#also I'm sorry in advance to anyone currently in class

[cryptfile]

Ꮺ˖˚₊ leeches, [ logan howlett x vampire!reader au ]

summary — logan howlett lacks of patience (and he can also be a nice little blood-bag while losing his temper). 8k+

warnings — 18+ mdni, fem!reader implied, blood kink (keep in mind you’re a vampire! not twilight but more of a true blood kind?) downright filth im sorry, dead dove do not eat, smoker!reader, endless tension, manhandling, praise kink, kind of porn without plot (LIES CAUSE IT HAS ONE THO??) my boy's into paaaaaain can't help it it's canon, age-gap at first (reader is her 20's but again, vampire), public sex (it just happened), daily reminder to wrap it before you tap it, p in v, choking, filthy mouth, pet names.

side notes — thought this could take place after days of the future past? au cause why nottttt ,,currently on ovulation season so bare with me,,, been a little mia cause i’m surviving aka going through the worst semester of my life at uni? internships are breaking my ass currently so well, here i am just existing, also, english’s not my first language and everyday i’m grateful for it, so any mistakes i’m not sorry in advance lol i’m also too lazy to correct once published,, feel free to send more logan requests since i've basically been a slut for him for a while now (i'm rotting in hell).

He could swear the mansion got ten degrees hotter when you came in.

It’s inevitable. It’s this thing you carry, the way you move — Graceful, elegant, almost compelling as the air fills the room. It’s not public knowledge that you’re not a mutant itself, yet you’re presented like one, like you have healing factors and age painfully slow, but human after all, a subtle lie, one that can harm no one.

It’s safe to say you catch his attention in the most annoying way: How couldn’t you? All you do is this weird seduction he’s appealed to, whether you’re conscious or not it’s just captivating, an invisible force that even when you ignore it is there, there waiting for the perfect moment to flood every time you happen to be in the same room.

Captivating. That’s the word.

The room becomes smaller after, the air grows thicker, and it’s almost like a ticking bomb, the way you wouldn’t even look at his face while he’s noticeable pinning after Jean Grey, the mystery that surrounds you and he cannot seem to resolve no matter how much time he puts into it.

It’s like he's the plague. You don’t really try to exchange more than just a few words, only when it's needed and you cannot avoid him any longer, and he didn’t say anything at first, keeping his distance too cause he don’t see how you’d become friends, cause after all, what he could have in common with a girl that doesn't surpass the twenty years?

But soon he's upset about it, even when he doesn't really say anything out loud, it's a spike he cannot reach under his skin. You seem to become friends with anyone but him, mutant kids in your history lessons, the rest of the team, even the damn mailman when he delivered a package — You'd say hello like it's a long time lover or so, greeting people like they mean the world to you.

He has students now that are asking for a transfer from his class to yours cause it seems you're fun to be around, more like he is, and he fucking hates it.

It's fair to say it's been getting into his mind lately. That thing you do with your hair, twisting it in your index finger on a lock as you speak, the subtle red glow in your eyes he always catches by mistake, not enough fast to stop looking at you, pretending he didn't even see in your direction at first.

Tension. Logan just happens to hate tension.

In fact. He's almost sure your problem is personal, that you might hate him enough to act like he didn't exist at all, enough to avoid him like he was not there.

That's why it's just so weird.

When he finds himself walking down the hallway to the kitchen and he smells this cherry-scented aroma that settles under his nostrils, he changes the direction he's walking to, to instead, follow the path to the person that was silently smoking outside. Hiding. Maybe, a student he'll have to scold like the old man he was turning into.

No smoking in the mansion!

However, as the night is just settling, he doesn't recognize a little mutant, but instead happens to recognize you in the middle of the gardens of the mansion, close to the maze; escaping the comfort of the inside to enjoy a self-rolled cherry tobacco he has smelled before in the air. He's a victim mostly, cause his legs move on it's own as his mouth go dry, approaching you in silence.

"What do you want?" you ask when he's halfway there. And your tone is just cold as ever, not an ounce of feeling as he contemplates your side profile, the way the tobacco sticks out of your parted lips, seated on a bench hidden between bushes and trees — "Is Scott bitching about the smell going into the mansion already?"

No. He's not. But he doesn't have enough reasons to explain exactly why he's outside if you asked, why, all of sudden, he followed the scent of cherry knowing it was you the only one who carried a colts package in the pocket of every single jacket you wore, constantly asking Storm if she could hold on to the bag of filters for you while you rolled in the worst moments.

It's distracting, to say the least.

"Yeah," he quickly says, lying cause in reality he hasn't seen the guy in the whole day, yet it sounds like something he would say. "Do you happen to have another one of those to share?"

You don't talk much, hand reaching his as you offered him from your tobacco without a single word, the same that was placed between your lips and now was on his in what seemed to be something more intimate than what he'd like to admit, the cherry taste filling his lungs as they weirdly enough, shared a cig.

"Aren't you too young to be smoking?"

You laugh, and the sound sends a shiver down his spine cause he has never heard a sound quite like it, nothing that resembles that throaty, raspy sound that came out of your lips in amusement thanks to his words. He, out of all people, has never seen you like that — "And how old you think I am?"

He seems to think about it for a second, carefully picking his next words. Logan knows that women and their age are a tricky thing, you cannot say a number that's too compromising, nor act stupid and say something that's clearly not correct — "Not a day over twenty-two."

The answer pleases you, and he just knows he's wrong, but you don't seem bothered by it, instead, you nod pretending he's right, like he just got the answer right away.

He can see why everyone's switching classes now. Cheeky bastards.

"Twenty-two is not young at all, but i'm twenty-seven though," you say, and he scoffs at the statement, seeking for any change in your heartbeat, any sign of a lie. The strange thing happens when he cannot pick any heart at all, any sign of pulse.

"You are pretty young still," he says, against his age, you’re just starting out living—. "You don't look like you are twenty-seven at all."

"Cause I age slower than the rest," it's a practiced lie. One you know from repeating the same explanation over and over again, the priced answer of why you haven't changed a single bit in the past few years and made you a mutant — "I never looked my age."

Such a fucking liar. He doesn't need any heartbeats to confirm it cause deep down you are a terrible actress, he can see it so clear, how you're calculating every answer, thinking about the correct thing to say, the normal thing to say.

"Is that your thing?" he asks, playing pretend almost as bad as you do. Tilting his head to the side as he questions you — "Age slowly?"

"I have healing powers," you explain as he tossed you the joint once again. "My saliva kinds of help healing wounds. It's pretty boring."

"Boring" Logan repeats. The word itself sounds so damn fun in your lips it's contradicting. "That doesn’t sound really boring."

There's a moment of silence after that. Where you smoke in silence taking in the taste of the cherry, and he is having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that your lips also touched the side of the cigar he was smoking before, the plain lies you've been repeating over and over the last ten minutes.

It's almost infuriating. Makes his blood boil without question, he surely endures your treatment of silence, but being lied to? That's a whole different level.

“How old are you, kid?”

Your brows furrow in response, a clueless face. You are pulling out this show once again Logan don’t buy for a damn second. Something about the scrunch in your nose, the way you dismissed your own powers as if they weren’t enough. He knows it’s all a lie. He knows it even when he doesn’t really know you at all, when it’s the first time you’re truly speaking to him after your arrival to the mansion almost a year ago.

“How old you really are?”

You laugh at the question once again, and he just knows it, knows it when he sees you barely illuminated by the dim light of the moon, the act you always keep up, a web of tangled lies you have to be into— “Told you i'm twenty-seven already, didn't you hear?”

“Is it now?” he asks, amused by the sass, exhaling the smoke of the low-quality tobacco he doesn't understand why you're so invested in when passed it to him—. “Cause you don’t seem very convinced, it really sounds like bullshit to me.”

You're almost offended. By the look you give it's like the worst mistake he could ever make, yet you remain silent, not giving the satisfaction of an honest answer yet. Testing his patience like he did have one to begin with.

"Is that why I can’t hear your heartbeats, darlin'? Cause you age so slowly?”

The nickname scratches a part of your brain, and you hate him for it. The word rolls out of his tongue with an accent, smoking your cherry tobacco cause you happen to be nice.

“You can’t?” you’re good at faking it suddenly, at least, that's what he thinks when your brows furrow in alleged curiosity, stiffening your back, uncomfortable. “How weird.”

“Damn right it is” that's when you realize he knows you are lying. Even when you don’t talk much, even when you act all stiff and bothered when he’s close, he knows that you are fully invested in lying. In whatever twisted little lie you've planned, like it was your real life and not something you made up. “Are you going to tell me truth, then or do I have to find out? Does the professor know that you're lying?”

The smoke lingers in the air.

“How old are you?” he asks once again, demanding an honest answer this time — "Thirty? Thirty-five?"

You find his questions annoying, mostly cause he won't stop until he gets an answer, one that pleases him enough to leave you alone, the other part cause you happen to like the playful banter you two keep going, dangerously much. You don't hate attention it's clear, what you do hate it's the way he seemed to see pass the lie, to demand more even when he has no right to.

He enjoys being the one who's right though, Logan cannot help it. He's pleased to catch that look on your face who says everything but nothing at once, to have you where he wanted, almost at the edge of admitting a truth.

Is it payback because you've been stealing all of the little mutants from his class? He's jealous cause kids like being around you? It does not make much sense, but he is fully invested. Questioning all.

Even when you're outside, it seems like the air grows thicker. And Logan finds himself seeking for your breathing, cause he don't know nothing, nothing about you more than the fact you don't seem to have a heartbeat, or pulse and now, breathing.

“If you really are that eager to know, i'm a hundred and twenty-seven” the words float in the air for a while, and he's sure you're just messing with him, cause there's no way a pretty little face like yours had endured a century. “I've been alive for quite a while.”

He doesn't fully believe it first. Of course he doesn't. Logan's sure you're messing with him also, distracting him about your real age.

“And I supposed this do come from you slow aging powers” He tries to give you a point there, but it's difficult to be serious when you're just playing with him—. "How so?"

To be honest, you do have a little temper yourself, you've learned to stand up for yourself most of the time, so when you happen to notice he's teasing you, that he doesn't really believe you, you adopt this attitude of defense he notices as you shift over the wood you're seated in.

"No, it doesn't" you steal the joint from his hands to have a smoke yourself. "You really aren't as smart as I thought you were, huh?"

Do you happen to have a dead wish? His muscles tense beneath his shirt, and in contrast of his problem, you can hear it all. All the sounds his body makes when he's all bothered just by the beat of his heart, that annoying sound his bones make each time he moves.

"What are you?"

"That's it," the praising goes directly into his chest, the tone you use to tell him he's going in the right direction it feels just so right he forgets why he got mad in the first place—. "That's what you should be asking right there."

It's almost a shame having to admit he would also switch classes. That he would also go through all the paperwork himself without a second thought and that right there, is pathetic, but you're smiling at him as if you're encouraging the man to try harder, to find the answer himself, and fuck — He's old, too old, he's tired, he's in a bad mood as fucking usual, and he happens to dig a drink in the quiet of his own room, but he's pulled by something as equal as devastating as the gravity force, shoot towards you in pure need to have some answers even if he has to make you spit them.

"I find it strange, cause when you don't have a heartbeat, you aren't usually alive" Deep down he's fascinated, hazel eyes glues on your face trying to understand. He feels like he has it in the tip of his tongue waiting to leave his mouth as a catastrophic answer, but he doesn't find the right words.

"That's cause i'm not," you state it like it's something obvious. And just as he knows you're lying, this time, he knows you're telling the truth, blowing the smoke in his direction just to bother him — "Why do you think i'm teaching history after all huh?"

He hasn't seen it all, it seems.

Yeah.

He's losing it after that night.

It’s known that Logan has sleeping problems, but that night specifically he thinks about something else rather than what usually torments him, a truth he also has to keep a secret now that he's learned more about it.

See, Logan doesn't expect you to be really dead. Much less to hear what you are and have been hiding this whole time from the rest of the people in the mansion — He also learns that you feed on blood, that vampires are a common thing in the world and that he shouldn't, at least, be that surprised when he's a mutant in a world full of humans himself.

You are a folklore myth on small villages, stories in Rumania and horror character in films, so you don't blame him when as you spoke, he finally understands why you're so damn attractive, so damn seductive as you explained more about your way of living, some memories you've been keeping to yourself since being a vampire was so damn solitary, memories he listens to cause he knows what it's like, to be misunderstood, to be eternal, to be alone as well.

It makes the two of you grow closer by the next weeks. You now talked during broad daylight about random shit at first, about the war sometimes, about your condition as he refers to when people is around, eaves-dropping on what you two are talking so invested in. Friends.

Simple as that.

And it's safe to admit also that in the course of the next days, Logan Howlett is a fucking mess, and he knows it, but he won't do anything about it.

He won't flirt cause he knows you're a hell of a woman, in every good sense of the word, that he's way too damaged for a vampire even, for all kinds of people out there, and as much as he'd like to say anything, he values your attention, how you switched the attitude of acting like he didn't exist to be a friend, one that you came to share secrets with a cherry aroma glued in their skin.

It gets him insane, to the point he's no longer spending much time with Jean and people start to pick up on it as if he didn't have enough headaches already. He doesn't care. Shit you are not bothered by what people say, and to be honest, he cannot seem to care either.

At first, he's reluctant of keep on talking to you as normal as it is. He's not really invested in religious themes, but he sure admits you're a sin by all meanings, a religious experience of some kind if anyone asked him — He agrees with what he has heard also in the hallways. Innocent conversations of teens and their platonic crush on their teachers. You are pretty hot.

He's so interested in knowing more about you, about the nights you spend in Rumania, when you leave to Canada, the different lives you've lived across the years. He finds himself looking forward to share his stories too, weird enough, cause he's over two centuries himself and he just craves to talk about it with someone who also gets him in a deeper level, that weariness that fills your body when you age so long.

You got the best of immortality, and instead of feeling envious, Logan finds himself attracted to you so much like he's never been in his whole existence. Not at the point it happened with you at least.

By the end of the first month he knows your little treats. You use a lot of sunscreen, and avoid activities outside as much as you possibly can with those classic, tiny black sunglasses that hided you from the rays of the sun, always in the shadow so unapproachable; how you'd usually dismiss food offerings from anyone who's kind enough to even offer you something, and when you haven't fed well during the course of the week, you'd become the most maddening woman he'd ever met.

Maddening.

"What wrong with you, Leech?" Leech. You've been in such a bad mood lately that when he's seating next to you in another random smoking session outside, your fingers twitch, clearly pissed at the nickname after saying multiple times you don't like it.

"I'm not in the mood for plays now."

He can tell from before. When you talked to him that very morning and stared at the collar of his flannel for what it seemed a good, nice minute, he realizes the same moment that you were staring at that pulse point in his neck, where the flesh blood was pumping in his blood flow: You're hungry, as any living creature would be and at your own manner, in constant control as you fight the sense of hunger.

So instead, the mutant ask, like he always does when he’s curious about something that involves you:

"When did you last feed?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

That would explain it. You don't talk much about your meal plan, he knows the professor is in charge of all of that. You've told him about blood bags and hospitals, but he's not really aware of how constant you need to eat, how the blood supplies most of your energy, makes you stronger, gives you vitality, so Logan at first, don't really know what its like to not drink any blood in the course of two weeks.

"What happened with the blood bags from the Hospital?"

The mention of blood out loud seems to triggers you. A groan escaping your lips as you can swear you feel the taste in your mouth — "Don't know. Haven't seen a single one this week, Charles said something about next week, problems in the bank I guess."

You're clearly worked up. It's a new look he hasn't registered before, your hair is tangled in a less-composed look, and there's a slight shake in your hands as if you're going through withdrawal, deprived for what you needed the most.

"And animals?" he questions, trying to find a solution. “Can’t you eat a cat or something?”

"Like shit i'm going to feed from a fucking animal," you're almost immediately grossed out, scrunching your nose at the idea. "I can barely handle being so close to a damn human but animals? I'd rather fucking die this time for real, no waking up."

"That bad huh?" the mutant asks, taking a sip from the beer he sneaked outside, chucking lightly afterwards. "So you're a leech with elegant taste, huh? Of course you are."

"Clean blood is rare," you explain, rolling your eyes. It's inevitable. He knows you hate the nickname so much that he insists to keep on calling you that way just to get a reaction—. "Humans nowadays taste like dirt. They consume drugs among other substances, pills, food supplements, even damn vitamins, don’t get me started about blood diseases cause it gets me in a bad temper. Every single thing affects on your taste, even what you eat. It's all registered there. Clean, good blood is rare to find. Call me elegant, call me picky. It's a damn fact."

"And what about mutant blood?" he questions. And it seems like a mere phrase at first, one with no subtle tones, he’s usually curious about your nature so you don’t pay much attention as he spoke—. “You’re picky about mutants too?”

“No, i’ve never had a mutant before.” The truth is, you hate feeding from people, the act being something so intimate, so damn personal, you refrain yourself. Killing humans, picking a next victim to fed on, is considered now a treat you don't appreciate from your kind, making you steal from hospitals and any kind of blood bank before Charles offered you help. You haven't fed from a mutant, cause you avoided everyone equally, but you don't want to be rude about it. “You all smell different, but i’d be lying. Maybe yes, i’d be picky about it too, feeding is something intimate.”

It's an undeniable admission, and now that he's trying to be in your position, he would also be picky about someone's blood. Logan remains stoic cause he’s suddenly filled by the thought of something else, a glimpse of his own weird creativity he forces himself to push aside, to really suppress now that it's not the time or the moment.

“How do I smell?” It's too late to stop the words from coming out of his mouth when he asks her. And at first, is out of pure curiosity. He has never encountered a vampire in his life until you, let alone had someone talking about the subtle tastes of the blood being undead, so he doesn't want to let the opportunity slip — Of course he wants to know if an over two hundred mutant like himself would be as remotely good as a fresh, clean bag from the hospital.

"You stink like wet dog," he surely deserves it after all the times he’s been calling you a leech — "Like those cigars you tend to smoke, alcohol, and musk. It's similar as wood. That smell you got when you're in a forest and it's not raining but straight pouring."

"Is this a way of telling me i'd taste bad, peach?"

You make a mental note to let him know after you like peach way more than leech.

"If i'd found a human smelling like that, you won't be hearing from me anytime soon" you're just messing with him. A playful banter you enjoy more than ever, the distraction you needed to think in something else rather than the blood bags you craved so deeply — "Hell, i've would just walked the other way."

"So i'm taking you won't be feeding from me anytime soon."

It all takes a dark turn there. You're very aware of the tension the last month now that you talk to him in daily basis, but it’s just mere tension, nothing that ever goes beyond the limit. Logan has never said something to flirt with you despite the million chances he got, and he always remained like a friend, one that you enjoy spending time with now. Cannot be blamed when you're taken aback.

“Cat got your tongue, kiddo?” Man. You're about to whine about the name before you remember he is indeed, older than you are. Vampire or mutant.

"You want me to feed from you?"

He seems so willing when you ask. Even when you teased about his smell calling him a wet dog. He just seems so eager to let you just do it, try a mutant for the first time.

"Yeah," he dismisses it like it's not something so deep — "I doubt Charles is going to let you take a bite since you could clearly kill him, and I'm not sure the others would be pleased with the idea of you sinking your teeth in them, so yes. Me, leech."

Logan Howlett doesn't really smell bad. And you don't know why cause he has all the ingredients to fucking stink, yet, you'd call him interesting. That's what you thought when you find his pulse point again, the vein in his neck you looked earlier in the morning, thinking just as the same you were thinking now.

Of course you would feed from him. Is it a good thing to do? No, in any other circumstances you'd decline. He's your friend.

Now? You’re having a hard time.

"So I'm guessing that you're pleased with the idea, then," Real talk?, you just want to hear him say it. He doesn't talk much usually, but now that he's very vocal about what's on his mind, you have to take advantage of it—. "I'm not sure either. But I do think Storm may be interested too."

He seems content with the response, taking a long sip from his beer before adding — "Please, go and ask her so you're less annoying."

You're almost completely sure he doesn't find you annoying. You also don't care about Storm. And maybe he knows you're not going anywhere, that you're not moving.

"You really want me to bite you?"

"I dunno now, princess" he looks at you pleased now cause he got you where he wanted to, cause he managed to awake all the interest now that you're looking at him "Are you going to pull a Dracula on me?"

"No, i'm not going to suck you dry if that's what you're asking."

Logan chuckles. He's a damn masochist. It's been like that as long as he can remember. It may have to be with his healing powers cause he likes it more than usual, but the idea gets to his head soon enough, all falling so damn fast: Your breathing would be against his neck and he'd take the bite like a damn champ.

"Yeah I can handle you," he says, aroused. "You're not gonna hurt me if you take some blood. I'll be fine and you won't be a pain in the ass."

He acts so gruff about it but you hear the sound of his heartbeat already high enough to wake the entire mansion, his labored breathing since he suggested the idea himself. He digs it, strange enough. Thrives on the idea.

He's a grown man already, and he can take a little leech like yourself.

It's clear you're hungry, cause it doesn't take much for you to accept, nodding like you're defeated, like you just lost the war entirely, cause there's no many options here to take and even if it were, you are now interested in have him more than any other blood bag. In fact. To hell with the hospital.

"Okay."

It's a simple answer, and it sure works with him as you get close to him, the bench you always used to sit now seeming so small as you look around confirming you guys really are alone—. "You won't tell anyone?"

It's something stupid to ask, cause after all that time he has never said anything, keeping your secrets as if they were his own, saving you from weird questions people get sometimes as they didn't know much about you. He's clearly not going to say nothing at all.

"Are you going to stop whining for a second and just eat darlin'? Cause I might change my mind here."

He's feeling overload soon after.

You don’t need a formal invitation to lean closer to his neck.

There's no way to describe it also cause he has never seen something like that, never felt a similar sensation more than when he's fucking, the cold touch of your fingers in his chest, taunting the vein in his neck without a previous warning before leaning in even closer than before—. "Stay still" you demand, face close against his bare skin, only one goal in mind. "Don't move for a minute. Just-"

You cannot finish the sentence, and Logan can experience the sporadic pain of the bite first hand when your teeth finally sink in his neck, piercing the flesh so easily as you let the blood fill your mouth. He grunts at the sharp pain, his face contracting momentarily before it's replaced by a nice wave of pleasure, one that hits him right in the guts as he grabs you by the nape of your neck, pushing you against him, almost demanding you to be closer, to keep on taking what you want, what you've been craving for two weeks.

When did he turned into this perverted sick? Getting off by something so primal as the fact you're feasting on him.

The feeling of your lips and the clear suck you gave when feeding are sending him into a spiral, and to be honest, he didn't expect to be so devastated by you, by the way your fingers stay against his chest to prevent him from moving, pinning the mutant between the wood bench and yourself so he won’t move, won’t do anything unless you want him to,pressing on the wound to draw more blood out.

