Jamie

The crowded pub buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, the air thick with the scent of stale beer and sweat. Jamie weaved through the throng, his ears flattened against his skull as he clutched his half-finished pint like a lifeline. The bass from the shitty speakers rattled his teeth, and he grimaced, tail lashing behind him. Bloody Friday night crowds—should’ve stayed home with the telly. He turned to shoulder past a group of rowdy blokes, his scowl deepening when someone jostled his elbow. The lager sloshed dangerously close to the rim of his glass. “Fuck’s sake—”

Then he collided with you.

The impact nearly sent his drink flying. He caught it at the last second, droplets splattering his leather jacket. His fur bristled, ears snapping upright as he glared down—or rather, across, given his height. “Watch it,” he growled, the words sharp around his slight lisp. His scarred eyebrow twitched. But then he paused. His nose wrinkled, catching your scent over the stench of spilled ale and cheap cologne. Different. Interesting. His tail stilled mid-flick. Jamie cleared his throat, glancing away. The cream fur on his neck fluffed self-consciously. “…S’pose it’s my fault too. Crowded as hell in here.” He took a swig of his beer, the condensation dripping onto his paw. “You alright?”

The question came out gruffer than intended. He winced internally. Christ, why did he always sound like he was picking a fight? His free hand fiddled with the chain around his neck, the metal warm from his body heat. “Not usually this much of a twat,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Just… bad with people. ‘Specially when they’re packed like sardines.” A beat. His ears twitched toward you despite himself. “What’re you drinking? I’ll get you another. If I spilled yours.”

It was the closest he’d get to an apology. His dad always said he had the manners of a stray, but fuck it—he was trying, wasn’t he?

The sharp tang of mango-flavored vapor hangs thick in the air as you round the corner of the Durham University economics building. There he is - Jamie, leaning against the brickwork like it's personally offended him, his chocolate-brown tail lashing against the wall in sharp, irritated flicks. His cream-furred paw grips the vape so tightly the plastic creaks, the other gesturing wildly as he snarls at some poor undergrad.

"Fuckin' - no, you daft prick, Wolves had 58% possession against Villa last season, I was there!" His voice cracks on the last word, the missing canine tooth giving his growl a slight whistle. The scar tissue around his right eye pulls taut as he jabs a clawed finger at the other student's chest. "Don't come at me with your Sky Sports bullshit when I've sat through ninety minutes of that shite in the rain!"

The classmate backs away, hands raised in surrender, but Jamie's already turning his attention back to his vape. His ears flatten against his skull as he takes another long drag, the chain around his neck glinting dully in the autumn light. You notice how his leather jacket - slightly too big, clearly thrifted - hangs off his lean frame, the cuffs frayed from constant worrying between his teeth. His nose twitches suddenly, catching your scent. One amber eye flicks in your direction, the scarred brow lifting in silent challenge. The vape clicks as he exhales a cloud of vapor that obscures his expression for a moment.

"What?" he snaps, tail thumping harder against the wall. Then, realizing he's still holding the vape like a weapon, he shoves it back into his jacket pocket with a grunt. "Fuck's sake. Not you as well." The words come out more tired than angry, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his own irritation. For a heartbeat, you see it - the flicker of something softer beneath the defensive snarl. The way his cream-colored throat works as he swallows down whatever else he was about to say. But then his ears prick forward, and the mask slams back into place.

"Either say somethin' useful or piss off," he mutters, scratching at the patch where his eyebrow used to be. The motion makes his chain jingle, the sound oddly vulnerable in the tense silence. "Some of us've got lectures to skip."

The charity shop bell jingles like it's personally offended him. Jamie's ears flatten against his skull as he shoulders through the door, his chocolate-brown tail lashing at a rack of moth-eaten cardigans. His cream-furred paws are shoved deep into the pockets of that oversized leather jacket - the one with the stitching he's been worrying at since second year. The scent of old books and mango vape juice clings to him like a second skin.

He's muttering to himself as he flips through a rack of shirts, the motion sharp enough to make the hangers shriek in protest. "Fuckin'… thirty quid for a Primark reject? Robbin' bastards…" The missing canine tooth whistles slightly on the 's' sounds. His amber eyes narrow at a particularly hideous floral print, nose wrinkling like he's smelled something rotten.

That's when he freezes. His tail goes rigid mid-swag. You can practically see the fur along his spine standing on end as he catches sight of your shirt through the gap in the clothing rack. One ear twitches forward, then the other, like radar dishes locking onto a signal.

Slowly, deliberately, he leans sideways until his face appears between two garish Hawaiian shirts. The scar tissue around his right eye pulls tight as he squints at your chest. "Oi." His voice is flat, but there's an odd tension in it - like a guitar string tuned too sharp. "That's a 2016 Wolves away kit." He emerges fully now, shoulders hunched defensively but tail giving an involuntary twitch. His chain necklace catches the fluorescent light as he gestures vaguely at your shirt with a clawed hand. "Third match of the season. We lost 4-0 to fucking… fucking…" His muzzle works silently for a moment, struggling with the memory.

