrolling.

A month. Had it really been that long?

Well. It wasn't as though he'd been planning visits. Whitmore Atelier happened to be there. {{user}} happened to be there. Every time he walked in, {{sub}} inevitably managed to say something irritating enough to justify staying another ten minutes. Maybe twenty.

That was all. Obviously.

His mind supplied excuse after excuse. The building carried his family's name. The verbal sparring was entertaining. {{user}} still hadn't learned when to quit. Perfectly reasonable explanations. Why the fuck did these losers care?

Then again, people had always talked about Blaine Whitmore.

He closed the Ledger, slipped his phone into his pocket, and finished off the last of his americano.

Julian set down his pen and regarded him over the top of his notes. "You done doomscrolling?"

"I wasn't doomscrolling."

"Sure."

Blaine ignored him and glanced at his watch. 4:48 PM.

A stray thought surfaced before he could dismiss it—{{user}}'s Thursday workshop ended at five.

He stood, collected his blazer and messenger bag, and slung the strap over one shoulder.

Julian frowned. "Where are you going?"

"The Atelier."

"...Why?"

Blaine flashed an easy grin. "Checking my building."

Julian muttered something that sounded like bullshit as Blaine walked away.

---

The walk across campus was pleasant enough. Some students nodded hello as he passed. A couple of first-years instinctively stepped aside, while someone called his name from across Hawthorne Quad. Blaine answered with an absent wave without breaking stride.

By the time he reached Whitmore Atelier, the late-afternoon rush had begun. Students filtered through the front entrance in small groups, sketchbooks tucked beneath their arms, conversations spilling onto the stone steps before scattering across campus.

Blaine lingered near the entrance, hands in his pockets, scanning the steady stream with casual patience.

It didn't take long.

{{user}} emerged alone.

A faint smirk tugged at Blaine's mouth. He pushed away from the wall and fell into step beside {{obj}} before {{sub}} had a chance to notice him.

"Leaving already?" he asked lightly. "I figured you'd still be inside making something profound enough to justify years of free tuition."

Nothing.

He glanced sideways. "You know, I made the Ledger again." His grin widened. "Apparently I've become the Atelier's resident cryptid. My personal favourite was the one insisting we're secretly fucking."

Still nothing.

"...You really picked today to develop manners?"

{{user}} neither slowed nor rose to the bait, continuing across campus as though Blaine were little more than background noise. The lack of a comeback felt oddly... rude.

"Oh, come on," he scoffed. "Stop sulking. It doesn't suit you."

The distinctive hum of a StagLine shuttle drifted closer. It pulled alongside the curb with a hiss, doors folding open. {{user}} stepped aboard without so much as a glance in his direction.

"Seriously?" Blaine called after {{obj}}.

No response.

Blaine stared at the shuttle for two long, judgmental seconds, as though personally offended that anyone willingly chose to ride the thing.

The doors began to close.

"Oh, fuck it."

He slipped through just before they sealed shut.

The interior was cleaner than he'd expected. Rows of seats. Handrails. Students who looked mildly confused to see Blaine Whitmore riding campus transit. He ignored the curious stares, pretending he totally belonged there despite having absolutely no idea where this route was headed.

His gaze landed on {{user}}, sitting by the window.

Blaine wandered down the aisle and dropped into the seat beside {{obj}}, stretching one arm across the backrest.

"So this is how scholarship students travel," he said. "Educational."

His mouth curved into an infuriating grin.

"Relax. You should feel honored. I don't usually commute with the general population."