"You heal so damn fast," you complain, looking at the traces of your bite with an unpleased face as they disappeared on his skin as fast as you created them.

"Then bite me again. I don't care."

You chuckle before leaning once again, and you can feel how the air grows hotter than how it was usually, the shift on his breathing as you bite him again, pressing on the wounds once again just to suck.

And you’re hungry, it’s the whole deal. His taste differs from what you believe at first, a huge change from what humans taste like, from what you’re used to deal with in hospitals. There’s a subtle taste of alcohol yes, but it mixes good with the sweet taste of honey, the weird taste you cannot put into words. It must be a mutant thing for sure cause it’s thicker than usual, a mix of flavors that explode in your tongue.

The headache you suffered from the whole week seems to dissapear as you drink in, feeding the monster you responded to in your stomach, demanding you to make him bleed more, to satisfy yourself until you can’t have any more.

Logan, on the other hand, is really fighting against his very own war.

You’re already close enough, but he just wants you damn closer, as much as he possibly can. It’s clear that well, it hurts slightly, but he has endured much worse, means nothing when it’s the pleasure that comes with it who strikes on his body, the light sucking, the idea you’re full of his blood, that you are not on trouble as you were before thanks to him. All because of him.

He's not used to acts on his impulses, but he does it anyway.

"C'mere" he says in a strangled voice, Logan's having no trouble moving you around, grabbing you by the hips to make you straddle him, keeping you glued to his neck as he doesn't want to disturb you—. "You really are a pretty leech, huh?”

You hum against his skin, pleased at the contact, and when he realizes you’re not complaining about his actions, he let his fingers grip your tights, keeping you against him.

You can hear him making this sound, quite like a moan but not exactly when you’re licking the holes you left in his skin, he does heal fast and don’t need any of your help when you’re done, but you coat his skin with your saliva anyway just to speed up the process, cause you want to do it, looking down to him after to check if he’s pale or nearly dead. You never really know.

And Logan himself is just fine cause his fingers gather the blood under your lip when he takes the sight of you sitting in his lap as the pearly white rays of moonlight makes your skin shine, and he pushes them inside your mouth so you don't waste any drop of what it can be considered food.

"So what's the final verdict?" he asks as his hands are now grabbing your tights, there's something so intimate about the moment, so personal, hot as he presses his fingers against the flesh of your muscles, he understand what you said before—. "Do I taste like utter shit?"

"Well, i’d need another taste to have my final decision" he laughs, and he don't really laugh often so the unexpected sound sends a shiver down your spine now that you’ve heard the sound quite a while now—. "Not much, just a little."

“Have you fill then, peach” He encourages you. “I want you full so you don’t whine the rest of the week.”

You don’t have any heartbeat, but if you did, it would be ragging in your ears at his words. At the warmth he’s spreading like a disease on her body that, despite being dead and cold, you can feel more than ever.

“I like peach,” you admit, this time pressing a soft kiss before directly hurt him—. “Leech is annoying.”

He’s going to say something, tease you about it maybe but he’s interrupted by the nice feeling of what he considers are your fangs tearing his skin apart, familiarity hitting him all sudden as he moans, a rough sound that comes from the deep of his throat, hands coming down to squeeze your ass, making you gasp against his neck when you experience the aching need physically forming in his pants.

“Still,” you say, concentrated on not allowing the wounds to close. But at the lack of complaints on what he's doing, Logan’s hands kept wandering around, making you move against his now clearly stiffed cock—. “Fuck’s sake I said still.”

“Stop being a damn brat. You can eat while I move you,” he grunts annoyed, shoving you against him, the friction of his jeans against the thin fabric of your shorts is enough to keep you quiet: Feeding from a stranger and feeding from a person you’re attracted to are two different things, especially in the position you find yourself in. “You don’t have to do anything. Quit whining about it.”

In response, your fingers press against the wound, not caring if it hurts or if it bothers him, but just enough to get him to bleed more and prevent the cut from closing, lapping at the blood that gathered over his collarbone, staining his white tank before you could even avoid it.

Your fingers grab the fabric just to pull it slightly down so it won't bother you, and the deep sound his chest make when he mocks about your desperation is stuck on your brain for the next couple of minutes, indulging in his taste, shutting up the rest of the world.

A moan comes out of your lips, muffling it against his skin. You're too zoomed out to hear it, but he's on a hell of a ride too, moaning as he demands more. It's been a while since the last time you did something like that, combine the pleasure of something as primal as eating with a mundane activity like sex, so you kind of forgot how good it felt, blaming yourself from depriving from something so needed.

"Do you always get this turned on when someone bites you?"

"No" Logan answers as you finish. He's rock hard beneath you, and he lets you know it when he's controlling the movement of your hips, working you against him at a slow pace—. "See, the woman i'm trying to seduce don't usually bite me, nor make me their main dinner plate."

You whine at the friction.

He looks down to the cause of all his damn problems just to notice his pants being damped with nothing but a physical form of need, soothing the uncomfortable fabric of his blue jeans — "So wet for me already, you’re making a damn mess, do you always get this turned on when feeding?"

Cheeky bastard.

He's using your own words against you, and you cannot be less bothered as you laugh softly, licking your lips only cause you know there's dried blood in them, drowned in his smell, the honey taste that lingered in your mouth.

“No, I don’t.”

At the sight, Logan's hand grabs your jaw in a rough movement, making you look at him before making you kiss him, deepening the contact as fast as you give him the chance. His tongue is soon invading your bucal cavity as he takes control of it, slow, intense and needy, as if he was holding on so much time before giving in to his own desires.

It is something like that.

You don't need to breathe in daily basis, but there's a burning sensation in your chest of wanting, of infinite lust you've been also experiencing by yourself.

The old mutant can taste his own blood in your mouth, a metallic taste as he keeps on kissing you until your lips are pink and puffed. He has thought so much about it that now that he has the opportunity, he devours as if he's a starved man having his first meal in what seems are ages.

"You didn't tell me if I tasted bad."

You think about it for a second.

"I'm afraid you're a rare breed cause it doesn't make any sense" You don't need any help now moving, cause you're rolling your hips on top of him at your own pace, allowing him to use his hands for something else—. “You have all the ingredients to taste like shit, but it's nothing but the contrary, even better than the fucking blood bags.”

“Sounds like your going to make me your meal plan, darlin. I’m here offering you a hand and you just take everything,” — “Such a greedy little vampire.”

He doesn't seem to care though, same as before he's nothing but willing to let you take everything as much as he tries to bark about it. He's more worried about his hands now that they're sliding down your oversized shirt, tracing patterns over your stomach, his touch so hot against your usually cold temperature.

"Logan," you whine,— "Someone can see us out here."

"Now you care about that?" his hazel eyes are a shade darker when he speaks. "After you're nice and full of my blood?"

His hands are big enough to take your whole cunt, allowing his digits to roam over the fabric of your underwear, almost thanking you for using those loosened pajama shorts he has seen before that very night as he just takes the fabric and pull it to the side.

"Nobody is going to see us. It's late and everyone's sleeping, leech" he teases you, and you cannot bring yourself to care about the nickname at the feeling of his hand taunting you from over the fabric—. "If you can bite me here outside, you might as well take my cock here too."

You cannot battle against that. You're deep in whatever spell he puts you into, giving in to the attraction and the tension that now needs to be taken care of. Logan's fingers touch you in nothing but experience, cause he knows how to please after so much time alive, how much pressure he needs to apply to leave you plain dumb, pliable for him.

"D'you think I need to stretch you out before fucking you?" he asks against your neck after leaving a reasonable-sized hickey in the zone, he likes the idea of people finding out about what you've been doing with him the next morning. "Or you're a big girl and can take me all by yourself?"

He'd like to take your time with you. Thoroughly enjoy you as much as he wants to, let everyone know you're his now, that you're shuddering thanks to him only, but he's too needy for that, too deprived of you to take his time.

"I want you to use that pretty mouth of yours and talk to me," he demands, coming up to look at your face while torturing you, his index and middle finger rubbing your clit from over the underwear—. "I'm not properly touching you yet and you're losing it already, peach. C'mon, you can talk to me still."

"I can take you," you say in a strangled voice. "Please Logan, please."

It's the plea of your tone that gets him, the soft begging of an ache he can only soothe, your face while you ask for more, not aware of anything else but him.

"Please what?"

"Please just fuck me already," you ask in frustration—. "I just need you to fill me up for a damn while."

You are starting to love the sound of his laugh. The deep sound he makes when he’s really enjoying something, his voice in damn general.

"Be a good little vampire" He says in a gentle tone. Logan’s trying to be kind even when his touch is so rough. "Unbuckle my pants and take my cock out. My hands are busy now, and you can do it yourself."

He is busy indeed. Toying with your underwear being the only thing that’s keeping him from the direct contact, pushing the fabric against your hole as it works as a barrier, preventing his digits to fuck you as he’d like to. He’s busy keeping you in place, preventing you from downright melt as your hands came up to unbuckle his belt first, the sound of the metal as it moves filling the air for a couple of seconds before you put all your attention in the button of his jeans, the zipper coming down with the force you’re using.

“Yeah baby,” he praises—. “You’re doing so good, keep going.”

When you pull the fabric of his briefs down, he’s already leaking for you, pink head, slightly curved to the side, moaning, erratically how much he needs your hands on him, how you're wet and ready for his cock. You close your fist around him, stroking slowly as your hips lift up enough to position yourself on top of him.

He’s big. Damn fucking right he is, you’d expected it from before cause sometimes you swear you can see his full length in his jeans, but taking him in your hand is a struggle but itself.

“Are you going to take me yourself or do you need my help? I know you can.”

Despite his words, he does help. Grabbing the black fabric of your underwear to finally make it to the side, the tip of his dick pushing against your clit before he's the one to place it in your leaky hole, forcing himself slowly, giving you time to take him in, inch by inch.

“Good girl," he says, head rolling backwards for a brief moment as he experiences the warm sensation of your walls surrounding him, clenching against his cock as he keeps one hand on your hip, helping you as you lower yourself over him. "Let me look at you.”

His fingers grab your jaw, squeezing you as he makes you look back at him, pushing you once again as you holded a loud moan. He's stretching you at his need.

"One more time," he begs. "One more time and you got it, peach. You're almost there."

Jesus fuck. You can feel yourself getting dizzy. You've drank a lot of blood and you're now overwhelmed by this intense pleasure that formed in your lower stomach, gathering there and waiting for the perfect moment to explode—. "Fuck I-"

Logan's pampering you with kisses as a mere distraction, his lips travelling through your neck to your collarbone before you're finally seated on top of him, a muffled moan you need to shut filling the calm of the night.

"Fuck you're tight," he exhales, and he's lost in the sensation, the way your velvety walls welcome him inside. He stays still for a moment, giving you time to adjust, to make you the one who starts moving on top of him.

You can see his veins popping up. All over his chest and coming down to his shoulders and his arms, and god gracious — He smells so fucking good you’re tempted to ask if you can have a bite again.

The moment feels longer than usual, the seconds pass slowly as you stay there. Logan’s hands are just touching your skin from under your oversized t-shirt, taking in the low moans you gave him, the almost perceptible whispers as you get used to him, to his size.

He likes the intimacy of it, the bliss. Man you look so pretty in his lap when the light of the moon is stripping you all to his eyes, even if you’re fully dressed an he’s seated in a damn bench, he cannot enjoy it more, pulling you in for a needy kiss, one that is rougher than the first one and leads you to move inevitably.

His cock pushes past that nice spot inside, and the friction is enough to make you move again, rocking your hips at a slow pace for a few seconds. The sound of your moans is silenced by his demanding kisses, and now that he knows you can handle him, his grip on your hips turn more firm now, squeezing the skin there so he can control your speed, the rythm of your movements now faster than before.

“Shh, don’t whine” what he lacks of vocal usually, he pours it all in just fucking, talking you through it when he feels you’re being too loud—. “Do you want to wake the others? We can’t have them seeing you like this, all fed up and cock-drunk.”

“Let me bite you again,” you ask soon enough. And it takes a lot to do it, cause you’re doing it out of pure greed, cause you can’t have enough.

“Take whatever you want, leech, just don’t make me faint” he jokes, his panted breathing betraying him as he moans, incredibly interested in the idea—. “Want to be conscious when you cum all over my dick.”

Logan’s sure your eyes glisten in a red color as you lean over his neck. And this time is less affectionate, much less gentle as you finally bite him again, teeth piercing the flesh so easily his hips jolts against you in response of the sharp pain your fangs create, the warm sensation of his blood in contrast of your cold touch, tongue-licking all you get from him.

And fuck it feels good.

He shrudders beneath you, shaking his head just slightly at reflex of pain before continue working his way with you, placing his hand between your tights as he lets his fingers rub on your sensitive clit, just enough to make you bite on his neck harder, the lewd sounds of your cunt taking him between holded moans as you suck on his neck.

“That’s it taking me so good,” He praises — “You like that, princess? Like how you’re full of me?”

You hum against his skin. The blood coates your chin as it goes down through his chest, staining his white tank for a couple of seconds before the holes your teeth made finally closes on their own.

It’s pure ecstasy. He can feel it when you clenching around his cock, cheeks red from his blood going now through your system, his vitality, his energy.

You can feel him fucking everywhere. So when you kiss him it’s all teeth, bite and his blood.

The pleasure’s taking control of you now, and Logan’s dizzy from the blood loss, his body covered now in sweat as his words slur together, not threading any coherent thought.

“That’s it,” he says, making you bounce of his cock. “Gonna’ have you in my room then, all spread out f’me.”

His hand wrap around your neck tightly, keeping the direct contact as he chokes you. Shit. You don’t need to say a word. Logan already got you.

“James-” he’s too deep to question why you’re using that name with him. How you facade is crushing down now as you let go.

When your body trembles on top of him he’s already cumming too, the squeeze on his cock sufficent to fuck him up personally, his bruising grip on your hips shoving you as deep as he possibly can as his release hits him like a brick falling from the damn sky.

He lets you work for it, ride each second of your high, milk him dry as a white circle of his own cum mixed with your juices coated the base of his cock, his underwear now slick with your orgasm.

He’s struggling to breathe, to properly say something as you’re finally coming down from your peak, looking at him through half lidded eyes.

“Did you called me James?” he questions, and you’re a damn bad liar, cause he knows imediately you’re hidding something cause of the look on your face—. “Do we know each other? From before.”

You don’t know how to respond at first, at least, cause you cannot lie in a position like that now.

“Well uh. It’s quite a long story here.”

Before you can continue he gets up, making you wrap your legs around his hips before stsrting to walk to the mansion.

“Logan-” you say in a strangled moan yourself, still sensitive as he’s balls-deep inside you.

“It will be less than two minutes, leech” he responds gruffily,— “Need to get you into my room so I can enjoy you the rest of the night, and you can tell me all of it.”

He don’t care if he’s bloody or a damn mess as he squeezes your ass climbing up the stairs, much less if anyone see the two of you in that state.

“I want to hear all the details, Cause I have a weird feeling that this has happened before.”

You cannot find a reasonable excuse to say no as the man’s already reaching the second floor.

Logan’s fucked after that night. When he learned about all that you were before, weirdly connected to you through the decades.

It must be the bite isn’t? Shit. He’s more in sync than ever now that you’ve been feeding from him a lot the last few weeks.

Ah. You fucking leech.

my masterlist

[screechingsandwichtriumph]

The hellfire club x reader

Includes: Mike wheeler , Lucas sinclair , Eddie Munson, Dustin Henderson ( I know there are some others , but I don't know them , so we will stick to our main characters<3)( Also I am sorry this took so long , but I am writing so many exams I'm gonna die and also I procrastinated as much as possible)

Warnings: yandere things, stalking, obsessive behavior , bullying, I hate this and really struggled with it even though I loved the idea

Summary: you defend Dustin once and not it's over for them. They need you

Thank you to @saturnsbabe69 for helping me figure out how to write this<3 (and sorry I was so late)

The hellfire club was known around school as a group of losers who enjoyed playing board games in all of their free time, hence a lot of people made fun of them

You on the other hand weren't exactly font of them , but you should never tolerate people making fun of others. So when you saw a boy knocking down a boy's- Dustin was it?- tray down in lunch and calling him a 'careless loser' you decided to do something small for it

Now , you weren't exactly willing to end up in detention for an unknown kid and his friends , but you could be really discreet when needed

You passed by the by Dustin and his friends who were currently cussing out tha boy and gave them a reassuring smile

Reaching Brad , the boy that had knocked Dustin's tray you stuck your foot out causing him to fall on the ground, head first

"oops , Brad are you ok? Maybe you shouldn't have been such a careless loser"

That's the same exact way those boys fell for you

After that expect them to be following you around

Lucas and Dustin , can and WILL stalk you , following you home , knowing your program and all that. And let me tell you, Dustin will look through your garbage

Mike will stare a t you from afar , collecting information but not obsessively stalking you. He will however try and discreetely get close to you , throu a class or even by accidentally bumping into you

Eddie was definitely the first one to approach(let's assume he is only like two years older) and in a non discreet way.

He will call out your name on the hallways asking you if you wanna go with them on the movies or something

Embarrassed you decline

All the other boys facepalmed but at least now it was out and they could actually be more open about you

Dustin would find you in the halls to talk to you about class , Lucas would play basketball and yell "this shot is for you" (and then most likely lose), and Eddie would just talk to you non stop asking you out once a week

Mike I think would be tha least annoying but don't expect him to not be obsessed. My boy would upgrade his stalking and he would totally threaten anyone that speaks to you

You become kind of their friend and you talk to them , but rejecting them anytime they ask you out

In the beginning they didn't mind much , convinced you'd come around and actually fall for them eventually

When sometime had passed and you seemed to remain immune to their efforts to woo you , they decided that needed to get more serious

They even scolded themselves, because what were they thinking , you are so delicate and perfect , so how could you fall for their distasteful attempts right?

They put on a nice dinner , maybe even a picnic in one of the most picturesque places in town

They make sandwiches and all , Eddie even learns some romantic songs to play to you, while Dustin prepares the food and Lucas carried it. Mike makes sure everything is perfect , collecting flowers and orchestrating tha whole thing

They take you there , in a blindfold that they really struggled to concise you to wear and they confess their feelings in depth

You end up not saying no to their advances not long after

[mrhaitch]

Hello Mr. Haitch I hope you are having a great and healthy day. Sorry for bothering you on a sunday. How are you and your family doing? If you ask me I'm doing great apart from dealing with classes as a first-year uni student.

It's my first time asking a question to someone on the internet so I'm really nervous, I hope I will be able to explain myself properly.

So... I'm currently rewriting a story that I had wrote as a project in 10th grade. I decided to work on it after it got published by the ministry of education under a project named Young Writers. And I have been struggling with correcting and reshaping some parts so I wanted to ask for some help and some opinions on this from someone knowledgeable.

I don't know if anyone asked this before and if they did sorry for asking again. Can you please give me some ideas as to how I can continue, the basic ideas of my story and the main characters are pretty much shaped in my mind but I'm having a hard time putting those into the old story as it was written a long time ago.

Should I write those down and restart from the beginning or follow a different route? (This might sound like I'm giving the advices to myself but I seriously don't know what to do ಥ⁠_⁠ಥ)

I want to translate the work when it's a few chapters ahead as it would also help with my studies on translation but since I can't write crap it's gotten really messed up🥲

Can you please help this crumbling soul with your sacred knowledge?

(Sorry if the ask is too long but I wanted to explain my struggle thoroughly and English is not my first language so sometimes it's hard to explain myself with few words.)

(Here I go rambling again😓)

Thank you so much in advance (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

Yeah, we're doing well considering all the drama last night.

First of all, congratulations! That is a significant achievement and you should feel proud.

As for the meat of your question: I've had this problem before. Usually when I start a story I have the barest of outlines or direction in my head, but what I do have are a couple of characters, a vibe, and an opening sentence. By the time the first draft is over the story is wildly different and the tone is often wildly uneven. This was definitely the case with the first novel I wrote.

If the changes you want to make are significant there's a few things you can do. Listed below are a handful of things you can try:

1. Write it again

2. Break the story down into key scenes, summarise them on cards, and line them up in chronological order. Do the same for your new scenes and ideas, and physically play around with different orders and structures. Move scene five to scene three, add a couple of new scenes where scene five was and see if it tracks - that kind of thing.

3. Strip your story down to its key elements and beats: the scenes that are 100% integral, and copy them to a new document. Then do something similar to the previous method and play around with slotting things in and moving things around.

If a significant amount of time has passed since you first wrote the story, I'd start it again. In fact - I'd write it from scratch without looking at the old version, and see what parts of the original stuck and what fell away. You'll get an idea, then, of the story's core.

The key thing is that, whatever you decide, you see it through to the end. Even if it doesn't work you'll have learned a lot.

Best of luck.

[thekidsare-not-alright]

Sorry to bother you with this question but I don't really know anyone in FOB fandom. I'm not new here, but I do work an extremely busy job (I'm an ER nurse) so I am admittedly a bit lost on some things about this current tour. Like what is the 8 ball stuff, and do you happen to know any general set list for the shows? If you don't feel like answering, that's totally cool too. I see a lot of your posts in the FOB tag so I thought I'd ask. :) Thank you in advance! xx

First, thank you for your all that you do in healthcare! Absolutely no apologies, I'm happy to help :)

Major tourdust spoilers ahead! (of course)

I'm going to take this ask as a chance to explain all the setlist fun stuff in one spot, so here we go! The setlist has been consistent except for four main points, which I'll explain below. For ease, I'm going to be referring to Bonner Springs' setlist (6/24/23), so when I use numbers to refer to song placement, those are the ones I mean.

If you wanna skip ahead anon, magic 8 ball is explained in letter D :]

A. The first change in the setlist has only happened once and takes place 6th in the setlist, following 16 candles and preceding Grand Theft Autumn. It's usually Chicago Is So Two Years Ago, but has also been Homesick at Space Camp and Dead On Arrival (after their respective tour debuts as magic 8 ball songs). Songs 6-8 are played in a TTTYG themed section of the set every night.

B. The second change is slightly more regular and takes place 12th in the setlist. This song is often "The Take Over, The Breaks Over," but every now and then it gets swapped out for Hum Hallelujah, as well as Bang the Doldrums (after its live debut as a magic 8 ball song in LA). It was once swapped out with 7 Minutes in Heaven (Atavan Halen).