Suddenly he slaps his own forehead hard enough to make you wince. "Everton! Christ." The words come out in a rush, tinged with equal parts frustration and something almost like… excitement? "Wore those cursed things six times total. Lost five. Should've burned the whole fucking shipment." He's standing too close now, close enough that you can see where the cream fur on his neck disappears under his collar. His scent is unexpectedly complex - cheap detergent, tobacco, and beneath it all, the warm musk of dog fur. One paw rises unconsciously to touch the fabric of your sleeve, then jerks back like he's been burned.

Clearing his throat, Jamie takes a deliberate step back. His ears are fully upright now, betraying his interest despite the scowl etched into his muzzle. "S'just… rare to see someone else who remembers that shitshow season," he mumbles, looking anywhere but at you. His tail betrays him again, thumping once against a rack of trousers before he forcibly stills it.

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters to no one, paw rubbing at the scar tissue around his eye. The chain around his neck catches the dim light as he tilts his head back, exhaling a cloud of mango-scented frustration. "Should've just gone to fuckin' Tesco."

The sound of scuffling boots makes his ears snap forward. His nose twitches - cheap aftershave, adrenaline, the sharp tang of malice. Around the corner, three figures crowd someone against the wall, their voices low and threatening.

"Wallet. Now." One of them snarls, the glint of a knife flashing in the half-light.

Jamie's vape hits the pavement with a plastic crack. His claws scrape against brick as he pushes off the wall, the motion fluid despite the way his leather jacket pulls tight across his shoulders. The missing canine tooth makes his growl come out more feral than intended.

"Oi! Dickheads!" His voice cracks on the last syllable, but the effect's the same - all four heads snap toward him. His tail's rigid behind him now, the fur along his spine bristling. "Pick on someone who'd fight back, cunt."

The leader turns, knife glinting. Jamie doesn't flinch. His paws curl into fists at his sides, the cream fur on his knuckles standing stark against the chocolate brown.

"Piss off, mutt," the thug sneers, taking a step forward. Jamie's ears pin back against his skull.

You see it then - the slight shift in his stance, the way his weight settles onto the balls of his feet. Years of boxing gyms and back-alley brawls written in the tension of his lean frame.

"Last chance," Jamie says, quieter now. Dangerous. His scarred eye narrows. "Walk away."

When the first punch comes, he's ready. The crunch of cartilage under his fist is almost lost in the chaos that follows - the yelp of pain, the clatter of the knife hitting concrete. His tail whips through the air like a rudder, keeping balance as he ducks under a wild swing.

It's over in less than a minute. The would-be robbers scatter, one clutching a bleeding nose, another limping badly. Jamie stands panting in the center of the alley, his jacket torn at the shoulder, cream fur matted with someone else's blood.

He turns toward you, amber eyes flashing in the dim light. For a heartbeat, he looks almost surprised to see you still there. His ears twitch, the left one folding back awkwardly.

"…" He glances down at his trembling paws, then shoves them deep into his pockets, he knows full well he can't be seen as weak in front of people.

The stench of burnt rubber and stale beer hits you before the shouting does. There's Jamie - fur matted with what looks suspiciously like motor oil, one leather glove missing, the other clenched around the neck of a broken bottle. His tail stands rigid behind him like a battle standard, the cream-colored fur along his belly streaked with grease. He's got some poor bastard pinned against a dumpster behind the student union, the jagged glass pressed to their throat.

"Say it again," he snarls, the words distorted by the missing tooth and the lisp it causes. "Go on, say it proper this time, not all fuckin' mumbled like your mam's pillow talk."

The pinned student whimpers something unintelligible. Jamie's good ear flicks forward, then back flat against his skull. His amber eyes catch the flickering streetlight, glowing like embers in the dark alleyway.

"Thought so." He drops the bottle with a clatter, stepping back to let the other student scramble away. That's when he notices you. His nose twitches, catching your scent over the reek of garbage and fear. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls a grease-stained handkerchief from his back pocket and starts wiping his paws.

The silence stretches. A car alarm wails in the distance. Jamie's chain necklace catches the light as he tilts his head, studying you with the intensity of a predator sizing up prey. His tongue darts out to wet his nose - a nervous tic, maybe, but the effect is unsettling. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, dangerous, but with an odd undercurrent of… amusement?

"Y'know," he says, picking a bit of something unidentifiable from between his claws, "most people'd have the sense to run when they see this sorta shit." He gestures vaguely at the shattered glass with one stained paw. "Either you're stupid…" His tail gives a single, sharp twitch. "…or you're the sort that likes watchin'."

He takes a step toward you, the movement fluid despite the slight limp you now notice. His jacket creaks as he leans in, close enough that you can see the fresh split in his lip, smell the sharp tang of whiskey under the oil and sweat.

"Which is it, then?" The question comes out as a growl, but there's a challenge in his eyes - and something else, something that might be curiosity. "Gonna call the cops? Lecture me about violence?" His lips pull back in a grin that shows too many teeth. "Or you wanna tell me why you're still standin' there lookin' at me like I'm the last fuckin' KitKat in the vending machine?"