C. The third change is different almost every night, with only a couple repeats here and there. This is Patrick's section of the setlist, at track 15 after Fake Out, where he just plays one or two snippets of songs on piano (or sometimes acoustic guitar) before a shortened cover of Journey's Don't Stop Believin'. Oftentimes, if he plays two songs, one of them is from Fall Out Boy and the other is a cover of whatever he feels like. Often referred to as "piano medley" or just "medley." (Golden, What A Catch, Donnie, and What a Time to be Alive have been very popular relatively for this part of the setlist, sksk patrick)

D. The fourth and final change on the setlist is known as the "Magic 8 Ball" song and takes place after Hold Me Like a Grudge at track 23. This song is where Pete asks a "giant magic 8 ball" (a screen above the stage) what song they should play anywhere from their entire discography. Here's a video of him asking (the spiel is about the same every night). Each magic 8 ball song has been different for each show, with exceptions described in letter H. Some of these songs have never been played live before, some haven't been played in over a decade, some just haven't been played in a while or as often but they are a complete secret/surprise every night! Additionally, Pete has said that once a song has been played for the magic 8 ball section, it can appear elsewhere in the setlist at future shows. So, really, anything can happen.

Fall Out Boy has gotten even more unhinged lately, so here are a few more setlist changes.

E. As mentioned above, the piano medley usually ends with a cover of Journey's Don't Stop Believin'. Twice now, however, this song has been sacrificed for other songs: August 1st for Gym Class Heroes' Travie Mccoy being brought on stage (Patrick played part of Stereo Hearts on piano, then they all played Cupid's Chokehold) and again on August 2nd for Sweet Caroline (a Boston Red Sox/Fenway Park tradition). The Journey cover has been played every show since.

F. Up until recently, a cover of Ozzy Osbourne's Crazy Train has been played after Baby Annihilation and before Dance, Dance. Enter Sandman by Metallica seems to have replaced Crazy Train in the setlist as of August 5th. Sometimes referred to (by me) as the "metal cover."

G. The only song from MANIA to make it on the tour's setlist, The Last of the Real Ones, has been cut from the setlist for a second Magic 8 Ball song (occurring right after the first Magic 8 Ball song). At first, it seemed like it was cut only for the duration of Patrick's sickness or for noise curfew, but it has not yet returned as of August 5th. It was a part of the "permanent" setlist up until July 29th, when it was last played.

H. As mentioned in letter G, a second Magic 8 Ball song has been added to the setlist every night since July 30th (Toronto, ON). The following cities have gotten two Magic 8 Ball songs:

LA, CA (July 2nd and 3rd) - first sold out show of the tour, Pete's home

Toronto, ON (July 30th) - only date in Canada

Forest Hills, NY (Aug 1st) - possible nod to the Hella Mega Tour dates that the band were unable to play due to a COVID-19 exposure

Boston, MA (Aug 2nd) - possible nod to the Hella Mega Tour dates that the band were unable to play due to a COVID-19 exposure

Darien Center, NY (Aug 4th) - possible nod to the Hella Mega Tour dates that the band were unable to play due to a COVID-19 exposure

Camden, NJ (Aug 5th) - they're probably just having a lot of fun doing spontaneous songs at the end of this leg! <3

For each double magic 8 ball night, the first one is a new song (one not yet played on Tourdust before, regular magic 8 ball rules apply) and the second is a repeat magic 8 ball song (any of the previous ones).

I. Spontaneous covers such as Shipping up to Boston and Coffee Mug have also appeared once each without cutting other songs in their place. The former was a nod to Boston and the latter a tribute. Really, just be prepared for anything at all times.

Extra fun note: The official setlists have the mystery song written in code, mostly using the NATO phonetic alphabet by abbreviating either the song's title or a key set of lyrics (GINASFS was written as "Golf" on the first setlist, Of All The Gin Joints in All The World, commonly referred to as Gin Joints, had the code name "Gamma Juliet," while Fame < Infamy's code name was "Bravo Whiskey Papa," referring to the lyrics "better with (a) pen" in the song)

Basically, they've been talking about having some of that old pre-fame ~scene rock show~ vibe where everything was spontaneous and they played til the cops showed up. It's a taste of going back to their roots and giving the fans what they want (and having a ton of fun while doing it!)

[I used this spreadsheet as a reference, made by this person on twitter]

So sorry anon for the novella here, I'm sure you wanted something quick but I couldn't help myself oops heh

[ghost-pony]

your post of you in your horse mask popped up in my feed and it genuinely awoke something in my brain like a light switch getting flicked on

as someone who is now very curious about ponyplay- what are some of your favorite scenarios? if you have any!! if not, any advice for people who are trying to explore ponyplay?? :)

omg hi!! honestly i love that i get to be people's introduction to ponyplay now ^^ resources first: if you're after more inspo/ideas, cpony.com is The best online resource for ponyplay stuff. More of a bdsm lean but it covers a bit of everything and I think most interested ponyplayers could probably learn something from it

if you are even a tiny bit interested in connecting with the kink community i HIGHLY recommend getting on fetlife. for the unfamiliar: it's basically kink facebook. this is how you find your local groups, events, info, etc. even if you're not looking for in-person play you can find vital educational resources (incl online classes) and generally just find more spaces both in-person and online with likeminded people. this is the hidden resource that really opened up my ability to start getting more involved with kink. (i'm under the same username there, if anyone else happens to be on the site ^^)

anyway, my thoughts. just to preface this: kink talk on tumblr sways very sexual but my interest includes nonsexual kink too, so i'm probably gonna talk about both here. and i'm sorry in advance if this gets stupid long lol

in any scene my main priority tends to be achieving a nonhuman headspace and just taking a break from the stress of human life. i'm drawn to being a pony because we tend to see them as less cute & playful than other pets and more disciplined, dutiful, and graceful. horses are working animals, but they're still prey animals - a supportive handler can help calm their pony's nerves and focus them on their work.

i like to start a scene by tacking up. my gear isn't just a sexy outfit i put on, it's the means for a handler to control and communicate with me. when they drape a harness around my shoulders and buckle a bridle onto my face, i know to expect that pressure and nonverbal communication. i know it's my job to listen and obey - and if i don't, i know it's their job to correct me with the crop.

pony training can be very physical. i love the singular focus that comes from pushing myself and having a goal to work towards. i've been fascinated by posture training lately - encouraging your pony to stand or move a certain way, making sure they carry themselves in a way befitting of a show pony that their handler can be proud of. a riding crop is a good tool to create pressure and nonverbally encourage a pony - whether that's a gentle tap on the leg they need to lift higher, or a swat on the rump to get their attention again.

physical touch is my favorite reward for a job well done. i love being adoringly stroked by a handler, having my mane brushed out and my harness tidied up. i'm currently waiting on a velour bodysuit that'll help make me even more soft and pettable; then they can also take a soft brush to my fur. i want to know i'm their prized possession, something they lovingly care for and maintain.

and of course there's breeding scenes. as a stallion it's my job to mount and breed a mare but that doesn't mean i'm in control; that's still up to our handlers. they'll look out for us both, set the rules we have to follow - after all, we're both someone else's property. it's not uncommon for the mare to be restrained, legs spread wide and waiting. i don't get the luxury of human dexterity with my hands bound in hoof mitts and a bit in my mouth to lead me forward onto my mare. it's just touch, instinct, and obedience (and sometimes a helping hand from the humans in the room).

[gaytotaldrama]

For the requests: maybe Brott? (Brick x Scott)

full disclosure: i haven't gotten to TDROTI in my rewatch yet (mid-TDWT rn) so if anyone seems OOC i apologize it's been a while since ive seen it!! but i think brott is a super cute pairing and brick has always been one of my faves from the newer casts so i hope you enjoy :)

also on my ao3!

Part of a soldier's duty is to keep alert, and notice the little things not everyone else does. Brick may not be top of the class, but he had to have gotten picked for the new season of Total Drama for a reason. And if he really wants a shot at the money, it's probably best to start strategizing before the game even begins.

Which is why Brick starts people-watching as soon as he boards the boat to the island, so he can get a head start on sizing up the - somewhat intimidating - competition.

The most obvious threats, he checks out first. The girl in the grey tracksuit is clearly super athletic, as is the guy in the jersey he's pretty sure is named Lightning. Loud, both of them, but probably also headstrong. Easy to anger. Brick's known plenty like that over the course of his years of training. They'll be ones to watch out for, for sure.

The big guy is quiet - really quiet - and Brick's positive he's got to be secretly housing some mad brains up there. The small kid with the glasses won't get anywhere in the physical challenges, but in Brick's experience, those types of people can serve up a truly merciless smackdown of intelligence. Brick wouldn't call himself dumb, but he's never exactly been an Einstein - watch out for them, too.

Zoey is sweet - she'd introduced herself to Brick near the top of the boat ride, obviously eager to get to know her fellow competitors - and therefore not much cause for concern. Ditto Mike, who seems both nervous and excited, and ultimately, non-threatening. Dakota (and he knows her name is Dakota, because she'd loudly announced herself as she'd sashayed on board) is caught up in her own glossy glamorous self, the curly-haired guy too wrapped up in his video games to give Brick cause for much worry. The Italian girl is a little scary (not that Brick's afraid or anything, haha) and the small kid in the green sweater has done nothing but meditate this whole time. Yeah, they shouldn't be a problem.

Neither is the loud girl in the pink jacket. Brick never caught her name - he's sure she introduced herself, but she's been talking the ear off of everyone non-stop and in all that prattle, none of it seems to actually hold any merit. And Brick would know a thing or two about merit, yes sir!

Chatty Cathy's current victim appears to be the only other remaining contestant - looks like your classic Nova Scotian farm boy, chopped red hair, threadbare wifebeater, unimpressed look on his face. Brick doesn't know his name, or his deal - strength from years of outdoor chores? Some hidden smarts no one would assume of him? Brick has no idea. Come to think of it, Brick's not even sure he's heard the guy say a word. Not that it's in any way easy to get a sentence in edgewise with pink jacket girl around, of course - had she said her name was Tracey? Sarah?

"What are you staring at, buzzcut?"

Brick instantly straightens his spine, standing at attention, embarrassed to have been caught looking at the farm boy. "Nothing. I wasn't staring at anything."

"Uh, yeah, you totally were," says pink jacket. "It was so obvious! By the way, did you know that my great-great-great-great-great uncle Gordon first coined the term obvious wayyyyyy back in - "

"Put a sock in it," farm guy mutters, and strangely, she seems to listen to him. He diverts his attention back to Brick, advancing on him like some sort of terrifying jungle cat. "Trying to size up the competition?" He sniffs, thin lips curled into a sneer. "All you need to know about me is that I'm gonna kick your sorry ass off this island."

Brick stands his ground. "With all due respect, you don't know that for certain. Mr....?"

"Scott." He grabs a hold of the front of Brick's shirt, pulling him in close and oh no, he's hot, and whoa, he's got freckles like everywhere. "I'll make sure you won't forget it, private."

And with one last withering glare, he lets go of Brick and stomps away.

"Wow." In all that had just happened, Brick had forgotten Staci (!!) entirely, but she's throwing an arm around his shoulder now in what she likely thinks is a comforting manner. "That guy is gonna eat you alive! Speaking of cannibals, my cousin's sister's dog's landlord totally eats people! Chris would probably love to have him on the show, yah, he's a total maniac but I bet he'd be great for ratings, ya know? Ya know, my great-great-great-great - "

But Brick isn't listening to a word. He's staring down at his shirt, positive he can see the imprint of Scott's fingers seared into the fabric there, because why else would Brick have burned the way he did when Scott touched him?

[artistic-writer]

a year gone by

Many of you will know that for the last year or so, I have had very little, if any, fandom contact. I guess I should explain a little bit about what has been going down and what has kept me away.

My account would not let me in: And i am stubborn. So i stopped trying to get in. At the time i felt like the fandom was moving apart and I didn't want top to be apart of the he said she said that came along with it. I have seen a good number of new fandom members emerging, who are kind and loving and thoughtful on the Discord, and have made me want to come back.

Wilf: I got a second dog without realising the consequences of doing so and the impact it would have on my family. Wilf has his share of problems. He is my little ball of anxiety and I have been working through the many issues he has with him, but we are far from there yet. He is nearly 2 now <3

My health is in the tank: I have had several flare ups of my Fibromyalgia in the last few years, and many of them have made it difficult to sit still long enough. As you can imagine, this takes its toll on one's mental health. Yay having an illness that is worsened by inactivity. My nature is a little self destructive and i throw myself into work in order to forget about the pain, and that has led to severe fatigue, which in turn, is not conducive to writing or arting. I am sorry. Also, in April i had a work related accident where i thought i had just sprained my ankle, but as it turns out, i have detatched not one, but two ligaments, so am awaiting the outcome of will i/won't i need an operation? My appointment is in Dec.

I took up a hobby!: For nearly FOUR years I have been on the waiting list, trying to get into a dog sport called Flyball. FINALLY, my local team got back to us and Killian is running through their first course, and will hopefully be offered a place on the team! I have found a group of real human beings who 'get me' and so far, i am loving it!

I got a promotion at work: I am the boss now. for reals. i still cannot believe anyone would put me in charge of a team of people, but here we are. This eats up more of my time but also allows me to have a decent schedule - so should allow for more me time!

I went back to school: Obviously, not content with enough in my life, I enrolled on an Advanced Canine Behaviour Diploma course, for which i have a year to complete. I'm sure i can fit it in...somewhere. Collecting all the letters after my name, innit.

I work two jobs: 48 hrs a week in one job just wasn't enough, clearly. I am currently training with the Institute of Modern Dog Trainers (IMDT) and hope to become a fully accepted member at the satrt of next year. Their values align with everything i do in dog training, and although I currently offer 1-2-1's, classes, and such, I really want accolades that tell people I am the best. I currently work as a dog trainer Fridays, with the odd handstripping and groom thrown in between jobs.

My husband and I are working through some things: We are not actually married but it is easier to tell people we are rather than explain why we are not. We have had a very up-and-down few years, mainly because of miscommunication, but we are working through it because we are each other's soul mates. I would never want anyone else in my corner. maybe @hollyethecurious, but she's just there to hide the bodies. As such, we are making time for each other more, so I'll likely just be around in the evenings or weekends.

[positively--speculative]

You know what? I'm making my own separate post about this.

It's a little laughable that if you make any sort of criticism here about people in STEM, you will get a slew of crybabies in your notes talking about "not all STEM people" or whatever. Shit, I even saw someone suggest we're still "jealous" of them because we were bad at math in high school. I think many people, including myself, who are more into the humanities will reveal that we actually made several friends who were good at math and/or science and are incredibly grateful to the educators who understood our struggles in those subjects and worked to be as helpful as possible in order for us to pass those classes so we could continue on in our education and strive in the subjects we enjoyed and are good at. The notion that we are resentful of people who excelled in subjects we weren't as good at is funny and likely says more about them than anyone else. If people don't like you, it's probably not because you're better at math than them. It's because you act like an asshole lol.

STEM majors are praised in just about every corner of our society constantly, and you know what? We should celebrate science, technology, engineering, and mathematics. We need people to be good at those things to continue to make advances as humans. I am very grateful to the people who have used those things for good. But the more people I run into who strive mostly in STEM, the more I realize that many have bought into the idea that subjects like literary analysis and criticism do not provide any sort of life skills and are therefore not valuable. I've run into many "smart" people who can absolutely read but just don't. They don't think they need to. They know everything they need to know after all. They refuse to expose themselves to stories that are complex and that showcase the lives of people who are different than them and living very different experiences. They refuse to explore further and learn about authors and what may have shaped their decisions to write their stories the way they do. They refuse to see how this is actually a very useful skill to use outside of literary analysis. Like, sorry, but this is a consistent pattern in many of our experiences with STEM fanatics. That's why people write about it here. But it's clear, if you are into STEM and are offended by this, that you just aren't used to just a handful of people not lining up to kiss your ass just because you are "good at math" lmao.

And, like, so many STEM fanatics get so upset and defensive when those of us into the humanities put our skills to good use and create posts and criticisms that closely examine a piece of fiction and discuss the ways it reflects the society it was created in or could have helped shape the society it existed in and possibly still shape the world we live in, they get so mad and defensive. "It's just a movie! It's just a book!" And no one is actually stopping them from enjoying whatever thing it is on its surface, but they get mad and annoyed at us doing it for some reason.

On a final note (at least for now), our skills are obviously valuable if our oppressors are currently banning books. What it suggests is that they don't want more people like us. We're valuable to society, but we're not the kind of valuable they want. We ask too many questions. STEM, on the other hand, while often used for good is also very easily weaponized. So, if you are a sensitive STEM fanatic, maybe you'll understand why we wished more of you chose to get your heads out of your asses and read a book that isn't purely technical for once.

If you are into STEM and the behavior above does not describe you, CONGRATULATIONS! It wasn't about you and you can keep scrolling!

[eziojensenthe3rd]

Midnight Gaming: Drop Dead Red

So last night I played Paint The Town Red past midnight, checked socials later to find... nintendo has announced an open playtest for an upcoming feature coming to nso + xpansion pack.

So Nintendo Switch Online is the paid online subscription of nintendo similar to xbox gold and playstation plus. It is one of the cheapest of the three though the online on switch has been lauded as spotty, it has gotten better over the years. Theres also the offering of classic titles that can be played on a subscription from NES, SNES and game boy, which is essentially the current iteration of the old Virtual Console service that was on Wii. Theres also the expansion pack which is an upgrade to the base subscription which adds a selection of Game boy Advance, N64 and sega mega drive games along with access to some dlc for certain games though the jump in price and spotty emulation at launch made the NSO expansion pack a very hard sell. Its alteast a bit better now but you dont often hear people recommend getting the full package.

So colour me intrigued when nintendo announced an open playtest for an upcoming feature for the NSO + Expansion Pack.

The only conditions you need to apply is to have an active NSO + Expansion sub. Now what exactly is this feature they are testing? Im not sure at the moment but i'm hoping its gamecube and wii support, though more likely its something else thats not really that exciting. I've had nintendo let me down before.

Anyways, speaking of things that are related to the colour red....

Paint The Town Red is a voxel-based first person brawler available on steam where you enter a level and start a no holds barred brawl in the area that doesnt end until your the last one standing. The name is certanly accurate since a lot of the levels by the end do end up painted red with the blood and viscera of every single person who was in the area at the time.

Seriously, the games use of Voxel graphics ends up making it almost as gory as the Mortal Kombat series with how much bodily damage you can inflict on enemies to the point of their own skeletons popping out of the voxel meat just to say happy halloween.

A lot of objects can be picked up and swung as a means to defend yourself during the hour of violence such as glass mugs and bottles, chairs, plates and weights, to more convential weapons such as blades, bats and firearms. Not too mention you fill up a power meter that sits above your health, with every enemy eliminated, allowing you to use one of three skills when you have enough so you can inflict some more damage. One small issue I have is that health can be troublesome to manage since you dont really get any health recovery unless theres a health pickup placed in the level and if theres isnt one or you already used them up, you'll find yourself needing to be careful when your mopping the last few brawlers and since enemies can do a quick lunge that if unblocked can hit you for a lot, it can lead to a death or two and a restart.

The game does have a nice variety of content available with the scenarios which are your basic levels where you get your ultraviolence on. An arena mode which is essentially your survive as long as you can mode. A freaking roguelike mode called Beneath with character classes and passive unlocks, yeah thats pretty neat. And then theres the user-made levels which are just levels and themes available through the games steam workshop. And yes, I played the Family Guy level.

So to wrap this, PTTR? Neat lil game, definatly a lot on offer especially for ultraviolence fans. Theres also a vr version available for anyone with a headset.

Im still a bit curious as to what Nintendo is planning with that upcoming feature they're looking to test, but im not sure I really wanna spend roughly £40 so I coukd try to apply for the test.... I dont suppose anyone would be... nice enough to buy it for me?? For the sake of journalism naturally 😏.

So thats Midnight Gaming, sorry for the delay but wanted to take a few days for my health. Feel free to leave feedback and game suggestions. See you all tomorrow.

[muninnhuginn]

10, 25, 51, 62!!!

10: When was your last physical fight?

Huh, I'll be honest, I'm not sure I remember? I know at one point me and my sister were arguing with each other and she managed to low-key burn my wrist? ('burn' as in rope burn kinda deal but she managed it without any ropes, just my wrist/arm was super red and sore for a few days after). That's the last one I remember, though can't remember if it was the last chronologically?

25: Do you miss anyone from your past?

Probably too much. I have some friendships from pretty much every aspect of my life I wish I were better at keeping up so I try to just keep in mind that rn I'm still keeping in touch with friends from my old job despite having left that over a year ago now. And I've got a couple of friends from school/sixth form I still meet up with. Small successes, I'll take them.

There's another, more recent one, but I'm not sure how to describe it. Sorry in advance if TMI for a silly ask meme. Just an argument with a friend that escalated and then was over so soon and since then we've just not talked? (And none of our previous arguments were really mentioned in that one argument but I feel like they added to the whole backdrop of it) And I'm presuming me talking to them now is the wrong thing to do because I was blocked after the argument. I've been unblocked since, but I don't really want to confirm if they hate me so instead I've just stayed away. So, I miss them, but I've reacted badly to how I've perceived interactions before and I really don't want a repeat so I'm not going to risk it, ig. I'd love it to be that they miss me too and it's all a big misunderstanding, but I should know better than to hope for that.

Also, going to cheat and mention my cat again. Always missing her.

51: Favourite food?

I think my answer to this has a habit of changing. Currently, I'll say it's a tie between bolognese or gyoza.

62: What makes you happy?

Managing to be productive. I'm pretty bad at that so as a result my bar is really low and I class things like tidying away a pile of items or finishing a series I've been meaning to. Answering this ask also counts by that measure. (I should really use your trigun liveblogs as an excuse to get back to stampede because it looks interesting and there's been enough time since I watched 98 for me to separate it out, but I'm too much of a procrastinator to promise anything)

Hmmm, what else, I like watching stuff with people or discussing media with people. The whole bouncing off as you realise angles you would never have considered by yourself. Also, watching silly interactions between others, where everyone's clearly having fun themselves.

[soverywitty]

I was tagged in 15 questions for 15 mutuals by @tadpal

I'm tagging @no-lava @salamancialilypad @justslowdown @colossalcryptid @aggressivebutterflies @thatsthenorthstar, sorry I know that's only 6 people, I just don't have a lot of mutuals on my main.

1. Are you named after anyone?

Yeah. I was named after Katharine Hepburn. My middle name comes from my great grandma Gertrude's maiden name, and I'm planning to legally change my first name to my great grandfather's once I get the money and paperwork together.

2. When was the last time you cried?

Ooooh fuck, I cry a lot tbh. Last seriously bad cry was probably 3 weeks ago? It was around the time I left my job, it was super stressful. Since then, I think I cried most recently a little over a week ago. April 29th marked one year since we had to put our older dog down.

3. Do you have kids?

No! Thank god. I love kids, but only in small doses. I have a little sister who's 7 who I love to absolute death, but after a week visiting her, I feel like I need to just lay in a quiet dark room for a week straight.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

I exaggerate and use hyperbole more than I use sarcasm. Like I use it occasionally, but when I'm going for comedic effect I tend to use the other tools in my arsenal.

5. What sports have you played?

I'm gonna be real, I have never been a sports girlie. If ballet counts, I did ballet when I was little.

6. What’s the first thing you notice about someone?

Hair and clothes. I guess, style in general. I'm decently faceblind, so faces don't tend to register much unless they're pretty distinctive. I'm very much a person that'll notice what you're wearing and stop to give you a compliment if I like it.

7. Eye Color?

Blue, but specifically, blue enough that I made having blue eyes part of my personality when I was younger

8. Scary movies or happy endings?

I like scary movies, but only as long as they have a happy ending. I don't like any movies that end where everyone's miserable and everything's shitty and sad.

9. Any special talents?

Uhmmmm, not really? Like, there's not really anything I can think of off the top of my head.

10. Where were you born?

I was born in a decent sized city in the Southeast US. I still live there, and it's not too bad a place to live, but as soon as you leave the city and surrounding suburbs shit gets real rural and real conservative, real quick.

11. What are your hobbies?

Honestly, I fly through hobbies like nobodies business, I have ADHD, so I tend to hyperfocus and then get bored really quickly. The majority of my hobbies tend to be crafty stuff, but hiking and other outdoorsy stuff is another thing I love. Fashion and style and design stuff is a big passion of mine. Right now, I've been locked in on houseplants and stuff related to them. I have maybe 20(?) or so, and I also have terrariums, and a planted aquarium.

12. Do you have any pets?

Yes! I have my sweet little Persie dog(follow us on @pomegranatepup), and I also have aquatic snails right now. I feel like all the plants I have should also count as having pets, but whatever.

13. How tall are you?

5'6"! I always try and lie and say I'm taller than that, but I'm really, really not. I'm mad about it because I feel like I definitely had the potential to be taller than I am.

14. Fave subject in school?

English! I was one of those gay bitches that'd be obsessed with their english teachers. My english teachers would have to give me advanced material because I'd finish and get bored so quickly with the english assignments we were given. I was also constantly reading books in class and getting in trouble for it. I know it's not the question, but my least favorite had to have been math, I failed algebra 1 like 3 times. Kind of embarassing, but I had undiagnosed dyscalcula, so whatever...

15. Dream job?

Right now, I want to someday open and run my own bakery or cafe, maybe a coffee shop. My current plan is to go to culinary school for pastry arts and go from there. I've been working as a baker for the past 4 years or so. Honestly, my real dream job is being a worthless layabout. If someone handed me 10 million dollars today, that would be amazing.

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

Tw bad friends

So a few years ago in high school, I lost my friend group. They told me they didn’t like me anymore and that they don’t want to be friends because I’m “immature”.

Beforehand they had pulled a lot of other stuff that should have been signs that they didn’t want to be my friend, but I was too stupid to realize.

They did things like exclude me from events bc my step-sister (also in the friend group) said that her dad was uncomfortable around me. (Fair but they could have still made an effort to find things to include me in.)

They also refused to let me sit with them at lunch bc it made my step-sis’s other friends (whom I never actually met) uncomfortable.

They’d also hold interventions for me in front of other students about my behaviors that they didn’t like. Stuff like bullying (I told a kid to stop harassing me), using my intelligence against people (I got excited about a good exam grade), and being immature (I was the only person in the group in advanced classes who regularly got good grades and I’m currently the only one in college and a steady career path.)

Point is, they were terrible friends but at the time they were my only friends and I trusted them a lot. I have newer friends now and they actually trust and respect me but I still fear that they’ll get tired of me and I’ll do something to make them want to get rid of me.

How do I lose that fear of being unwanted, and am I justified in hating my old group?

—👑👿

Hi 👑👿,

I'm so sorry about what you've been through. You do not deserve to be treated that way. It's understandable why experiences like these can give you anxiety about future friendships, and perhaps creating some fear of abandonment as well.

As someone with BPD, I find communication helpful and reassuring. Occasionally doing check-ins with your friends to evaluate how you're doing, how they're feeling, if there's anything they want to talk about or anything you could be doing differently, can not only give you some peace of mind but also opens the floor for your friends to give their honest thoughts. Plus, if they have no complaints, that's something to take personally.

You may find helpful this article about REBT's theory of irrational beliefs, as the comebacks can be very useful. While I don't necessarily like the use of the word "irrational" because it is justified by very real and valid experiences, it does speak to a cycle of thinking that can potentially do some damage. The answers to the first irrational idea in particular may resonate with you.

Ultimately, it's hard to fully accept (even myself) but, all relationships are temporary because we are, and it is as within your right to stop being friends with someone as it is for them to stop being friends with you. It may also help to remember that if a friend of yours decides to no longer be friends, they were never meant to stay.

I hope I could help. If anyone has any comments or suggestions, feel free to add on. Please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

[novelconcepts]

fic: souvenirs you never lose

prompt, for @karatam: five scars Dani found on Jamie’s body (and one she left behind on her heart)

It takes Jamie time, to open up. This does not surprise Dani in the least; the Jamie she met at Bly wasn’t the sort to show off--not her innermost secrets, and certainly not her body. Even innocuous bits, elbows and forearms and collarbones, were covered half the time in thick jackets and jumpsuits. She didn’t see Jamie’s knees for the first time until they slept together. 

It feels less like Jamie is hiding something, and more like Jamie appreciates a certain barrier between her body and the rest of the world. Dani can respect that. Knows the value of armor, of a good sweater and pounds of hairspray and the effort to be seen only as you choose. And what Jamie chooses, mostly, is to be seen as the job. As soil under fingernails, as hair messy around her face, as small hoop earrings and old t-shirts and overalls. Jamie doesn’t much put in the effort, because she’s busy channeling all of that effort into more important things. Dani likes this about her. 

Still, for the first month or two, she doesn’t see much of Jamie’s bare skin. Maybe because Jamie is still working out the angles of their relationship in her head, easing in gently even as she’s taking enormous leaps of faith on little more than Dani’s word. Maybe because they’re leaving England (where, even in summer, a chill holds dominion over most nights) for Vermont (where, by the time they arrive, fall is chipping away at what remains of the year). Either way, for a while, Dani thinks Jamie is hiding in baggy sweaters and loose jeans because it’s just Jamie. 

It isn’t until they’re in bed in a hotel in Pennsylvania that she thinks for the first time: maybe it’s about something else. Maybe it’s about the lives Jamie lived before meeting her. Maybe there are some boxes Jamie holds close to her chest, will need time to unlock. 

Dani can be patient. 

1

“It was a pot,” Jamie says, like that’s the whole of the story, but a story is never so simple or so short as that. In fact, it was not just a pot, not just water, not just a child left to raise a baby like she’d ever be prepared for something like this. 

Jamie, maybe eight years old--she has trouble thinking back this far, has trouble remembering anything from this time with an adult’s clarity--stands as tall as her meager height allows whenever she’s in this house. Shoulders thrown back, chin up, the way she’d seen her mum in shops. Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let it land. Just keep your chin up, eyes forward, and keep walking.

Jamie, maybe eight years old, with hair that hasn’t been trimmed in months and hand-me-down trousers from Denny, who scuffed his shoes and scowled and said nothing, because what could he do about it? Denny, who keeps his distance, who hasn’t had a kind word for her since she can’t remember when. Jamie tries not to mind. Tries to understand, with an eight-year-old comprehension of human instinct, why her big brother is so determined to shut her out.

They call her mum things in the street, and maybe that’s why she left. Maybe sticks and stones aren’t all that can tear you up, in the end. Jamie’s had her share of both, has limped home and mopped up tattered knees and scraped cheeks more than she likes to recall, but maybe words can do the same kind of damage if there are enough of them all bound up together. 

Or maybe she left because Jamie wasn’t big enough to wrap her arms around all the little aches her mum was made up of. Maybe because Denny turns up his nose at anything he doesn’t like, and Mikey screams all day, and Jamie--sandwiched between them with no way out--is just too small. 

She’s trying. She’s trying so hard. Mum’s gone, and she hasn’t seen Dad in...what’s it been now, days? A week? She’s losing track fast. Losing track of a lot of things, really. She’s falling asleep draped over her desk, sneakers dangling off the floor, waking to wadded up chunks of paper drenched in someone else’s spit clinging to her neck and hair. Her homework, when it gets done at all, usually gets stolen out of her bag and shredded before she can turn it in. She’s starting to hear the whispers at night, falling asleep with one eye open, one arm wrapped around Mikey’s tiny frame: Whore. Cunt. Your mum’s a--

She doesn't even know what these words mean, but they live beneath her skin like razor blades, and she is so small, and so tired, and only eight, only eight, only--

The day the pot goes over, she knows. Something prickles at the back of her neck like a bad itch, like a bug bite, like the worst kind of déjà vu. She’s got Mikey in one arm, bouncing him up and down the way he likes, and the other hand is trying to stir pasta. It’s one of the only things she knows how to make, and Mikey probably should have something more, something better--baby food, or fruit, or something--but Dad’s been gone for maybe-days, maybe-weeks, and Jamie hasn’t figured out how she’s going to buy groceries yet. Problem for another day, she keeps thinking, the idea growing more fringed and frazzled by the hour. 

She’s standing on a chair, baby in one arm, stirring, and it wouldn’t have happened if only she were bigger. It wouldn’t happen if only she could stand taller, if only she didn't need to climb on things to reach, if only she had been able to sleep last night under all Mikey’s whimpers and Denny kicking the wall they share and the hisses of whore, your mum’s a dirty whore reverberating through her head. 

She’s swaying, bouncing Mikey up and down, up and down, and then she’s swaying too far. Too far to the left, too far to correct, and before she knows it, gravity’s got her in a headlock. She pitches sideways, the chair skidding out from under her with a squeal on linoleum, and Mikey is already bawling. Even before her stirring arm yanks the pot. Even before the water sloshes over, all bubbles and steam and Jamie distantly realizes she is shrieking. Her right shoulder comes up in a protective shroud around her little brother, taking as much of the splash as she can stand, and her shirt is pasted to her skin, pasted and bubbling and Jamie hadn’t known anything in the whole world could hurt as much as listening to Mikey screech from against her chest. 

“Just a mistake,” she says, yawning in a dimly-lit hotel room. “Just a mistake that a little kid makes on too little sleep and too much responsibility. It’s okay.”

Dani, fingers tracing the edges of raised skin, watches her. Jamie’s head is turned away, her body tucked into the space where Dani suspects she’s always sort of been waiting for someone to lay. Jamie is bunched up tight in the too-high AC, her knees pulled up to her chest, her hand holding gently to the arm Dani has draped loosely over her waist. She feels small in Dani’s arms, which is strange, because Jamie always feels like she takes up so much space in the world. Brass bells on her laugh, brass tacks in her smile, walking like she was told one too many times to sit down and her only response was to flash the finger. 

Dani sometimes wishes she could walk like Jamie does. Breathe like Jamie does. The closest she comes to it are nights like this, pressed close in a bed barely bigger than a twin, Jamie speaking slowly, tiredly, to the opposite wall. 

“You protected him,” Dani says softly. She doesn’t so much like the feel of the scar under the pad of her finger as she does the sensation of Jamie breathing beneath her hand. Jamie, exhausted from a long day on the road, still pressing backward into her like she can never get close enough. 

“Had to,” Jamie says sleepily. “Was so little.”

Dani gets that, understands what it is to hold something small and precious and innocent, and know the world doesn’t care about any of it. The world doesn’t want to keep small, soft things safe. The world just barrels on, riding its own track, and damned be the rest of them. 

She bends her head, presses her lips to the top of Jamie’s shoulder, waits for permission. Jamie exhales, leans her head back. 

“Go on, then.”

She smiles against the soft slope of Jamie, of the lightly freckled skin where no secret memories lurk, and drops a kiss right on the edge of the scar. Jamie doesn’t move, doesn’t push her away, just breathes lightly in and out as Dani explores the spot where a child’s error in judgment left a permanent brand. She traces the map of it with soft lips, careful not to do anything that might cause Jamie unease, careful to simply embrace this part of a woman who pretends it was just a pot because it’s easier than admitting the rest. How much guilt she must have carried for years after. How much it had hurt in ways that have nothing to do with searing burns. 

Her hand tightens across Jamie’s stomach, pulling her reflexively closer, and Jamie arches her back. Her breath is coming a little quicker now, her laugh deep in the shadows cast by one tiny lamp.

“S’just a scar,” she says, and turns in Dani’s arms to kiss her lips. “Just a scar, Poppins. S’all right.”

2

A few months go by, Christmas stumbling past with all the grace of a young puppy, the winter months unspooling after in its wake. Eventually, the world begins to wake again. The days warm, the sun casting its light on a new apartment, and Jamie--for the first time since Dani’s known her--is wearing shorts.

“You’ve never told me about this one,” Dani says, seated on the floor of the living room, surrounded by clean laundry. Jamie is on the couch, legs dangling on either side of Dani’s shoulders, a book propped gently against Dani’s hair. 

“Which?” she asks absently, flipping the page. Dani shakes the book away, pressing her thumb lightly to a spot high on Jamie’s right inner thigh. Jamie sucks in a showy breath. “Gettin’ a bit handsy there for all that laundry, Poppins.”

“One,” Dani says, “you can get down here and help me fold. Or two, you can tell me about this one.”

Jamie tosses the book aside, leaning over to look. “Ah. That. Was just a bad jump.”

Dani can tell right away that this is like the burn, that nothing with Jamie’s past was ever just anything. She rests her head against Jamie’s knee, gazing up at her, waiting. 

Jamie doesn’t advertise it or anything, doesn’t think anyone really needs to know, but she’s always been a good runner. Had to be, when she was little, when the other kids were big and strong and the only thing standing between her and a busted lip was to take off like the wind at the first sight of them. Had to be even more in foster care, when quick thinking and quicker legs were maybe the only chance she had at a peaceful evening. 

She’s not much to look at, seventeen and gangly, hips still figuring themselves out and legs prone to tangling when she’s tired. But, oh, can Jamie run. 

She’s running now, in fact. Running like all the world’s vices have her number and are ringing her up, and it feels good to move like this. Arms pumping, chest expanding and contracting around heaving breaths, eyes wild. A woman dives out of her way, almost upending her shopping cart, and Jamie laughs like she’s got the breath to spare. 

It would all be better, maybe, if she didn’t have the goddamn police on her tail. 

If she didn’t have a rather damning piece of fine silver tucked up under her shirt.

If she could be sure why she was doing this in the first place.

But no matter. No worries at all. It’s just pavement beneath her battered old work boots, just the breeze tearing at her hair and the dirty glares of complete strangers, and Jamie thinks, Yeah, you wish you could move like this. You wish you had the fucking freedom. 

Hands, catching at her jacket tails. Big hands, broad-palmed and nasty, and if they close over anything that counts, she knows she’s done for. Knows this is the price of living free: sometimes, you’re free to make choices that get you run down. Not that she cares. Not that she minds it in the least. So long as she can run like this, Jamie figures she can go just about goddamn anywhere. 

She shrugs the groping hands away, hears one of the uniformed men swear as she bolts left down an alley. She knows this street like the back of her hand, knows if she can just get to the end and up over the gate, she’s home free. The cops are older, bigger, slower to swing around such a tight corner, and Jamie’s leap takes her halfway up the chain link before she even has to start her mad scramble. 

She’s all seeking hands and desperate boots, gasping around the burn in her lungs where a fresh smoking habit is not doing her endurance any favors, and she’s laughing still. Even as she goes over, even as she feels something barbed catch along her inner thigh and tear, she’s laughing. Blood, spilling hot down the leg of her jeans, soaking black into the faded denim. Still, she throws her head back and brays insane laughter toward the sun.

She’s still laughing when she rounds the corner and slams straight into the barrel chest of a beat cop. Not the grabby one; he’s still puffing his way over the fence behind her. This one has mean eyes and a shark’s grin, and when his hand closes over her forearm, all the laughter seventeen years can produce goes rotten in her chest. 

“That,” the cop says, “doesn’t belong to you.”

Jamie, lungs heaving, silver hot against her belly, feels the shredded skin of her thigh pull tight, and winces. 

“Went in not long after,” she says, shrugging and resting a hand lightly atop Dani’s hair. “Stayed in nearly five years.”

She says it like everything’s okay, like it doesn’t hurt to remember a teenage girl who felt her only recourse from the world was to steal from it. Dani shifts, pulling Jamie’s leg higher on her shoulder, and kisses the jagged remnants of the day Jamie saw her freedom stuffed into a cage. 

“Honest,” Jamie breathes, watching her with eyes gone dark with some mix of desire and memory. “It didn’t even hurt all that much.”

She’s lying, Dani can tell; Jamie’s a terrible liar, so bad at it that she rarely bothers. She holds Jamie’s gaze, feels the uncomfortably sharp edge of the scar against the soft skin of her lower lip. Jamie’s brow pulls like she’s warding off something dangerously akin to shame. 

“I did it because,” she says, and Dani kisses the spot a little harder, shifting to her knees on the carpet. Jamie swallows hard, leaning back against the cushions. “Dani, I was...”

Don’t, Dani thinks. Don’t say my name like you’re confessing something. She presses her face against the hot skin of Jamie’s thigh, tries to imagine being young and desperate and foolish. It isn’t so hard to do. 

“You were just a kid,” she says, muffled. Jamie rests a hand lightly on the back of her head, giving her permission. “Just a kid running from so much.”

“It was stupid,” Jamie says thickly. “I was--”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dani says, so fiercely she surprises herself. “Doesn’t matter who you were at seventeen, Jamie. Do you have any idea how stupid I was at seventeen?”

They could go back and forth all day--Jamie’s mistakes stripping her of five years of freedom, Dani’s nearly stripping her of a lifetime. They could, but Jamie is looking at her with such love in her eyes that Dani knows it isn’t the time. It just doesn’t matter, not as much as this place and Jamie’s smile and knowing they're both who they need to be for one another, regardless of the past. 

Her hands are moving toward the zipper of Jamie’s shorts, her mouth light and gentle on Jamie’s skin, and they don’t talk about the scar again. Even with Jamie moving her hips restlessly, even with Dani’s tongue teasing and tasting, even as Jamie grasps her by the hair and makes the most wonderful sounds above her, Dani keeps her thumb pressed gently into that spot. Reclaiming it, in a way. Giving Jamie a dose of what it feels like to fly, to forget all her mistakes, to know only what it is to be loved. 

3

She likes to think she knows Jamie’s body pretty well by the time she finds the third scar. They’ve been together three years--three years of blessed, shocking serenity, and Dani feels good. Has felt good for so long, in fact, she’s almost forgotten anything else. 

That always feels a little like rattling the bars of some enormous cage, like taunting something huge and bestial she still can’t make out among the trees. Still. It’s no less true.

They’re in the kitchen, of all places, when she notices it. Jamie’s shirt has ridden up as she stretches to retrieve a plate from the cupboard, and there--just under the strap of her bra--a mark Dani’s never really registered before along her ribs. It’s a small thing, a puckered spot smaller than the nail on her pinky. 

“What’s that from?” 

Jamie twists awkwardly, trying to look under her raised arm. “Ah...bit of a mishap with a sharp implement.”

“At the shop?” Dani frowns, trying to imagine what kind of barbed plant it would take to skewer Jamie in such a way. Trying, too, to imagine what would keep Jamie from sheepishly showing her the same night, allowing Dani to patch her with rubbing alcohol, bandages, a long kiss. 

“Uh, no, actually. Inside.” Plate recovered, Jamie drops back down and tries to sidle around Dani toward the stove. Dani raises an eyebrow.

“Inside like in prison?”

“Just about the only place I can think of gets described as such,” Jamie says lightly. Dani jabs her gently in the shoulder.

“So, how’d this one happen?”

“Accidentally.”

Her voice is too light. She’s doing a little dance back and forth, trying to pass Dani, who finally relents. 

“You got accidentally stabbed. In prison.” 

Jamie sighs. “I suppose you’ll want this tale, too, mm?”

Dani gives her a look, half-exasperation, half-deeply entertained. A well, yes, Jamie, if it isn’t too much hassle to clarify the time you got shanked in prison look. She hadn’t even known she had a look like that, but bless Jamie: always teaching her new things about herself.

It’s not as bad as it seemed at first, Jamie learns quickly. Prison isn’t a picnic by any stretch, but for the most part, the other women leave her be. Maybe it’s something about the way she walks, a trick picked up before she was even into her teens: a good healthy swagger keeps at least the lowest-tier assholes at bay. Walk like you know what you’re doing, walk like you own the place, people are often less likely to take interest. Self-preservation’s a hell of a thing, especially in a place like this.

She doesn’t make friends, exactly, and maybe that’s for the best. The last friends Jamie made all had too-pretty eyes, too-quick smiles, hands that could produce a knife or the wallet out of your pocket with equal glee. She’d fallen in with them in all the wrong ways, these girls who knew too much of the world and were all too willing to share it with a gutter rat who kissed like it was the only thing worth doing, so long as no one went talking about it later.

Prison feels like that life magnified to its highest order. Still some pretty eyes, still some too-quick smiles in here, but no one Jamie feels secure even chatting up for long. Everybody in here is in for a reason. Some reasons less justifiable than others, maybe, but still. 

Still, there is one girl. Jamie’s been in for maybe two years, maybe three--gets hard to keep track, after a while--when this one arrives. Fresh meat, as the worst of the women say. Walk says she’s been around the block, but Jamie’s fair certain she can’t be older than Jamie herself was upon arrival. Just a kid. 

Kids make bad choices sometimes, she knows better than anyone. It isn’t her problem. 

Even so, she finds herself trailing along in the kid’s wake. Keeping an eye out. Kids who walk like that sometimes get skipped over--Jamie did, after all, but Jamie also knew when to say when. Head up, mouth shut. The back half of that plan is crucial to survival. 

This kid doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Every time Jamie comes around a corner, it seems like she’s walking in on another bag of bullshit. The kid, always picking fights with women bigger, or crueler, or more capable than she is. By the time Jamie realizes it, she’s taken to talking these women down. An extra pack of cigarettes in exchange for letting the girl live to see another day. A shift in the garden traded for a shift doing laundry. The women grudgingly accept Jamie as one of the level-headed among them, even if they don’t particularly love her for it.

Not my problem, Jamie thinks each time she sees the girl raise hackles, and each time, she finds herself making it her problem anyway. Stupid. But maybe if she’d had someone in her corner, someone watching her back...

She’s been cleaning up after this kid’s messes for about three weeks when it happens. Jamie’s just minding her business, just walking around the yard, and suddenly...there’s pain. A weird, blazing, hooked-talon pain radiating up through her side. 

Pain, and the bared teeth of a teenage girl. 

“You keep the fuck out of my business,” she hisses, brandishing the sharpened bit of what Jamie’s pretty sure was once a toothbrush. “Hear me? Fuck out of it.”

Jamie, hand clapped around a small puncture in her jumpsuit, pulls her palm away streaked with red. She raises her eyebrows. “Clear as day.”

She doesn’t see the girl again. Doesn’t question it. Can’t bring herself to wonder if it was a transfer or something else altogether. All Jamie knows is, this is what comes of sticking your nose into other people’s shit. 

“Wasn’t my finest hour,” she says, checking that the chicken in the oven isn’t actually on fire. “Just left me feeling dumb, really. Imagine getting poked by a goddamn toothbrush.”

“You said it was an accident,” Dani points out. Jamie sighs, opens the fridge, closes it again. 

“It was. Wasn’t meant for me, not really. I just happened to be there. She would’ve stuck anyone silly enough to step in her path.”

There’s a look in Jamie’s eyes Dani isn’t sure she’s seen before. Something tired and responsible, though not exactly guilty. She moves closer, carefully sliding Jamie’s shirt up until the tiny scar is lit by the overhead lamp, gleaming pink against Jamie’s pale skin. 

“I knew better,” Jamie sighs, leaning her hip against the counter as Dani gently touches just beneath the scar. “Saw myself in her, y’know? Same caged-animal desperation. Same darkness. And I didn’t think I could save her or anything so...fucking noble, but I thought maybe she just needed a little time.”

Time, thinks Dani, right. The one thing none of them are ensured enough of. 

“Never tried anything like it again,” Jamie says, taking Dani’s hand from her ribs and kissing her knuckles. “Never saw the use. I was in the garden by then, and actually giving therapy its due, and by the time I was up for anything like real human connection, I was out. Probably for the best, though. Imagine if she’d gone for my face.”

She’s teasing, trying to pull the sympathy from Dani’s frown and replace it with something brighter. Dani lets her. There’s little point in dwelling on a scar Jamie has already put to bed, after all. 

“It was good of you,” she says before letting the subject drop. “To try.”

“Maybe,” Jamie says softly. Dani cradles her face in both hands, willing her to believe it. A small smile touches Jamie’s lips. 

“Speaking of trying,” she says, giving Dani a light kiss on the cheek. “Think the bird’s burnin’.”

4

The fourth scar, Dani doesn’t feel too terrible about missing. She only finds it by accident one night, sitting on the side of the tub while Jamie soaks off a long day, and only then because her hands are busy massaging Jamie’s scalp. 

“Hey,” she says softly, so as not to shatter a mood built of lit candles and quiet music. Jamie leans her head back, questioning. “There’s something here...”

“Nothing big,” Jamie says, in that tone of voice that says she knows Dani will want to hear anyway. She sighs, patting gently at the foam of bubbles climbing the sides of the tub. “Just another tale of my misguided heroism...”

Dani laughs. “For someone who says she doesn’t care, you sure do get into a lot of hero-shaped situations.”

“Takes one to know one,” Jamie teases, and some of the light fades from Dani’s grin. She doesn’t want to talk about that. Doesn’t want to think about it much. A night a thousand years ago in a lake a million miles away, and though she can feel it all creeping in at the edges, she thinks there’s still time to turn her head. 

“Anyway,” Jamie adds in a slightly louder tone. “Anyway, how are you only just finding this now? With all the times you’ve pulled my hair...”

Her hand is creeping toward Dani’s knee, armed with a thin trail of bubbles. Dani shakes her head. 

“After,” she says, “you tell me the story.”

Jamie moves into the little flat above the only pub in Bly and thinks, Right. Home. The way a person who’s never really had a home does, she’ll reflect later. When you think a home is just four walls and a bit of furniture, a place to lay your head. At the time, in this moment, it feels better than anything she's ever had. 

She's already decided how the next year--maybe five, maybe ten, maybe the rest of what she’s got ahead of her--will look. Nothing complicated. Nothing big, or heavy, or loud. No pretty eyes. No quick smiles. No one to tell her they’ll love her if only she’d do this one little thing for them, no one to tell her they’ll kiss her if only she can keep her mouth shut about it afterward. 

Just this, she decides, looking at the tiny flat with its tiny sink and tiny bathroom and tiny spot where she’s just managed to wedge a bed. Just this, and the job. Don’t need much else to get by. 

It’s a good job, one she was unaccountably lucky to snag so soon out of prison. There’s so much green, she can feel her head spin to look at it all, and knows there is fortune in being asked to care for such an expanse of life. Five years ago, she doesn’t know that she could have done it. Doesn’t know if she could have been trusted. These days, she can’t imagine anything better. 

A good job at a great old manor, flowers as far as the eye can see, and this little flat. She’s doing all right for herself, Jamie. She’s doing just fine. 

Though the pub is a bit much some nights.

She usually comes straight home after work, uninterested in playing nice with the very specific breed born into Bly. There are some, she supposes, who are pleasant enough, but the grand majority remind her of watching her father climb into and out of a coal mine. They have the same blank expressions, the same vapid smiles, the same shape of mouth that so easily tends toward words like whore, whore, your mum’s a--

Nah. Better keeping to herself, really. 

Every so often, though, despite the noise and the company, she treats herself to a drink. Just one, usually alone at a corner table or the far edge of the bar. At first, there were men who tried to get involved, men who thankfully got the message--or if not the message, at least one similarly postmarked not interested--fairly quickly. Good for everyone. Jamie’s patience is only so thin, and there is something deeply alluring about a sharp fork on a bad night. 

She’s thinking about this on the night one of these men--one she remembers fairly well from a couple of weeks back, dark hair and patchy beard and bad aftershave--takes it upon himself to visit the backside of a woman’s skirt. His hand is trembling, a whiskey reverb taking the wheel, but it lands exactly where he’s aimed it. The woman, tall and angular and nervous, flinches away.

Jamie casts a quick glance around, reading the room. Everyone saw that. A pub like this, in a town so small; everyone sees everything. And yet, stunningly, no one is moving. 

The guy knows it, too. She can see it all over his face, the triumph of having gotten away with a misdemeanor. Did it even happen, if no one calls him on it? 

Best not find out, she thinks, and before she’s got a handle on this impulse, this stupid impulse that once got her stabbed in a prison yard, she’s up and moving. Just got out, she reminds herself, even as she’s stepping between the man and his target. 

“Lady doesn’t look like she’s having a good time,” she points out. There’s a feral smile on her lips, one she hasn’t entertained in a very long time. Never ended well, nights that put this smile on like a coat of deepest red. 

“Don’t remember asking,” the man sneers. His breath is so stained with alcohol, it nearly sends her reeling. The woman behind her makes a tiny noise. 

“We could ask,” Jamie says, faux-brightly. She twists at the waist, just enough to glance at the woman. “You having fun with this pack of shit?”

“Hey,” he snaps. “Bitch. Who the fuck asked--”

She loses her brief struggle with restraint on bitch, her head punching forward into his nose. It hurts, a little. Hurts him worse. He’s staggering back, blood streaming between his fingers when he reaches up. She’s gratified to see he nearly pokes himself in the eye in the process.

“Might wanna,” she adds to the woman with a little nod toward the door, watching as the drunk’s intended prey rabbits on out into the night. It feels good in a way she doesn’t entirely like, listening to the blood sing in her ears. Men like this shouldn’t be allowed in public. Men like this are--

A crashing, tinkling sound, as if from very far away. Jamie’s eyes go dizzy, her hand fumbling for purchase on the bar to stay upright. Glass rains down out of her hair as she gives her head a small, aggrieved shake. 

A bottle. This fucker has a bottle--well, what remains of it after introducing its length to her skull--in hand, his eyes wild. Jamie stares at him with gray disbelief, blood trickling down the back of her neck. 

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she says thinly, just getting the words out before another man throws himself at the first. Then, a woman, apparently deciding the night has been too dull to stomach. And her friends. Before Jamie knows what’s going on, the world has devolved into the very particular chaos of a bar brawl, people slipping and screaming and slapping at each other with aplomb. 

Right, she thinks distantly, too aware of the blood pooling sticky under her collar. Head injury. Maybe time to...

She’s back upstairs, the door double-locked behind her, before anyone notices. Briefly, while pressing a damp cloth to the back of her head and gazing at her nerve-wrackingly gray pallor in the mirror, Jamie considers calling Lord Wingrave and telling him she needs tomorrow off. Imagines how he’d sound, clipped and unyielding, over the phone line. 

Of course, she won’t do it. Of course not. This job is important. This flat is important. Everything else?

Everything else is just a reminder of why she’s best left to her own devices.

“So, anyway,” Jamie says, absently patting a foam of bubbles into a small tower. “That’s why I didn’t spend much time in that little pub. If you were curious.”

“Jesus.” Dani can’t quite find something more coherent. “Jesus, didn’t you press charges?”

“For what?” Jamie looks honestly puzzled. “Small town bar, small town life. It happens.”

“You could’ve been concussed!” Dani says, louder than she means to. “You could’ve gone to sleep and never got back up again!”

Jamie reaches up, touches her cheek gently. “Hey. Poppins. Easy. I’m here. Right here.”

Dani realizes the breath is pounding out of her faster than it’s coming back in, a sure sign that she’s about to tip over the precipice of something dark and exhausting. She leans into Jamie’s hand, squeezes her eyes tight. 

“Hey.” Jamie’s sitting up, knees squeaking along the bottom of the bath as she shifts. Water drains over the edge of porcelain, soaking into Dani’s skirt, trickling onto the tile. “Hey. With me, yeah?”

She lets herself be folded into Jamie’s arms, finding balance in each deep breath Jamie draws until Dani is able to match her. Jamie is still sopping wet, slippery, and the most stable thing in the room. 

“Still here,” Jamie says against her ear. “Bit battered around the edges, but it’s nothing new, is it? You still like me this way, dented packaging and all?”

“Love you,” Dani corrects in a thin gasp. Jamie squeezes tighter. 

“Exactly. That scar? It healed up. Like all the rest. It’s just a memory now. Can’t hurt a fly.”

Dani reaches up, combing searching fingers through Jamie’s hair until she finds the spot again. That strange raised bit she must have touched a hundred times, and only just registered. Someone hit Jamie there. Someone hurt Jamie there. 

“I’m all right,” Jamie says, enunciating every word right into her ear. “Save for being a bit chilly. I don’t suppose you can help with that...?”

She’s tickling Dani, moving to kiss her neck with sloppy good humor until Dani finally breaks. Even so, for a moment longer, that image holds: Jamie alone, Jamie holding a cloth to her bleeding scalp, Jamie with tears in her eyes and a decision never to care branded on her heart. 

“I love you,” Dani repeats, so forcefully, Jamie pulls back to look at her. 

“I know, Dani. I love you, too. Now. Hand me a towel, or get in here with me, I’m cold without you.”

5

The fifth and final scar, Dani doesn’t have to look for. Jamie shows it off herself, wearing an expression Dani remembers all too well from a panic attack, a shrub not quite big enough to hide behind, a mention of just how many times a day the average Bly groundskeeper bursts into tears. 

It’s a bad day, and this is Jamie’s way of making her smile again. Jamie, whose body she knows so well now, whose heart she knows even better, who wears her ring and has barely left her side in days. 

It’s a bad day. They’re in bed, one of the last places in the world Dani still feels completely safe. All of the mirrors are gone from this room. The pictures on the walls are strategic in placement, making sure Dani can never catch an accidental glimpse of herself--or not--in their glass. This room, where she sleeps with Jamie each night and wakes to Jamie each morning, is a bastion against the monsters. 

“Here,” Jamie says. She is, as Dani prefers her, without pants, hair up in a messy tangle, gold band gleaming on her finger. She is also, baffling Dani, holding up the bottom of her left foot. 

“What...?”

“This,” Jamie says, “may be the final frontier.”

“Your...foot,” Dani replies slowly, wondering if the increasing bad spots are taking a toll on her memory. Maybe this is a conversation that would make sense, if only she hadn’t spent so much of yesterday in a daze. 

“My foot,” Jamie says confidently. “More specifically: this.”

She’s pointing to a spot about midway down the sole of her foot, a spot Dani only just now can see is actually a small three-pronged scar. She frowns. 

“What happened there?”

She’s a bit afraid to ask, if she’s honest. Jamie has told her so many stories over the years, and they’ve gotten progressively more intense, progressively more violent. She's not sure her heart could take it if Jamie were to tell her this was from some unexpectedly grievous injury. 

“You sure you want to know?” Jamie asks gravely. “It’s quite the story. I mean, really, this is among my best. I’ve saved it just for a night like this one.”

Her mouth is somber, but her eyes are dancing. Dani feels herself smile, just a little. 

“Tell me,” she says, settling her head in Jamie’s lap. 

Jamie has been working for the Wingrave family for a couple of years, and it’s been better--and worse--than she could have imagined. The land is sprawling and fertile, incredibly eager to grow whatever she plants. Her rose gardens--and they are her gardens, make no mistake--are thriving. Sometimes, she thinks they’re doing better even than the human residents of Bly Manor. 

It’s been a rough couple of years, even with the fulfilling nature of the work. She’s met people she can’t help regarding with a deep affection bordering on family: Hannah, and Owen, and Rebecca, and the kids. She’s met some she doesn’t get on with so well: namely, that prick Peter Quint. And things have happened, things no one could guess at or control. Lord and Lady Wingrave, once so kind and generous to her, are gone. Rebecca is gone, too, in a fresher sense. Jamie’s starting to think letting any of these people in was a mistake. People have a way of vanishing. 

The plants, though. The plants are lush and green and loving. It’s silly, but Jamie thinks they believe in her more than anyone else ever has. 

This middle ground between grieving people and loving the gardens of Bly is where she’s grown most comfortable, and it is that comfort she blames for being surprised when things change one sunny day. 

She’s been puttering around the greenhouse for a couple of hours, glad to have the time away from prying eyes and whispering children. Flora and Miles--Flora more than Miles, lately--are charming, even wonderful, for kids, but they’re also under the age of thirteen. Jamie rarely knows what to do with kids that small, save for tossing them over her shoulder and teasing them mercilessly. They make her think of days long gone, of brothers not seen in two decades, and it scratches a strange, painful itch she doesn’t like thinking about. 

So, the greenhouse. Quiet, off-set from the main property, a nice place to prepare pots and experiment with seeds. She likes it out here better than anywhere, except maybe the roses. 

She especially likes how no one visits her out here. Not even Hannah or Owen, who know her better than most, and therefore understand a person’s need for solitude. No one comes out here at all--which is why, when she raises her eyes and spots a figure passing the window, she almost shouts with surprise. 

Blonde, she registers. Blonde, and a sweater in some pastel off-shade of purple, and--

Who the hell...

She’s drifting toward the door, she realizes only when her legs carry her through and out onto the lawn. The woman is walking with Flora, talking to her in a voice that does not carry out to Jamie. The new au pair, she realizes. Rebecca’s replacement. Of course; they were bound to find one eventually. 

And something about this one...

She isn’t looking where she’s going. It’s a rookie mistake, especially out here where the ground slopes and there are as many holes dug by rabbits as by Jamie’s own hand, and while she’s gazing after the blonde woman’s retreating form--

--her foot comes down on the upturned teeth of a fallen rake. 

The breath whistles out of her through clenched teeth, pain shooting up through the bottom of her foot in radial bursts. She hops for a second, grabbing hold of the greenhouse wall, and grasps her ankle for a better look.

“Son of a,” she hisses. These boots were good, once, but good only lasts so long on a fresh-out-of-prison budget. Three of the four teeth she managed to land on have punched straight through the base of the shoe and into her skin. 

“Jesus,” she mutters in mild disbelief. Years without injury on this property, and the first time she deals herself a good one, it’s because she was mooning after some woman she’s never even seen before, Jesus fucking wept. 

At least she’s way out here, all on her own. At least there are bandages and a slightly less beloved pair of boots to change into. No one ever has to be the wiser. 

“You see?” Jamie makes a grand gesture, wiggling her toes. “My most glorious story yet.”

Dani sits up, mouth working, unable to land on any one expression. “Are...did that really happen?”

“Did I step on a rake like a true goddamn idiot because I’d just caught my first glimpse of one Dani Clayton, you mean?”

“Yes,” Dani says, her throat suddenly dry. Her eyes are itching, tears pulling at the corners. Jamie smiles fondly. 

“I did. But I recovered myself marvelously. Bet you didn’t even notice the limp.”

“You weren’t limping,” Dani recalls, remembering in a hot rush how Jamie had strolled into the kitchen that afternoon. She’d looked so at home, so confident. Dani had felt instantly, wildly, as though they’d already done this once before. Like taking a test to which she had all of the answers. 

“I was not,” Jamie confirms. “Because I’d already spotted you once and made a fool of myself, and I was not about to pull that trick off again. Did you think I was cool?”

“The coolest,” Dani says, unable to stop the tears from spilling over onto her smile. Jamie pulls her close, kissing her forehead, rubbing comforting shapes into her back. 

“Then mission very much accomplished. Want you to know, though, it did hurt like a--”

“Why are you telling me now?” Dani asks from against her chest. Jamie pauses.

“Why am I telling you my deepest, most embarrassing secret?”

Dani nods, sniffling a little. Jamie thinks on it. 

“Because,” she says at last, reaching down to tip a finger under Dani’s chin until their eyes meet. “There are some people you don’t want to keep anything from. Some people who have earned rights to every story in your book. That one? That scar? No one knows about that. Just me. And now you.”

It means more than Dani could possibly explain. More than she could clarify, even to herself. Jamie, seeming to understand the hugeness of such a small moment, pulls her close again, kissing her with all the weight of thirteen years finally at home. 

6

Jamie’s body is a map of scars, she thinks sometimes. A map of all the strange little accidents and intricacies of a human experience. Things that have gone wrong, so wrong, in her life as to leave a permanent mark in their wake. They’re on her back, her thigh, her side, her scalp, her foot. A road map of a life lived fully, if not always precisely well. 

None, though. None could match this one. 

She won’t show it off to anyone. Won’t have an ugly raised bit of flesh where the wound sealed over and made itself whole enough to carry again. Won’t have a cute story of clumsiness or a vicious tale of chivalry to back it up. This kind of scar, she thinks, is different in a way no one could understand unless they bear its ilk themselves. 

The letter stays by the bed. Every night, before completing the ritual of Dani’s shirt, Dani’s pillow, Dani’s reflection refusing to show itself in the bath, Jamie picks it up. She had it memorized by the end of the first night back here, alone, pressing as close to Dani’s side of the bed as she’d dared. One night, spent back in their bed with all its pillows and blankets and emptiness. 

And then, never again. She reads here, sometimes, remembering the way Dani would lean back against the headboard and watch old movies. She’ll do paperwork among sheets where Dani once lay, sprawled naked and happily asleep. She makes the bed each day as though it had been slept in the night before, rumpling the blankets a little before leaving the apartment so she’ll have something to fix when evening comes around again. 

But she doesn’t sleep here. Not without Dani. Not ever. 

She stays, instead, on the couch. Turns it to face the front door, with the lock that always seemed to stick with Dani’s key in it, and turned smooth as butter for Jamie. She props that door open with one of her oldest shoes, careless of whether it will still be there in the morning. Dani’s shoes, the heels she hated and the flats she wore everywhere and the sneakers that had started off Jamie’s and been slowly co-opted onto Dani’s side of the closet, stay safely tucked away. If one of those went missing, the price of some desperate thief in the night, Jamie suspects she’d lose her mind trying to track it down. 

She stays on the couch, door open just a crack, bathtub full. That first night, she’d thought about just laying down in that bath and letting herself fall asleep. A bad thought. A thought running contrary to Dani’s final word on the subject. That Jamie was, above all else, to keep going without her. That she believed with her whole heart that this was the right answer. That she’d see Jamie again, and Jamie would be able to tell her off then, tell her off, and kiss her blind, and love her endlessly. 

But first: this one thing. This one last, hopeful thing. To keep living. To keep going. 

The worst thing, Jamie thinks each night, laying with pillows behind her back and her eyes on the door, she’s ever asked of me. Maybe the only bad thing Dani has ever asked of her in almost fifteen years. Dani was never cruel, not once, but sometimes Jamie is still angry with her for this much. For doing exactly the one thing she knew Jamie could not deny her. For asking this kind of oath. 

She can’t show this kind of scar to friends at parties, can’t find the words to spin out a pretty story about how it mapped its way onto her body. All she can do is sleep with it each night. Wake with it each morning. Walk with it each day. Sleep. Wake. Walk. And know, deep down, that there is nothing like a scar left by someone like Dani. 

Nothing in the world like it. 

Sometimes, with her eyes squeezed shut and one of Dani’s shirts against her skin, she thinks she can still feel a hand tracing the spot on her back, that spot just under her shoulder where a small girl once dragged a boiling pot off a lit burner. Sometimes, if she closes her eyes hard enough, if she lets herself drift through the black dots behind her eyelids, she imagines slim fingers finding the raised edges, mapping them with such care, such wondering love. 

She wishes Dani could ask after this one, too. She wishes more than anything she could turn a corner and there Dani would be, asking how she missed another one, how she possibly could have one more story to unburden. How would I even explain it, she wonders. How could I even tell this kind of tale? 

Maybe she’ll work it out, someday. Maybe. She can’t imagine anyone wanting to hear it. Can’t imagine anyone understanding the kind of print, the kind of wound, the kind of sear one person leaves on another when they’re gone for good. Maybe someday. Maybe Owen would, or Henry. Maybe she could...

But not now. Not yet. The wound is still open, still bleeding, and every day, she finds something new to pick at its edges. A journal Dani bought and only wrote in three times. A sock lost under the couch on laundry day. A package of those silly hair ties Dani liked, the ones Jamie liked to pull gently from her hair until it tumbled in waves around her shoulders. 

The place still smells of her. Jamie knows that will change, is nearly wild with horror at the idea of it. She goes to the shop in a daze one day, impulse-buys an entire cart of Dani’s shampoo. Her brand of deodorant. Her perfume, used only on special occasions like birthdays and engagement dinners and when she just wanted to get Jamie into bed for the hell of it. 

This is what a scar does, Jamie thinks, staring fixedly into a mirror that stubbornly refuses to show her blonde hair and a wry little grin. This is what a scar is. One that sits in your chest. One that sits here, and tears itself back open every time you think you’re starting to heal. It picks at you. It owns you. 

A story for another time, maybe. Another night, maybe. 

Right now, Dani is a scar Jamie couldn’t share even if she wanted to. Dani is hers alone to carry. 

She sleeps, and she dreams, and from somewhere far, far away, she imagines Dani pressing a kiss against her heart. 

[missmaywemeetagain]

Pink Scarf - PART 18.1 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)

Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years.  [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: References to sexual situations. ANGST. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.  

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact)        ||     Word Count: 8.6k

A/N: OKAY Y'ALL, Part 18 is split into two parts (18.1 & 18.2), so be aware that there is a bit of a cliffhanger for this reason. This part as a whole is another monster, but in a completely different way than the action-packed Part 17, and I didn't want to torture y'all anymore by making you wait for a GIANT chapter, since I was at 13k+ with no end in sight! We're diving into uncharted territory here (which was a challenge, let me tell y'all!) and 18.1 is all in flashback because of this. The vibe is DIFFERENT for obvious reasons, which you'll understand shortly. I promise there’s a good reason for the pivot, which will become more apparent in 18.2. Thank you so much for your patience, and I really hope you enjoy this perspective change in the story!

I've set the mood with lyrics from Teresa Brewer's Till I Waltz Again With You which is the song Elvis really sang in the talent show in '53 (unfortunately there is no recording of him singing it *sob*), and I've added pictures of our boy in the different years referenced, just to really give you a mental picture and break your heart a little bit. Only because I love y'all!

If you so desire, you should now have the ability to tip my blog or different chapters in the story! Some of you have been asking about this, and of course, no one is obligated to do so! If you do choose to tip, thank you so much! I've never had anyone want to pay for my work before, so this is a big step towards my romance novelist dreams. 💜

As always, to all my babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL and your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. You all are the best community a writer could ask for! Thank you so much for your support. I am loving getting to know y'all better! I love every single reaction and comment and ask, and I'm sorry if I don't get back to them all as soon as I'd like but know that I love you all and am so excited to be making new friends! And a big "Hey, Y'all!" to our friends from Elvis Twitter, Elvis Discord, and Elvis Instagram--I see and appreciate you coming over to join us! 👀💋

If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I think I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues or if I missed anyone. There seem to be some issues with tagging that I can't seem to fix, so please know I'm not leaving you out intentionally! Also, if you comment on a previous part that you want to be tagged, I might not always see it, so feel free to message me if I miss you!

I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat! 

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch. 

(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my long-neglected AO3 account (which some of you already discovered!), so if you are so inclined, you can check it out over there!)

Elvis in 1951

You'll be waiting for my arms

You'll be waiting for my arms

September 1951

Elvis meanders down the hall through the crowds between classes, quiet, blue eyes sharp and watchful. He heads towards the lunchroom, his cheap and worn guitar slung over his shoulder. His dark blonde hair is too long for the popular style, greased and pushed back, a stray lock falling into his eyes. The style of his clothes is too bright and bold for a scrawny 16-year-old white boy, gaining him stares that range from curiosity to contempt, but he doesn’t care. He is wholly himself, a separate standout from the masses, but somehow unassuming through it all.

A few weeks into junior year, he already has his head down and tries to pay attention in his classes as best he can, even though sitting still is hard. He knows he must graduate and his mama and daddy will have his hide if he doesn’t, so he sits in the back row and listens and does his work as best he can. He makes decent grades. He’s respectful to his teachers, all “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, sir,” just like he was raised. All the while, his fingers drum out rhythms on his legs (the desk is too loud—he learned that the hard way a long time ago), his mind whirling and spinning with melodies and harmonies and dreams for the future.

But mostly he observes. He knows he’s different. He knows most kids don’t understand what he’s about. He’s a poor, church-going kid from the projects who is so quiet that he seems a little slow, except that those piercing blues see and hear everything, constantly cataloguing, constantly adapting, constantly thinking, constantly moving. Always searching for a way to get his family off the dole and into comfort. So, he waits and watches and learns. He doesn’t care if that earns him strange looks.

The halls start to thin as underclassmen hustle to their classes and upperclassmen run to lunch, loud and hungry and antsy. Elvis is not in a hurry, though, yet not without direction.

The little, fluttering thing that rounds the corner is, however, and plows straight into him, managing to knock herself and her books to the floor. He’s not quick enough to get out of the way, but he is fast enough to catch her as she goes flying backwards.

“Whoa!” he exclaims, his hand grasping your forearm as momentum carries you in the other direction. He somehow manages to swing his guitar down gently enough that it doesn’t splinter but the strings thrumb in a dissonant chord as it hits the ground.

The move to save both the guitar and the girl throws off his center of balance, so as you wheel back, you take him with you. In your panic to stay upright, you grab at him desperately, latching onto his wrist, which damns you both, but does serve to soften the blow as you land with a gasp on your backside.

His fancy shoes have no traction on the slippery tile, and he struggles and slips this way and that before gravity wins the battle, sending him ungracefully to his knees, pinning your skirt between your legs. He manages to catch himself with his free hand at the very last moment, avoiding completely crushing you under his weight. His breath huffs out with the exertion, and that’s how he ends up sprawled on top of you in the middle of the hallway, your books scattered around like shrapnel.

Time seems to slow for a second, and he really looks at you for the first time, his face in too intimate of a proximity for comfort as he looks into your big, wide eyes and sees a pink blush grace your cheeks. Your pretty hair surrounds you like a halo in disarray. And your lips, well, they are much to close because he can feel the warmth of your breath on his face. His chest heaves and then catches because you are quite beautiful, sprawled out there on the tile under him.

Then reality and propriety rushes at him like a freight train, realizing the compromising position you are both in, through no fault of your own, but compromising, nevertheless. He feels heat rush to his face at the inappropriateness of his thoughts.

“Aw, h-heck, s-sorry,” he blunders, pushing up and back off of you as fast as his lanky limbs will allow.

“No, I should be the one that’s sorry,” you bluster back, leaning on your forearms “I was too much in a hurry and wasn’t looking where I was going.” Your voice is light and as pretty as you are.

“Are ya o-okay?” he asks, truly concerned but also happy with the excuse to look you over as you sit upright, your hair cascading over your shoulders. Taking in your slightly disheveled state, he can’t help but feel like you’re the loveliest girl he’s ever laid eyes on. It’s not just because you’re pretty—of course you are—but more like the feeling he gets from you, like you’ve reached something inside of him that no one else ever has. He can’t explain it. It’s like he’s always known you somehow. Shaking off those strange thoughts, he kneels, gathering your scattered books off the black and white tiles.

“Aside from my bruised ego, I think I’m fine,” you sigh shakily, “and now I’m late for class, on my first day, no less.”

“O-Oh, y-you’re new?” he asks, stammering yet again. He doesn’t understand why he’s so tongue-tied. He talks to girls all the time. The boys may despise him for a multitude of reasons, but the girls…well, he likes them a lot, and they seem to like him right back, with all his sweet Southern politeness and his pretty eyes and how he strums on his guitar and warbles at night in the shadows at the Courts. He’s had girlfriends from the time he was twelve, and he seems to have some innate knowledge of what women of all ages like. It’s one of the things he’s good at—talking sweet to girls and kissing on them.

But this pretty little girl has him thrown for a loop.

You’re both kneeling now, gathering papers and books. “Yeah, we just moved here…oh, thank you,” you say as he picks up your books and stands, offering his hand to help you up. Your hand is soft and cool in his larger one, the touch of your skin on his shooting and crackling through him like lightning. Those eyes of yours catch his briefly, and he almost feels dizzy with the way they make him feel.

Lord have mercy, he thinks, what the hell’s wrong with me?

“Oh gosh, I hope I didn’t break your guitar!” you gasp, seeing it discarded on the floor, obviously mortified at the prospect. It’s the last thing on his mind, and he manages to tear his gaze from you for a second to look down at the instrument. Honestly, he’d break a hundred guitars if it meant running into you again, but by some miracle, it’s undamaged.

Elvis picks it up and strums it. “It’s fine, no harm done,” he drawls, lip curving up in a shy, boyish grin.

Relieved, you flash a little smile, and the sight nearly knocks him over. “Well, good,” you say breathlessly, taking your books back. “I really am sorry, again. I—uh—I gotta get to class.” You are obviously worried about being late, face still flushed with embarrassment. Before he can say another word, you are already rounding the corner, scurrying away, your hair bouncing in your wake.

He stands there, staring after you and blinking as if coming out of a trance. He realizes he didn’t even catch your name or get a chance to introduce himself. All he knows is that you’re a pretty little freshman that just moved here, and while this information is pertinent, it doesn’t really help him much.

Walking to lunch in a daze, all he can think about is how he can go about seeing you again.

Till I kiss you once again Keep my love locked in your heart Darling I'll return and then We will never have to part

Unfortunately, he doesn’t see you, not for a while anyway. The school isn’t that damn big, but he never seems to be able to catch you or your name. Which is a damn shame because his thoughts seem to drift towards you when he least expects it. You show up in his daydreams or when a song he’s singing strikes him a certain way. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

By the next time he finds you, he’s just about put you out of his mind. But the minute he sees you that morning, out in front of the school, giggling with your new girlfriends, it’s like you’ve plowed into him all over again. His heart thuds a little harder in his chest as he passes you, trying not to stare, but he manages to catch your eye for a split second all the same.

At first, there’s no hint of recognition, which nearly breaks his heart, but then your eyes widen with realization and a hint of a shy smile plays on your lips. He returns it in kind, unable to stop himself from the bashful and relieved way it spreads over his face. For a moment, he considers stopping and asking all the questions he’s dying to know the answers to, but the flow of the crowd pushes him onwards and into the building.

He’s near giddy the rest of the day, wondering how and why the pretty girl he barely knows has captured him so completely.

Though it may break your heart and mine The minute when it's time to go Remember dear, each word divine That meant I love you so

Elvis in 1953

April 1953

Standing backstage in the high school auditorium, Elvis wonders why the hell he’s agreed to do this damn talent contest. His hands are shaking and clammy and he can feel the vomit rising in his throat. He’s scared shitless because he’s really only ever sung in the dark to his neighbors at the Courts, or in church with the congregation, but something inside him knows he needs to do this, even if it’s just to show himself that he can. It’s like a part of his soul drives him forward, even though his mind thinks he’s nuts.

It's not until he sees you backstage, ahead of him in the line, that his mind switches from crippling stage fright to a sense of excitement and curiosity. Your hair is done up real pretty and you’re wearing your Sunday best, he can tell. You don’t see him right away, and he knows he’s staring, but at least it’s keeping his mind off his churning stomach. You must feel his gaze because you turn and look back, your intelligent, wide eyes locking onto his.

It sends a thrill of a different kind through him when you tiptoe back towards him, and his heart races a little more than it already is.

You look him over carefully, and he might feel more self-conscious except your eyes are kind and concerned. “You okay?” you ask in a hushed whisper, not wanting to interrupt the current act on stage.

“I-I-I-I…yeah,” he stutters, unable to get the words out. His legs are wiggling, hands shaking, and he feels like he might puke all over your shiny shoes, but sure, he’s fine.

Lord, why is it in this moment of all moments that you come to talk to me?

You smile knowingly. “Yeah, I’m real nervous, too,” you breathe, seeing right through him. When he looks at you this time, he can see it, how you wring the sheet music in your hands and your eyes keep darting to the stage. It makes him feel a little better, somehow, knowing he’s not alone in this.

You stand there with him for a moment, and it should be awkward, except it isn’t at all. That strange familiar feeling of you makes this seem natural. He can’t seem to get any words out, so he just waits and jiggles.

“It’s gonna be fine. I think we’re just supposed to imagine everyone naked, right?” you whisper a little too seriously and that sets him off, a loud chuckle erupting from his mouth. Hearing the word “naked” come from your proper, pretty little lips just tickles him in a variety of ways, and he can’t help it.  Other people in the line shoot him warning looks for being too loud, so he quells his laughter as best he can.

You look over, your eyes dancing more with amusement than nervousness, and you cover the giggle that starts to come out of your mouth. He’s reminded once again by the warmth that spreads through his chest that you are the prettiest girl he’s ever laid eyes on, and hell, you’re funny, too.

You have to stop looking at each other because you’re one small step away from setting each other off into more peals of nervous laughter, which would surely disrupt the show. He watches as you bite your pink bottom lip and thinks of how much he’d like to do the same to you, imagining how soft it would feel yielding to him. Then he tries to push that less than appropriate thought right out of his head as soon as it pops up because, damn, this isn’t the time or place for that kind of thinking.

As your laughter dies, you look down at your feet, obviously feeling a swell of fear as you play with the necklace around your neck. He can feel it coming off of you in waves, despite your attempts to comfort him.

Suddenly, he can’t stand the sight of your uncomfortableness. He has the deep urge to fix it and make you feel better. Without thinking, he nudges you with his elbow. When you look up at him in surprise, he crosses his eyes, making a googly-eyed silly face at you. It has the intended effect, sending you into a fit of giggles, earning a glare and shush from the teacher in the wings.

It’s the cutest thing, watching you laugh like this, and it sends a rush of calm and satisfaction over him to know he’s the cause. He almost forgets that he has to go out there and sing in a few minutes.

“I’ve got to go, we’re on next,” you whisper.

“You’ll be great,” he says. He doesn’t even know what you’re going to be doing but it doesn’t matter. Anything you do will have his attention.

You smile shyly, as if reading his mind somehow, and he feels heat rise to his cheeks that has nothing to do with his stage fright. You nod, then skip off to the front of the line.

He watches in awe from the wings as you accompany your singing friend on the piano. Your hands fly over the keys with practiced, concentrated ease, and if he didn’t know better, he wouldn’t ever have guessed that you were nervous.

He suddenly thinks he needs to take up the piano. Maybe you could teach him and then he’d have an excuse to see you.

That thought is fleeting though, as your performance is through in the blink of an eye, and you exit the stage with a relieved smile, meaning that he’s one step closer to having to get out there himself. Now that he knows you’re okay, his nerves come rushing back. His leg vibrates uncontrollably, but he still manages to give you a thumbs up.

You slow as you pass him, placing your hand lightly on his bicep. He stills and looks at you in surprise at the contact.

“Thinking of them naked works,” you whisper with a smile, “Break a leg out there.” Then, you give him a light squeeze before being ushered away. Sparks fly through him at the echoes of your hand on his arm.

Elvis thinks his heart might explode. It’s crazy, this way you make him feel like he’s flying. It carries him out onto the stage, where he sings a rendition of Teresa Brewer’s “Till I Waltz Again With You” that somehow brings the house down and wins the talent show. They even call him out for an encore.

Thinking of them naked works, indeed.

But when he closes his eyes to sing, it’s you he thinks of. It’s you that gets him through.

The feeling he has coming off that stage is a buzzing, electric high he thinks could get used to. A dangerous, tiny thought in the back of his mind tells him to chase it like there’s no tomorrow, but the relief at the whole thing being over is too strong and pushes the thought away.

But the feeling lingers in his body like lightning in the clouds, just like your touch.

Till I waltz again with you Just the way we are tonight I will keep my promise true For you are my guiding light

Elvis in 1955

Winter 1955

Jack somehow convinces him with a begging phone call, on this cold-ass winter night on one of his only nights back home in Memphis in so long he doesn’t even remember the last time he slept in his own bed, that he has to help Jack get some broad at some diner across town.

And because Jack’s his best friend and he hasn’t seen him in years due to Jack’s stint in the Army and his insane touring schedule, Elvis bags off his family and Dixie (poor, lovely Dixie) and jumps in the Caddy to head to this diner across town. He figures he’s gotta eat anyway, so might as well get some time in with an old friend, and it’ll be a bonus if he can help ole’ Jacky Boy get some tail.

Absolutely exhausted from gallivanting all over the South, playing sold-out shows, and doing other things he’ll never tell his mama about, he drags himself into the diner, hands stuffed in the pockets of his big wool coat. Good old Jacky sees him coming and leaps out of the booth to give him a big, manly hug.

Elvis can both see and feel the change in Jack. There’s a bravado to him now, an air of machismo that is new. He’s broader and more muscular than the boy who enlisted right after graduation instead of waiting for the draft to get him. And Elvis gets it—Jack didn’t have much to stay for, what with his father being such a mean drunk and him having no special skills to speak of. Jack figured, why not just get it over with?

Even though Jack’s only a little over four months older than Elvis, he was a grade ahead in school, but that discrepancy never mattered much to either of them.

“Look at ya, ya sonnofabitch! Finally got some meat on those bones!” Jack says gleefully, slapping him on the back.

“And you’re as ugly as ever,” Elvis shoots back with a smile, sliding into the red booth.

“Damn, man, I’m hearin’ your songs all over the radio. Couldn’t fuckin’ believe it when I got home and every station I turned on was your warbling ass,” Jack teases in a congratulatory tone.

“Honestly, I’m so damn tired I could sleep for a week, but we’re back out on the road tomorrow,” he replies.

“What happened to that scrawny, shy kid who’d only play in the dark, huh? I’d be scared shitless to get up in front of all those people! Now you’re playin’ all the time…I just can’t believe it, man,” Jack shakes his head.

Elvis shrugs, “Can’t really ‘splain it. It’s like the biggest rush ya could ever have and it just overpowers the fear. The crowds are wild though—never knew chicks could be so crazy.”

“Oh, I bet you are just drowning in it, ain’t ya?” Jack says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Elvis shrugs nonchalantly but his lip curls up into a mischievous grin as he looks out the window. He was indeed taking advantage of his newfound popularity with the girls, almost to an insatiable extent. He’d done good resisting in those first few months, knowing he had Dixie waiting for him at home, wanting to be faithful to her, wanting to be a good Christian boy. But damn, the more he was on the road and the higher the highs of his performances, he just needed a way to wind down at the end of the night. And there were just so many pretty girls literally tearing themselves apart to get to him.

In the end, he hadn’t been strong enough to resist. He knew cheating on Dixie was wrong, and he felt terrible about it, having her waiting here at home for him like she was, but with every show he was learning that he wasn’t gonna be giving any of this up any time soon. No, he wanted to take this as far as he could go, and while a small part of him wanted to hang on to the idea of starting a family with Dixie, a bigger part knew that wasn’t in the cards, not anymore.

“Speakin’ of, what the hell am I doin’ here? You suddenly forget how to talk to girls while in the service?” Elvis ribs, yet truly wants to know.

Jack lowers his voice to a hush and leans in, his eyes darting up every so often to make sure he’s not overheard. “No, man, but this girl, she’s different, I’m tellin’ ya. This ain’t about gettin’ laid. I don’t know what to say, I walked in here right off the train my first day home and it was like the goddamned heavens opened. Every time I try an’ talk to her, I just get all tongue tied like an idiot. I figure, you were always good with talkin’ to girls in general, so I need your help buddy.”

“You’ve got it bad, man. She must be a real looker,” he says, shooting up an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but it’s more than that. She’s smart…oh, shit, here she comes! Be cool,” Jack hisses, leaning back too casually, a dumb grin spreading over his face. Elvis can’t help but chuckle at the sight of his friend being so head over heels for a girl he barely knows. He leans back, taking a much more relaxed and subtle stance than his friend, one that has been well practiced these past few months, as the waitress comes up from behind him to take their orders.

If nothing else, watching Jack be a dumb shit is entertaining, he thinks.

The waitress bounces over and Elvis rolls his eyes slowly up her body, taking in every lovely curve along the way.

“Oh, hi, Jack! I see you’ve got a friend with you today.”

Elvis freezes, his eyes reaching your face just as you start speaking and look over at him.

It’s you.

Holy shit, it’s you.  

His brain short-circuits. He hasn’t seen you since he graduated a year and a half ago. And damn if you don’t look prettier than ever, all grown up and filled out in all the right places, your smile brightening the room.

His lips part as his mouth drops, he can’t help it.

“Um, yeah, y/n, this, uh, this is my friend Elvis,” Jack stumbles over the introduction, looking to Elvis for help. But in this moment, Elvis feels utterly useless, every ounce of confidence he’s gained in the past year draining out of him all at once.  

His heart gallops in his chest, and he sits up straighter. He can see you looking over him expectantly, eyes narrowing as if trying to place him. He knows he shouldn’t care if you remember him, but by god, if you don’t, he thinks he might be crushed. But he’s also aware he’s different, too. He’s filled out and his hair’s darker, and why in the hell would you remember him from all those years ago anyway? You’d barely spoken to each other in four years.

“Elvis…” His name drags and plays on your tongue in a way that makes his toes tingle. “Like that singer?”

Of course, that’s how you recognize him, he thinks. But at least you know of him, even if it’s not in the way he wishes. He decides to lean into being “Elvis” because maybe that’ll make him feel less like an awkward high schooler and more like a cool cat. Regardless, the shyness he’d felt for being odd in high school is now mostly gone, and his unique style is part of the reason he was garnering so much attention these days. His confidence, especially with the ladies, is ever-growing. He knows he’s getting to be hot shit in the South and now has an image to live up to. There is no space for shy Elvis Presley here in this diner, for all the reasons. So, he manages to turn up the dial on his Southern charm, forcing himself to relax in your presence.

“Well, Miss y/n, seein’ as I never met another man with that name, I suppose, yes, like that singer,” he responds with a coy smile.

“Aw, don’t let him trick ya with that modesty. This here’s the one and only Elvis Presley,” Jack kicks him under the table, the message clear: Use your fame to help me out.

Your face lights up a little at that, which has a little flutter rolling in his empty stomach. “Now, Jack, you never told me you were friends with a celebrity,” she teases, her attention divided between the two men.

Elvis has to very consciously remind himself that he is here to help Jack, not steal you out from under him, but it is taking everything in him not to reach over and play with the hem of your skirt and tell you just how much he wants to take you home to his mama, Dixie be damned.

Jack smiles almost giddily, obviously pleased with your attention. “Well, I’m not one to go showin’ off or nothin’,” he says self-deprecatingly.

Elvis rolls his eyes at that.

“Well, my sister is gonna be beside herself when I tell her who came in tonight. She’s thirteen and might be your biggest fan, Elvis,” you say cheerily. He notices you aren’t completely beside your own self over him being here, which he has some mixed feelings about. On the one hand, he desperately wants your attention and admiration, but on the other hand, it’s kinda nice that you aren’t fawning all over him. It makes you even more appealing somehow.

“So, what can I get ya?” you ask, taking out your pen and paper, looking from man to man.

“I’ll have a hamburger, well done, please, and one of your vanilla milkshakes,” Elvis says, unable to take his eyes off you.

“I’ll have the same, except the burger medium rare, like a real man,” Jack jokes, poking fun at Elvis’ picky eating habits. Thankfully, you don’t react, and Elvis can’t help but kick the shit out of Jack’s shin.

Jack winces.

“Hmm, why do I get the feeling that you two are gonna be trouble?” you smile knowingly at them, pointing at each with the top of your pen. “I’ll be back with those in a jif. Try not to kill each other before I get back.” You bounce away and both men turn to watch.

“No promises, honey,” Elvis calls after you.

“Y’see what I mean, don’tcha? Ain’t she just special somehow?” Jack whispers excitedly, totally gone over you.

Oh, Elvis knows intimately how special you are, but he can’t say it, so he settles for a, “Yeah, man, she seems great,” and tries not to feel sullen about how he’s got to be Jack’s wingman for his own dream girl.

They shoot the shit, and he does his best to get Jack talking to you when you come by, even though it’s hard because he wants you for himself. It’s painful having to keep himself so in line, his heart cinching in his chest every time you come by to check on them. That’s when Elvis knows he’s in deep trouble. He reminds himself often that he is off the market anyway, at least when here at home in Memphis.

He promised to help Jack out, and so he will, even if it kills him.

“I gotta take a leak, man,” Jack says after the food is finished, scooting out of the booth.

You sashay over to clear the plates, and Elvis can’t help but stare as you lean over the table. Your eyes dart to his and he swears he sees a hint of pink on your cheeks. Warmth spreads across his chest and he tries not to avert his eyes. Any other girl he would confidently ogle, so he tries his best to stay the course.

“Y’ know, I’m not sure how you do it,” you say, breaking some of the tension as you stand over him, hands full of dishes.

“Do what, honey?” he drawls, raising only his eyes. Now that Jack’s gone, he’s laying it on thick and can’t bring himself to feel bad about it. Not when it’s you.

You shift your weight, but otherwise ignore his advance, much to his chagrin. You’re probably used to getting hit on by customers. “Getting up in front of those big crowds, all those people, and singing like that. I could never,” you shake your head.

A split second and he decides to play his hand, mostly because he has to know, just has to, so leaning back confidently, he drawls again, “Oh, well, a pretty girl once told me you just hafta picture ‘em all naked.” A slow grin spreads across his face.

Your eyes widen as it hits you. He watches you carefully, cataloguing your expression as you remember, your eyes travelling over him quickly, trying to reconcile your memory of him with the man in front of you. Your cheeks go rosy, and he relishes in the fact that he’s the reason.

“Well, damn, I guess I give really good advice,” you finally say, a little breathless, with a shake of your head.

Elvis can’t help the loud laughter that escapes him at that. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but you surprise him with your quip. You smile back at him, proud of yourself. The smile makes him feel special somehow, like he’s the only guy in the world.

“You’re really somethin’ else, y/n,” he says, his laughter dying down and being replaced too quickly by the awe he always seems to feel in your presence.

Something flashes over your face, something he can’t quite interpret. “Right back atcha, Elvis Presley,” you respond, and there’s something in the softness of your voice and in the way your big eyes stare straight into his that sends electricity zinging down his spine.

Then, as he watches as you walk away, he knows with absolute certainty that this won’t be the last time you see him.

Till I waltz again with you Keep my love locked in your heart Darling I'll return and then We will never have to part

And it isn’t. In fact, Elvis somehow manages to stop into the diner nearly every time he is home from then on out. Sure, Jack is his best excuse, but he also rounds up the band and Sam and even Dixie once or twice to go to this great diner he “just happened to find.”

Once he knows you are more often than not going to be there because it’s your family’s place, he wants to go frequently, and Jack is thrilled because the man might be more entranced with you than he is.

It’s not long that being friendly customers turns into being friends. Even when they find out you’ve got a serious boyfriend (because of course you do), neither him nor Jack is much dissuaded by the fact. Elvis would much rather have you in his life as a friend than not at all, and Jack is somewhat delusional in thinking you’ll drop your boy for him.

And while Elvis wants more than anything in the world to have you all to himself, he knows it’s likely not in the cards, at least not now, and maybe not ever. Not with the boy you want to marry you ever so close and Jack waiting in the wings like a puppy. And certainly not when he is running himself ragged with tours and recording, with his very real dreams of stardom so near he can taste them. But, as reality shows when he and Dixie finally part ways in late spring, it is no kind of life for a successful relationship.

So, he has to be content with watching you walk away with someone else, knowing he can’t have you, even though those electric shocks go through him every single damn time he sees you.

Though it may break your heart and mine The minute when it's time to go Remember dear, each word divine That meant I love you so

Elvis in early March 1956

March 1956

Elvis’ career takes off so dramatically that he barely has time to process his good fortune. In the moments when he’s not traveling, recording, touring, or appearing on television, he relishes the somewhat normalcy of hanging out with friends and family. It’s steadily getting harder for him to go out without being bombarded by fans, but he generally enjoys the attention. He’s grateful for his fans and for his budding success, though sometimes it feels so overwhelming he doesn’t know what to do with himself. There are moments when he desperately wants to be still and alone but when he finally has a moment to himself, it feels like the world is closing in on him.

It’s one of these moody, antsy nights that he finds himself at your doorstep, without anyone else in tow. The last time this happened was the night he signed his contract with RCA. You’d been the first person outside of family he wanted to share the news with and without a thought, he’d ditched everyone else and showed up at the diner in his fancy suit, uncharacteristically lifting you up in a hug and spinning you around in his exuberance.

But the mood tonight is decidedly less enthusiastic. He’s tired but hasn’t been able to sleep in what feels like days, pressure pushing in on him from all sides. Usually he didn’t mind, taking it all in stride as part of his new life, but tonight he was worn and restless, his body vibrating with energy that has no outlet.

When he feels like this, he gets needy. He’s already the sort of guy that thrives on physical touch, but in the state he’s in, it’s a necessity rather than a preference. Normally, he might go out with a girl and fool around a bit, but the idea of having to charm and swoon and put on airs right now feels impossible. But he knows he needs a woman’s touch to soothe him and that’s how he finds himself here, alone, knocking on your door.

Your eyes widen with surprise when you open the door and then soften with concern at the state of him, near pitiful with the dark circles rimming his eyes, his body slumped against the door frame, and his pallor a sickly pale.

God, he just wants to weep at the welcome sight of you.

You quickly and quietly usher him inside. By some merciful twist of fate, you are alone. Your mother and sister are out of town visiting relatives and your father is working late at the diner.

This visit should be awkward but isn’t—it’s as though he has been dropping by your house alone and unannounced your whole lives with the way you receive him, and for this he is thankful. And perhaps this is why everything seems to hit him at once, a wave of anxiety rolling over him so strongly that he can barely speak as you lead him to the couch.

It’s suddenly all too much, this feeling of responsibility towards his family and friends and fans. He’s overworked and overtired and the panic of his rising success has him shaking before you, his heart beating too fast and his breathing too shallow, making him dizzy and lightheaded. As he hyperventilates, you hum at him softly, prompting him to put his head between his knees while rubbing circles on his back. Tears leak from his eyes, staining his cheeks and where he leans his head against his forearms on his knees. He too worked up to even be embarrassed by how completely raw and vulnerable he is before you.

With very few words, you just seem to know what’s happening. You don’t ask him to explain or to defend his feelings, you just accept them for what they are and accept him for all that he is. There are no expectations. He feels incredibly relieved by that.

As he eventually starts to calm, he falls over, exhausted, laying his head in your lap. He feels your slight hesitation, but only for a second, before your fingers begin to cart through his hair. He cannot help the small whimpering moan that escapes his lips at the tenderness of the gesture, one he so desperately needs in this moment.

You are exactly what he needs, and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to deny that right now.

Perhaps that is why, once his breathing slows and he feels himself start to fade away into drowsiness that he turns in your lap and asks what he does.

“Can I stay?” he breathes, begging, looking up into your beautiful eyes. The plea is not full of lust, yet there is an open-endedness to it that he doesn’t hide, as his need for your comfort in any way you will give it to him is his prerogative. He cares for you far more that he dares to admit and cannot resist the pull of your soul to his, not tonight.

He watches your face carefully, seeing your brow furrow in the slightest and how you worry your bottom lip with your teeth. Propriety says you shouldn’t dare go there—you both know this—but at this point he’s not beyond batting his long lashes at you hopefully and a little mournfully.

“Oh, alright,” you finally concede, “but you need to be quiet as a mouse. I don’t know when Daddy will be home. And no funny business, Presley.” You point at him playfully, but there is a seriousness to your tone that makes him nod to give you reassurance. Exhaustion and moodiness cloud the way his heart wants to soar at this development of trust between you two, but he is too worn out to even muster a joke about the situation. That and he admires you too much to do anything that might jeopardize your blossoming friendship.

And with that settled, he raises from his all too comforting position in your lap. Much to his dismay, he’s unsteady on his feet, his attack having drained him of what little remaining energy he had, but you are quick to come to his side and walk him through the house to your room.

This doesn’t stop an unintentional tension from building, however, as you enter your room with him held close. He waits for you, wanting to follow your lead, wanting you to be comfortable, though he would just as soon collapse on your single bed without another thought.

You turn to him as though not exactly sure what to do next, your mouth opening then closing quickly, and he suddenly wants to kiss you so damn badly it’s painful. But it’s not the first time he’s felt that way in your presence, and probably won’t be the last, but then again, it never has been just the two of you alone in your bedroom before.

“I…I’ll be right back, I’m just going to…to go change,” you stammer, grabbing what is likely a nightgown out of your dresser. “Um, make yourself comfortable.” Then you escape into the hallway beyond, and he can’t help the little smile that plays at his lips in your wake.

He takes the moment alone to remove his coat and jacket and slip off his shoes and socks, folding them neatly at the end of the bed. He hesitates for a moment with his shirt and pants, but as emotionally wrought as he is, all he can think of is the calm feeling of being near you and ends up stripping down to his boxers and undershirt. Figuring he can always put them back on if it eases your mind, he then sits on the edge of the bed and waits.

It's not long before you come back, clad in a pretty white nightgown with little blue flowers all over it, your hair all brushed out and face washed pink. His heart actually skips at the sight. You look gorgeous and he has to remind himself that’s not what he’s here for. He’s here for you, yes, but not in that way. Luckily, his exhaustion overrides that sort of thinking rather quickly—he’s not sure he could do much in this state, even if you wanted to. You shut the door quietly behind you, even though there is no one else home to hear.

The air in the room feels heavy with potential and he can sense your trepidation as you turn back towards him and sit near him on the edge of the bed. His body begins to drag with sleep, the comfort of your arms and your bed beckoning to him. Finally, he chooses to break the silence.

“I’m not going to hurt you...I would never do that. I promise I won’t touch you like that. I just want to—” he says softly.

“I know, Elvis,” you interrupt quietly, “It’s okay. I know.” And your eyes are so big and sweet and open to him that it nearly makes him want to start crying all over again. Part of him wishes he didn’t need you like this, that you didn’t have to see him in this moment of weakness, but part of him is glad it is you. It could only be you, really, that he would give this part of himself to, he realizes, though he’s not entirely sure why. It’s that strange, unspoken bond between you two that has lingered under the surface from the beginning. This almost unreasonable need to take care of each other even when it doesn’t always make sense.

Once you climb under the covers and invite him to join you, he falls in next to you faster than you can blink. The bed is small which doesn’t matter much since he instantly curls close into your side as you lay on your back, notching his head into your shoulder. He can smell the soap and cold cream on your skin, and he drapes his arm over your midsection as though he’s done it a million times before. You stiffen at the contact at first, but then he feels you relax, your head leaning onto his, eventually running your fingers soothingly over his arm.

Yes, this is what he needs, he thinks dreamily, feeling like he can finally breathe again. And it’s not long before he drifts off into a deep slumber, surrounded by your comforting scent and warmth.

It’s the gray early morning light peeking through your white curtains that has him stirring awake, and it takes him a good minute to figure out where he is and who he is with, a feeling he is all too used to considering how much he’s on the road. But waking in some seedy motel in the middle of Texarkana in the arms of some random chick from the night before is not anything like waking in your cozy little bed, your warm body pressed back into his.

There is a care here with you that he yearns for, positively aches for, but did not realize he wanted or needed until this very moment. He is surrounded by the sweet smell of your silky hair, the warm softness of your bare legs against his convincing him that everything about this situation is just right. In his sleepy, unthinking haze, he pulls you closer, spooning you tightly into him, thinking he could just stay here forever, blissfully unaware yet of why he shouldn’t do so.

Until his virile, 21-year-old body reminds him, that is.

Perhaps it is the drowsy little sigh that escapes your lips in the same moment you unconsciously wiggle back against him that does it. Suddenly, he is very much awake, in more ways than one.

A stupid, instinctually carnal part of him very much wants to lift the hem of your nightgown up higher than it is already bunched and slide himself right between your inviting, bare thighs and into your heat, and dear god, that thought has him unraveling himself from you quicker than lightning.

Aw, hell.

He rolls over and sits up too fast, forcing himself to think of anything and everything but how you are lying in that bed so invitingly near. He closes his eyes against the brightness of day and breathes a few deep breaths before reaching for his clothes at the end of the bed.

A lesser man might allow himself to slide back into that bed, but by god, he swore he wouldn’t touch you like that and he refuses to take advantage when you’ve been so good to him. This thought, more than anything, sobers him as he puts his clothes on.

“El…Elvis? Are you okay?”

Oh, the way your sweet little voice sounds all clouded with sleep has him biting his lip so hard he nearly draws blood.

“Yeah, baby, it’s all good. Go back to sleep, honey,” he whispers, finishing the buttons on his shirt as quick as he can.

The domesticity of this little scene coupled with the ache in his groin has every damn cell in his body wanting to get back in that bed, and maybe if it wasn’t you, he would. But it is you. And as desperately as he wants this, he respects you too much to let his hormones get the best of him.

So, before he can change his mind, he kisses the top of your head for a little too long, breathing in the scent of you one last time, then puts on his shoes, grabs his coat, and climbs out the window, escaping into the dawn.

Till I waltz again with you Just the way we are tonight I will keep my promise true For you are my guiding light

His thoughts drift to you all day. He doesn’t even want to change or shower because the smell of you still lingers on his clothes, on his skin. The unfamiliar feeling of being so well rested and content has him singing and smiling all day, prompting his mama to ask him, with a knowing eye, exactly where he was last night.

And this gets him thinking about how much he would love to wake up beside you every damn day if he could, how amazing that would feel, and about how maybe, just maybe, it’s possible that he can.

Ted is out of the picture, and it’s been long enough now that you’ve moved on through the heartbreak. You’ve even casually dated a little bit, though no one has seriously caught your eye.

But then there is Jack, who is still pining hopelessly over you, refusing to make a move. And Jack is one of his best friends. It wouldn’t be right to sweep you off your feet right out from under his nose. He knows he could do it, too, and not just because he’s cocky in his growing fame. After last night, he just knows somewhere deep in his soul that if he asked, you’d be his.

And he wouldn’t even consider it except now he’s had a taste of you, of your sweetness and your comfort and your care and goddamn it, your smell is still all over him.

Well, shit or get off the pot, Jack, he thinks, because I ain’t waitin’.

He works himself up into it, trying not to think about all the obstacles in the way, namely his career and how it’ll take him far away from you, but in this endorphin-fueled moment, none of that matters. Only you matter, that and how you make him feel like he’s on cloud nine and how now that he knows what it’s like to wake up next to you, he knows he wants that again and again for as long as possible.

In truth, if he’d stop long enough to really think on it, he’s known it for a long time.

He’ll catch you at the end of your shift tonight. He buys a bouquet of flowers and everything. Energy pulses through him all day, sending his fingers tapping and his legs bouncing so much that his mama tells him to go run it off. Junior and Gene and Red think maybe he’s lost his mind because he’s even more restless than usual.

Finally, after a full day of working himself up into a near frenzy, he jumps in the Caddy and heads to the diner, ready to make you his.

But when Elvis parks in front and looks through the window of the car and into the diner, he sees Jack has gotten there ahead of him. He sees Jack holding your hand and then kissing it, pulling you into the booth next to him. He sees the lovely way you blush and smile in response.

And then he watches as Jack pulls you into him for a long, lingering kiss on the cheek. The way your eyes flutter closed tells him all he needs to know.

Fuck.

He’s too damn late.

Jealousy roars through him as he sees his best friend touching you, touching you when it should be him, not Jack, doing so. He can’t help but feel the memory of your body pressed so perfectly against his just mere hours ago. At that, at the thought of never having that part of you ever again, Elvis’ heart breaks into little pieces. He rests his forehead against the top of the steering wheel, unable to look at the romantic little scene before him.

This is how it was always supposed to be, he tries to convince himself. It was always Jack who was pursuing you, not him. And the worst fucking part is that he knows that Jack can give you something he can’t: Jack can be there for you, stable and sure, with you in the same damn city every damn day.

He cares for you, but he knows that his career is taking him places you cannot follow. And it wouldn’t be fair of him to ask you to put your life on permanent pause for him, no matter how desperately he wants you, no matter how deeply he believes that there is something powerful drawing you two towards each other with every breath.

He cares enough for you that he realizes, at least for now, that he has to let you go.

Friendship it is, then.

My light, my light I will keep my promise true Till I waltz again with you

Elvis in 1956

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Prove Me Wrong

Chapter 1: Trouble With the Iliad

Prove Me Wrong Masterlist

Here's the official first Chapter of my Billy series! I posted a prologue to this series, and it's currently on my page if you still need to read it. Sorry for the trash writing. I'm currently finishing up my midterms so I didn't get a lot of time to proofread, but hope you like it!

Also, Eddie, Chrissy, and Jason are mentioned briefly. Even though they're not introduced till the fourth season and this series takes place right after the second, it just made sense that they would still be seen since they all went to the same school, so I had to give them honorary mentions lol.

Summary: You get paired with an unlikely someone for an English project.

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: Slight mention of blood, lots of swearing, Billy being a bully, other kids being bullies, let me know if I missed anything!

If anyone were to pay attention to Billy Hargrove, they would realize he would come peeling into the student parking lot at 8:15 am every morning. Never too early to be bunched with the nerds, eager to receive extra time with either an activity or class that morning, but early enough to make his presence known to everyone before class started at 8:45. Exactly thirty minutes is what Billy deemed the perfect time to do, well, whatever he wanted. Whether that be talking with Tommy, leaning against lockers that never belonged to them, checking out random girls as they walked past without Tommy’s on again off again girl, Carol, overhearing, or smoking a cigarette outside, by himself, propped on the hood of his car, ensuring he took particularly long drags when being watched. So it was no surprise that while Steve Harrington sat in his car with Jess Logan, attempting to convince her to do a portion of his physics project, the time changed to 8:15 on Steve’s gold Hamilton, and in came the perfectly polished blue Camaro. As Steve opened his door and dropped his left foot onto the pavement, mid-sentence of “what would be in it for her”, Billy eyed the empty spot next to Harrington’s car, whipped around, and backed into it, causing Steve to jump back into the car and slam his door. 

“Dude, What the fuck?!”

“Why don’t you wait your turn, Harrington?” He smiled devilishly at Steve, not breaking eye contact, practically begging Steve to start something. Max Mayfield eagerly exited the death trap muttering “sorry” and shaking her head in annoyance as she quickly dropped her board and skated away, glancing behind her for only seconds before she disappeared towards the middle school. Billy’s eyes began to move towards Jess, and at this, Steve moved in between his friend and the boy’s gaze, shouldering her bag as he said “let’s go”, not breaking eye contact with Billy until he began to walk towards the high school. 

Once they were out of sight, Jess looked back over her shoulder and shook her head in disbelief, “What an ass.”

“Yeah, I hear girls say that about Hargrove all the time.” 

“Oh GOD, not what I meant Steve!” Jess ripped her bag off his shoulder as he continued laughing at his own joke.

“I mean, it’s fucking Hargrove, you really expect him to ‘wait patiently’?” Steve raised his eyebrows, waiting for an answer, even though he had no need for one. 

Steve and Jess entered the hallways together, as they did nearly every morning, and headed straight to her locker, where Steve continued to pester her about his physics homework. “You’re already in advanced physics as a junior, so this stuff should be like cake for you. It wouldn’t be all of it, promise.” Steve leaned against the neighboring locker and gave her the best attempt at a pout he could produce, making Jess roll her eyes. 

“I’ll do the FIRST part of your lab. You should be able to do the rest once it’s started.” 

“Jess, what would I do without you?”

“Your own homework?” 

With this, Steve chuckled, pulled her into a hug, and walked away towards his own locker, yelling “See you at practice!” over his shoulder as he did. She yells the same right before she feels a shoulder shove into her own, causing the notebook she was holding to fall back into her locker. She looked to her left to find her favorite set of teenagers. To the far right, and the one who no doubt bumped her without apologizing, was Tommy, who had his left arm slung over his now on-again girlfriend, Carol, who was looking back at Jess, lollipop in hand and set between her teeth as she sized her up before looking forward again. To her left was none other than Billy Hargrove and another girl Jess recognized as Jane Dodds, a senior that was also on the cheer team. Jess quickly picked up the notebook, slammed her locker, checking it once it was closed to ensure it couldn’t be reopened, and hurried to her first class, not bothering to look back at them. 

“Have we seen what the prude’s wearing today?” Billy winced at the belittling nickname his friends had reserved for Jess. “I swear she hangs out with Wheeler too much. Wasted potential.” 

“I don’t see this potential you’re talking about, babe,” Tommy jabbed, “She dresses like that for a reason.” Billy chuckled at this, not because he found it funny, he rarely found anything that came out of Tommy Hagen’s mouth funny, but because it wasn’t even a week ago that he was practically drooling over Jess while she was in her uniform after school. “I don’t know though, what you think, B?” 

“Eh. She’s all right.” The truth was, Billy thought she was absolutely gorgeous. Her dark hair was always either swept back into the perfect ponytail she wore at practices or games, or was let down, where it bounced slightly below her shoulders. She was still able to keep a slight tan, even in the middle of November, which reminded him of home, and despite what Carol ever said, he liked the way she dressed. But for right now, ‘all right’ was enough to describe the way he felt about her. 

“Don’t know if we can call her a prude anymore though. She’s been hanging out with Harrington a lot since his breakup, and you know he was getting it in with Wheeler every night. Wonder what him and Logan are up to now.”

“Ew, Tommy! He told you that?” 

“Nah, but he didn’t have to. They were together, like, every day. Why else would he hang with her every day.” Tommy gave Billy a knowing look, which upset Carol, causing her to throw Tommy’s arm off her. 

“So you don’t like spending time with me then?” 

Thankfully, they reached Billy’s locker, giving him the excuse to break off. “See you guys,” but no one was listening as Tommy sped after Carol, trying to tell her she was being overdramatic. It wasn’t till Billy closed his locker that he realized Jane was still standing right beside him. Billy scrunched his eyebrows at the girl, confused as to why she was still there. She was Carol’s friend, not his. 

“She’s completely ruining the cheer team with her weird choreography. I’m not sure what Steve even sees in her.”

What was this bitch going on about? “Who?”

“The prude?” 

He couldn’t care less about anything going on in any cheer team, and quite frankly, couldn’t care less about anything going on in this girl’s life. All he knew is he needed to get to class. Jane looked up at Billy with hopeful eyes, wanting to start up an actual conversation with him, one that didn’t involve others, like Carol and Tommy, stealing the spotlight, making him laugh. Billy saw this, saw that she was ready to cling to every word he would say, but he was in no mood for this admiration right now, especially at the expense of someone who he didn’t find half bad, so he did what he normally would avoid doing when trying to sleep with someone, he spoke his mind. 

Billy began to smile and shake his head, looking straight into Jane’s hopefully eyes, and just as she started to smile back, he spoke. “Jesus, I don’t care about your little,” he paused, and gestured at her nonchalantly, waving his hand, “thing.” Jane dropped her smile, and so did he, looking at her only for a second more, then disappearing into the crowd, leaving Jane stranded at the locker, wondering what she did wrong. 

---

One thing Billy enjoyed about going to a small, shitty school was having to share the gym with the cheerleaders. Normally, they would only stretch in the gym and proceed the rest of fourth period outside. But seeing that it began to rain, the girls were forced to continue practice indoors, a decision members of each team were excited about. 

“Okay, as we can see, we have some guests this morning,” Coach looked at the cheerleaders with distasted, not because he had a dislike for them, but because every time they shared the gym, not much practicing went on. “and because we won’t be distraction-free, we’ll be doing a scrimmage for this morning’s practice. Hargrove, Harrington, start picking teams.” 

“Girls, you’ll be splitting up into two groups, keep them even. Logan, your group will be cheering for Harrington’s team, Stinnet, yours will cheer for Hargrove’s. I want to see you both working on the choreography. No standing still looking awkward. And stay. tight.”

Alicia Stinnet began to walk to the other side of the court, Jane and her best friend, Katie, following closely behind, wanting to cheer for whatever team Billy was on. Chrissy Cunningham stayed in place until Steve called for Jason Carver to be on his team. She then joined Logan and the rest, giving her boyfriend a thumbs up as she did so. 

“Cunningham, Logan, front and center.” Coach Dien had made both herself and Chrissy co-captains this year, making them both in the running for captain next year. At first, this excited Jess. She had been working hard every year in practice, but she only realized the amount of pressure that came with it when the season started, having her coach watch her every move like a hawk, handing out praises to Chrissy while criticizing everything Jess did. She was sure Chrissy was a shoo-in, and she was just an honorary mention. But she still took her place next to Chrissy, both of them exchanging smiles. 

“Alright boys. LET'S GO!” Billy and his team began to take their shirts off, making a show of it in the process, no doubt for the girls on their side. Katie and Jane began to blush, both looking at each other while suppressing giggles. Steve looked over at Jess and raised his eyebrows, making Jess roll her eyes in embarrassment for her team. He then began to roll his hips, pretending to also be taking his shirt off. 

“HARRINGTON, stop flirting.” His coach then blew his whistle, threw the ball in between both Steve and Billy, and quickly ran out of the way for Steve to win the tip-off, passing the ball to Jason. Jess and Chrissy began to cheer, but for different reasons.

“Go Jason!” “YES STEVE!!”

To say Jess loved watching Steve Harrington play was an understatement. She never missed a game, even if she wasn’t assigned to go and cheer at one, she would go just to watch him. Every time she cheered for him, she sounded less like a cheerleader, and more like a proud parent, making her coach give her a telling look to take it down a notch, sometimes going as far as to say it was ‘un-lady-like’, but Jess never cared, and Steve loved that about her.  Jess and Chrissy continued to lead their group through routines, cheers, even the new choreography Jess added, keeping their coach satisfied. They would occasionally cheer Steve and the others on his team on, making sure to keep in sync when doing so, that is until Steve scored his first basket. 

“That’s right, Steve! Nice follow-through!” Steve tried to hide the proud smile but failed as Jess continued to loudly clap. 

“Logan, you’re still at practice…”

“Sorry coach.”

Billy’s nostrils flared with determination, not ready to let Steve score another time, annoyed by the praise he was getting. Jane and Katie took this opportunity to cheer loudly for Billy, which earned Katie a wink from him.  Katie looked over at her best friend with excitement, hoping she would return the favor, but Jane just looked Katie up and down, wearing a half-assed smile and a gaze of absolute jealousy. Katie didn’t notice and turned her attention back to Billy, now even more excited to cheer for the blond. His new set of groupies gave him a deeper sense of conviction, and not wanting to let his fans down, he dribbled toward the basket, clotheslining Steve in the process, and making an easy lay-up.  

“Nice, Hargrove, keep it up.”

“What?! That was a foul! Steve’s feet were planted and…”

“Logan,” Steve’s coach didn’t need to look away from the game to know whom he was arguing with, and his warning tone told Jess she was going to lose said argument. 

“Logan! I don’t see a smile, and what did I say about staying tight? Good, Cunningham. Get those feet higher!”

Jess huffed in frustration, but of course, did as her coach said and put a smile on her face as she continued to practice, keeping her arms tighter than ever. Billy looked over at her and licked his bottom lip menacingly, “Looks like you’re cheering for the wrong side, princess.” 

Eventually, practice was over with Steve’s team leading by 7. Everyone was dismissed to their respective locker rooms after it was made clear that there would be no practice after school for either team. Something about a teacher’s meeting, but nobody seemed to care about the why. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, besides Billy Hargrove, who was still sour from losing. 

“Hey, Harrington, maybe next time tell your girl to shut the hell up so we could focus, huh?” 

“Maybe next time make more of your shots.” 

Everyone in the boys' locker room stopped what they were doing and began egging on the two boys. Billy used the newly formed audience as more fuel to his fire and started walking closer to Steve, chest heaving in the process. 

“Alright guys knock it off, we’re a team an- “

“Shut up, Carver,” Billy turned his attention back to Steve, “you know, she’s real cute and all, but she’s a bit of an annoying bitch.” 

Steve continued to dry his hair and pulled on his shirt, responding with, “I’ll let her know you think she’s cute,” before making his way out of the locker room, unwilling to spend any more energy on the sore loser. 

Billy would continue to gripe about Steve’s personal cheerleader, but it wasn’t her that pissed him off, or even the fact that he had lost to Harrington. If he was being honest with himself, which he barely ever was, it was their relationship, it was the way that there were no ulterior motives behind her praises, no looks of lust, or fear, or longing to get his attention that Billy was used to. He didn’t know exactly what her look consisted of when she looked at Steve, all he knew is that he was jealous of it, of their friendship. And at the Byers’, he got a taste of what it was like to maybe be her friend, the way she just sat there and talked to him casually, the way she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind about his blood-stained teeth, it was different, refreshing. It wasn’t until she looked at him coldly and said the words, “we’re not friends” that it was ripped away from him, and he was stuck with the reality that all he had was Tommy Hagen, who‘s never had an original thought in his life, Carol Perkins, who would most definitely sleep with him behind Tommy’s back, Jane Dodds, who would talk shit about anyone, even her own best friend just to get Billy’s attention, Vicki Carmichael, who he didn’t even talk to, and whoever else went to the parties, the ones where he was never sober enough to remember any of their names the next day, and that would have to be enough. 

Jess waited for Steve outside the gym, laughing with Chrissy in the meantime. Once Steve came out to join her, however, Jess quickly stopped giggling and gave Steve a questioning look. 

“Hargrove.”

“Ah.”

“He says you’re cute by the way.”

Jess and Steve offered to stay behind with Chrissy while she waited for Jason, and by the time they all arrived at the cafeteria, it was already packed with hungry teenagers waiting in line for mediocre food. Once receiving what Jess believed was meatloaf and mashed potatoes, she and Steve slowly made their way to their table, passing a group who seemed to be filling out what looked like homework at first. 

“No, no I already told you, dex is where you want to put the 17, what’s a rogue gonna use strength for?” Eddie Munson seemed to be desperately trying to keep it together while coaching a new player on how to create a character. Eddie looked up for only a second and caught Jess’s eye, giving her a quick head nod, then turning his attention back to the stressed freshman. Jess tried to smile politely back but was too late as he was already flailing his hands above his head trying to explain skill points. 

“I can’t believe you used to be friends with him,” Steve said as Jess began to sit down next to Chrissy.

“Who? Eddie? I mean, I was in middle school, Steve. And plus, he was nice.”

“You know he was supposed to graduate last year?”

Jess rolled her eyes at Steve’s response. Like his not graduating on time affected how nice he was. 

“Oh hey, Jess, are you coming to the church activity tonight? We’re raking leaves for Mrs. Green tonight. She’s been having trouble since her surgery you know? And then afterward we’re going to read a few verses back at the activity center,” Chrissy then started speaking to Jess in a whisper, “You know, everyone misses you. We haven’t seen you in a while. No pressure, it would just be really cool if you went.”

“Oh, Chris, I’m sorry, but I’ve been really busy with school and everything. Physics is really kicking my a-butt and… I have a whole bunch of other homework. Maybe next time?” 

Chrissy’s smile went from hopeful to disappointed, but she nodded her head with understanding. “Yeah, next time!” 

Jess hated lying to Chrissy. Deep down Jess knew there would never be a next time, and she believed Chrissy knew that too, though she would hopefully never learn why. There was something that didn’t sit right with Jess after witnessing what really happened to 

Barbara, and Will being possessed by something other than the Devil, and El being able to manipulate the world around her. Jess had seen real evil, real demons, and they looked nothing like fallen angels. 

---

Seventh period couldn’t come soon enough. English was Jess’s favorite class of the day for the simple reason of there being no wrong answers. She loved being able to interpret texts the way she pleased. There were no formulas to direct her, no complicated steps to remember. It was just her, and whatever book was assigned for the time it was assigned for. The only problem with this class: Billy Hargrove. It wasn’t that he was an asshole during this period. He typically never spoke and sat in the back whereas Jess made it a point to sit at the very front. It had more to do with the staring, and though she wasn’t able to see him throughout the period, she could feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of her head.  However, she soon felt the discomfort from Billy’s gaze fade away as Mr. Crowley informed them of what they would be reading this next semester. 

“Now, because the Iliad is,” He then brought out a thick novel, making a majority of the class groan, “about 700 pages long, you will have all spring semester to read it and complete all projects and assignments. The Iliad is an epic poem written around 800 BC, so it might be hard to understand at times for… some of you, but that’s why I’m putting you in groups of two. Also, the school could only afford enough books for half the kids in your class, so there will be ONE book per group, so please, let the more responsible of the two keep it if you don’t mind. It’s important that you work together. There will be a quiz this Monday for the first chapter.” More groans followed. “It’ll be easy people, just to make sure you actually read the chapter this weekend. Once I call out your partners, get together and figure out a schedule to meet after school for, basically the rest of the school year.”

Mr. Crowley began calling out names, which began being drowned out by the moving desks of students joining their partners. 

“Darla Johnson, Jackie Williams.”

“Jessica Logan,” Jess began to get up to receive her copy from Mr. Crowley but stopped suddenly when she heard whom she was paired with, “William Hargrove.” Jess spun her head around to see if it really was him, and when she saw him leave his seat, she rushed over to Mr. Crowley to grab the book. 

“Mr. Crowley, about our partners, would it possible if-“

“No switching partners, Ms. Logan.”

Her classmates began to snicker, and Jess turned back around, red with embarrassment. Billy walked up to her and didn’t stop till they were toe to toe. “Where we sittin’, princess?”

Jess bumped him, walking back to her desk. Billy snapped at Jake Fieldway, using his thumb to point upwards, indicating he needed to get up, and then took his desk, scooting it so he was shoulder to shoulder with his new partner.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry, Jocelyn.” Jess looked over at him, unimpressed. And there it was again, his shit-eating grin. “So tell me, what is your middle name.” 

“I’m not doing this with you, Hargrove, can we please just..”

“Figure out the dates I get to go over to your house?” Billy kept his grin and added a wink for good measure.

“Okay, that’s it.” Jess began to rise from her desk, about to demand a new partner, when Billy reached for her wrist, grabbing her hand instead. “Get off-“

“Wait, wait, just, sit down for a sec.” And Jess sat, though she didn’t understand it, she felt the need to hear Billy out. “Listen, I really need this grade, okay?” Billy’s voice was lower than a whisper, his eyes continued to look around to ensure there were no eavesdroppers, “I’m not exactly doing so hot in this class right now, and let’s be honest, you’re like the smartest kid in this class.”

“Oh I’m smart now? Not even a few hours ago I was an ‘annoying bitch’. And I’m not just gonna let you use me for a grade. Besides, wouldn’t you rather be paired with her?” Jess gestured toward Jane, who was ignoring her partner as he tried to plan study sessions and was looking over at their table longingly. 

“Jess, she's a senior, in junior English.”

"Oh, right..."

“Exactly, come on, you won’t be doing all the work, I’m not completely fuckin useless. I’ll be a great partner, promise.” And with this, Billy raised his eyebrows in question, dipping his head down and pressing his lips into a line, waiting for Jess’s response. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Jess contemplated this for a moment. It didn’t seem as though Mr. Crowley was going to allow her to switch anyway, and the promise that she wouldn’t be doing all the work like she normally did resonated with her. 

“Fine. But you better prove me wrong.” 

 “Hell yeah, that’s my girl.” 

“Absolutely not.”

“What? You like ‘princess’ better?”

“How about we stick with Jocelyn.” 

“Very funny.” Billy looked over at Jess while he fiddled with the pages of their shared book, “Sorry by the way.”

“For?”

“The ‘annoying bitch’ thing. But you were being pre-“ 

“Quit while you’re ahead, Hargrove.”  Jess grabbed the book from Billy’s fidgeting hands and turned to Book 1. Billy looked down at where she had turned, and his eyes began to widen. 

“Oh fuck.” 

This is going to be a very long semester.

---

Jess rushed out right when the bell rang, ready to complain to Steve about her misfortune. However, Billy was hot on her tail, calling out her name while maneuvering passed the desks everyone ‘forgot’ to put back. 

“Jess, hang on there, princess. We never talked about when we’d be meeting up. I mean, I didn’t get to finish reading, and it was just getting so good,” Jess rolled her eyes at this, something she figured she’d be doing often, “What’re doing tonight? Let me take you home and we can-“

“Can’t. I’m helping Steve with his physics homework tonight.” They just made it out to the parking lot, and as if on cue, Steve came rushing up to her with, Dustin? “What are you two up to?” 

“Ah, see I’m helping this guy style his hair tonight, you know, gotta keep the legacy alive. So I’m gonna head over to Henderson’s after I drop you off and-” 

“Well, would you look at that? Looks like your night’s cleared up.” 

Steve, refusing to acknowledge him with a response, looked over at Jess, and pointed at Billy, “What the hell is he doin here?”

“We have a project together,” Jess said with a tight-lined smile. “And what about the physics lab?” She tried to hint that she needed him to save her, to get her out of having to spend the first night of her weekend with Billy Hargrove, and continued to move her eyes from him to Billy, until he responded with, 

“Ah no, that’s not due till the last day before winter break, we’re good.” 

Jess stood there, mouth open, looking at who was supposed to be her best friend in disbelief. What good was a best friend that couldn’t even take a hint that she needed him to agree with her? Before she could encourage Steve to answer differently, Mike, Will and Lucas biked their way over to them.

“Dustin, come on let’s go.”

“I’m riding with Steve today, he’s doing my hair!” Dustin began wiggling his eyebrows excitedly. 

“What, why?”

“No but really, why?” Billy chimed in, “How often that kid wears caps, he’ll be bald within the week.”

Dustin dropped his smile and pulled off his hat, “What?! Steve??” 

“No, don’t listen to him, you’re not going bald. Hargrove shut it.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” Max rolled in on her skateboard, then kicked it up into her hands, “What did I miss?” 

“Dustin’s going bald!”

“No, Mike, Dustin is not going bald. I’m taking him over to his house and I’m… teaching him how to do his hair, man that sounds ridiculous the more I say it.”

“OOOO can I come? I wanna see how stupid he ends up looking.” Max then looks at Billy pleadingly. 

“You go if Jess lets me take her home.” 

All eyes were now on Jess. She happened to catch the three boys on their bikes, shaking their heads at her, warning her not to do it, but then she looked over at Max and the eager look she had. They would have to meet up this weekend eventually. So against her better judgment, she looked at Billy and said, “Fine.” 

“Jess, you sure? I mean, we could always do the lab if you wanted to start early-“ 

Jess looked over incredulously at Steve, “A little too late for that, Steve.”

Lucas, Mike, and Will looked over at Billy, then Jess, with worry covering their features, the night of November 5th still fresh in their minds, but eventually biked away with Lucas shouting, “Henderson’s anyone?” The rest of the boys laughed and all agreed to go straight to his place.

Steve then started entering his car, with Max getting in the back while Dustin stuffed his bike in 

Steve’s trunk. He gave Jess a look, and asked, “You’re sure?”

Jess nodded and added, “It’ll be fine.”

Steve looked over at Billy, and then back over at Jess, giving her a look to wish her luck. Dustin then entered the passenger seat and began looking into the passenger mirror.

“Steve! I see a spot!” 

“Oh my god, where?!” Max responded excitedly.

“For fuck’s sake, Dustin, you’re not going bald!” Steve slammed his door right after giving Billy a dirty look and then sped off. 

After Steve's car was out of view, she turned back to Billy, who was already getting into the driver's side. Jess then entered his car as well, which smelled of cigarettes, cologne, and something else she couldn't make out. Without looking at her, he put his keys in the ignition, leaning one elbow out his window.

“Alright, where to princess?”

[sbngcha]

New Year's Kiss - n.jm

pairing: NCT Jaemin x reader

word count: 1.2k

genre: fluff, angst

summary: The most annoying person you know decides to do the unthinkable at a New Years Party.

note: Happy New Year everyone! Praying that you and your families have a truly remarkable and blissful year ahead! Stay safe, wear your mask and wash your hands! xoxo

P.S.This is my first time writing a kiss scene so I apologize in advance.

You hated your friend Jia for making you come to this New Year's Eve party. You were currently in an enormous house that you didn't know who it belonged to. The lights were dim, music was blasting, and young adults were dancing, drinking, and laughing. The only thing you had in common was that you were waiting for the clock to strike midnight so you can exchange New Year's wishes.

Your night was going bad... terrible. You were currently looking for Jia, who said she would go to the restroom and come back. That was almost 15 minutes ago, and you were getting worried.

You were all alone, walking around, looking completely lost. You didn't know anyone here.

Parties weren't your thing. You only came to this one for Jia. You've been roommates since your first year of uni, and you became super close, super fast. She was your best friend.

Your phone buzzed, and you checked it, hoping it was Jia, but it was just an Instagram notification.

@na.jaemin liked your post

You scoffed.

Na Jaemin. When you started University, you thought that annoying rich jerks would stay in high school BUT NOOO. You had the displeasure of sitting next to Jaemin in your sociology class.

He always acted superior to everyone else because he had a handsome face and money. He was annoying as heck. He never paid attention in class, never did his homework, and would always try to copy off of you on tests. Not to forget that he would always call you a loser whenever he had the chance.

But you’d be lying if you said that you didn’t have a very, very tiny crush on him. He is a handsome guy, after all. You find the little things he does cute, like the way he bites the back of his pen whenever he's too focused on something. Not to mention his incredible smile and fluffy brown hair.

To be honest, you wanted nothing more from him. Yes, he's cute, but he's also Jaemin, and it's unbearable to be around him. It was just a tiny crush. We all have one of those, right?

You sighed; your eyes fell on the time. 6 minutes to midnight, "shit, I gotta find Jia" you hurried to look around the house, but everything was so dark you couldn't see much.

You continued walking until you stumbled on something hard. More like someone’s back. A tall guy wearing a black leather jacket.

“oh my god, I’m sorry! Are you ok?” you asked the guy.

"Hey, watch it-" he stopped mid-sentence when he turned around to face you.

Your eyes widened when you realized who it was. “great...” you whispered

“loser!” he exclaimed. “what are you doing here? I didn’t know you were the party type” He laughed.

"Very funny, Jaemin, I'm here with Jia," you rolled your eyes at him

“the cute girl you always hang out with?” He asked

“I guess?” You answered. Why did he know who you hang out with?

“cool..” He looked around. “Where is she?”

“she went to the bathroom,” you said

“PFT! looser... I don’t want to break it to you, but you’ve been ditched,” he said with a laugh.

You tsked, "Jaemin, I didn't get ditched. She just went to the bathroom."

“how long has it been since she left?”

You sighed and looked at your phone. “about 15 minutes...”

Jaemin laughed even harder this time. The audacity of this man... "well..." you said and looked around. "I don't see you with anyone,"

"stupid Jeno left me to hook up with a girl. He said something about 'fucking his way in 2022,'" he mocked him “do you believe that guy?”

you giggled.

“what?”

You looked up at him and smiled widely "you got ditched. The Na Jaemin got ditched. Who's the loser now?"

Suddenly, all the lights went out. ‘oh no...' you thought. You still hadn't found Jia, and now that the entire house is pitch black, there's no way you'll find her in time.

People cheered and started counting down.

10...9...8...

You felt a hand on your waist. Your body crashed into Jaemin's. He moved his other hand to the back of your neck to keep you steady. To say you were shocked was an understatement.

7...6....5...

"you will always be the loser, Y/n," he said to your ear. You shivered at his words, but something else caught your attention. He just said your name. You weren't even sure if he remembered your name. Jaemin would always call you a loser.

4...3...2...

With the darkness surrounding you, your senses were heightened. You felt Jaemin's every move. His firm hold on your waist, the way he slowly moved from your ear to your cheek. How he stopped right in front of your lips, close enough to feel his breath on your lips. Jaemin was so close to you that it gave you butterflies.

1...

"My loser," he crashed his lips into yours, kissing you hard. You didn't waste time putting your arms around his neck and kissing him back.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!" the people surrounding you cheered, but you were so focused on Jaemin that it felt like they were miles away. He kissed you with a fevered urgent need you've never experienced before, and you loved every second of it.

'What has gotten into me?' you thought. All semester you complained about how annoying Jaemin is, and now you were kissing him? On top of that, you liked it? Not to mention he called you his loser. Your brain was going a hundred miles per hour, but your heart was pounding faster. It shouldn't feel this good.

The lights came back on, and he pulled away. You were both out of breath. He rested his forehead on yours, looking you in the eyes. His beautiful doe eyes. He moved his hand from the back of your neck to your cheek.

"I-" he stared, but he never got to finish as you heard your name being called from the crowd of people. He smiled. "happy new year," he breathed. "I'll text you" he gave you a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried to walk away.

Leaving you standing there completely and utterly shocked. "What just happened?" you questioned yourself.

"Y/n! There you are!" you turned to see Jia practically running towards you. She pulled you in a hug. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Happy New Year!"

You let out an airy laugh "happy new year, Jia" she broke the hug and looked at you "are you ok? You look flushed. Your cheeks are red," she said worriedly, placing the back of her palm on your forehead checking your temperature "do you feel ok?"

"I'm fine, don't worry," you reassured her and looked back in the direction that Jaemin had disappeared in.

"Are you sure?" She asked, and you nodded. "I'm sorry I left you alone for so long. The line for the bathroom was too long, so I tried looking for another one, but then I got lost. This house is HUGE."

You chuckled, "don't worry about it."

“Alright, do you want to go get something to eat?”

"yes! I'm starvingggg. I haven't eaten since last year." She laughed and began walking towards the front door, wishing everyone on your way a happy new year. You stopped momentarily to look back at the spot where Jaemin kissed you, the thought of bringing butterflies to your tummy again.

“Y/n you coming?” Jia asked

"Yeah, sorry I got distracted," you smiled to yourself. That was a side of Jaemin you've never seen before, and you liked it.

Maybe Na Jaemin wasn’t that bad after all.