Witch @iamvanillacherry - Tumblr Blog

𝕹𝖔𝖙 𝖆 𝕻𝖗𝖔𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖙𝖞

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴘᴇᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ɪɴ ᴀ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴏꜱᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪɴɢ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ ᴏʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴇʟɪᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴇʟʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴏᴍᴇ — ᴀ ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ꜱᴇɴᴛᴇɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ. ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴇᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ’ʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴘʀɪɴᴄɪᴘʟᴇꜱ… ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴜɴᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ɢᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇɴ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ᴀᴜ, ꜱʏꜱᴛᴇᴍɪᴄ ᴏᴘᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ (ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴘʀᴏᴘᴇʀᴛʏ), ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴜᴛʜᴀɴᴀꜱɪᴀ, ꜰᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ, ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ-ꜱᴛᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ/ꜱᴜʙ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʀɪᴅɪɴɢ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ/ᴄᴜɴɴɪʟɪɴɢᴜꜱ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴍᴇɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʀʏ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝘈/𝘯: 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦-𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪-𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘕𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘺 𝘋𝘰𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴!

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 13,2ᴋ

In a world where night creature adoption centers dotted every city block like pet shops once had, it had become almost unusual not to own one. Whether it was a shade for companionship, a domesticated kelpie as a therapy creature, or a vampire—rare—nightlings were everywhere. They had been folded into daily life, marketed as living luxuries, symbols of status and style. You couldn’t walk three blocks without seeing someone cooing over their duskbeast or posing their feathered hellcat for likes on Instagram.

For decades, night creatures were hunted on sight. No trials, no containment—just cold, clinical extermination. Vampires were the most visible, but they weren’t alone. Kelpies drowned in dry tanks. Fairies were burned to ash in “containment fires.” Merrows were dissected for study under the flickering lights of whitewashed labs.

It was done under the guise of safety. Public protection. Clean streets and peaceful nights.

But people watched. And people remembered.

It started with the footage.

Blurry, shaky clips taken on contraband phones. Videos of people laughing as a werewolf hissed and begged. Images of black bags dragged into trucks. The limp hand of a nightborn child, fingers twitching with the last of its stolen strength.

They called it evidence. The government called it fabricated.

The protests started small—signs painted on old bedsheets, marches in the dead hours, flowers left on government steps. “They Bleed. We See.” but the movement grew faster than expected.

The government could no longer call it fringe hysteria, they had to call it a crisis.

But they didn’t want to concede. Not fully. They didn’t want to admit they’d been wrong.

So they compromised.

They stopped the killings.

Not because they saw personhood but because they saw profit.

Sanctioned containment was proposed not as mercy, but as an “ethical, manageable alternative to wasteful culling.” The motion passed in the midnight hours, slipped beneath the noise of another budget bill.

The bill wasn’t called the Night Creature Protection Act.

It was called the Domestic Integration Reform Initiative.

DIRI.

Ownership was encouraged, even expected—especially in cities where the rehoming shelters were “overburdened” and the euthanasia rate for unadoptables hovered quietly above 38% and so it all began.

But you didn’t want one.

Not a vampire. Not a fairies. Not a werewolf, not a dreamhound, not a thing that could look at you and feel and still not be considered a person.

So you made yourself a promise.

No night creature. Ever.

No matter how lonely you got. No matter how beautiful they were. No matter how often your friends said you’d be such a good match for a nervous one.

No.

You didn’t want obedience, you wanted choice.

You wanted to look someone in the eyes and know they were staying because they wanted to.

You had stuck to that.

For years.

Until you met Remmick.

The road to the adoption shelter cut through the forgotten edge of the city, where the concrete split in long, pale veins and the warehouses loomed like sleeping giants. Chain-link fences rimmed the road in either direction, hung with tattered warning signs and the quiet menace of barbed wire. Steam leaked from the gutters, pooling low and slow around the tires of passing cars like smoke that had nowhere left to rise.

You rode in silence, watching the landscape slide by, as your friend hummed under her breath in the driver’s seat. Her scarf was slung loose around her neck, fluttering when the breeze slipped through the open window.

She was smiling, excited. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the wheel as she navigated the turns, already imagining the collar she’d pick out, the bed she’d set up, the first photo she’d post online with a caption like “Welcome to the family.”

You stared out at the ruins of the old freight yards, where the government once processed surplus creatures for destruction—before legislation had shifted, before public outrage had spilled loud enough across newsfeeds and city halls to change the system.

Your friend was one of the good ones, you reminded yourself.

Her family had marched for nightkind rights during the following round of protests. She had stood beside you at rallies. Her father had donated to shadow-lawyers trying to push protection bills through the House.

But now, here she was—smiling as she pulled into the shelter lot, ready to adopt her second creature, like she was visiting a petting zoo.

“You really need another one?” you asked, eyes on the road. Your voice was flat, tired before the conversation even began. “What about the kelpie one?”

She sighed. “My brother wanted one. But he’s too young, and I want him to take care of something that’s… safe. Something trained. Predictable. So I give it to him.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked out the window, watching the different types of creatures that were dragged around the city tied to their obligatory collars and harnesses.

“And do you seriously need one?” you said it in an almost reproachful tone of voice, even though you didn't mean to but she caught it anyway and looked at you askance.

“You know I’m not like that,” she said softly. “You’ve known me since we were kids. You know my family fought for them. They’re safe because they serve.”

The truth hung between you like fog in the car.

She was right. They’d been spared mass extermination only by offering usefulness in return.

As the car rolled to a stop, you caught sight of the shelter building ahead: squat and windowless, flanked by metal fencing and dead trees. A faded sign out front read:

NIGHTKIND INTAKE & ADOPTION CENTER – UNIT 7

The letters were plain. Official. Cold.

The kind of wording that left no room for mercy.

You stared at the sign, a bitter taste rising in your throat.

Your friend cut the engine and glanced over. “You sure you want to come in?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your hand was already on the door handle.

“I’m sure,” you said quietly, entering in the shop before her.

The creatures shelter smelled like antiseptic and something worse—like despair that had dried into the grout. Like bleach failing to hide the scent of fear. It was clean, yes, but in that too-quiet, state-funded way—where the color palette was limited to grays and yellows that used to be white, where every sound was swallowed by concrete walls and cheap, humming fluorescents overhead.

The kind of place where silence wasn’t restful. It was resigned.

Your friend didn’t seem to notice. She was radiant with excitement, practically floating beside you as the shelter clerk led you both through the first corridor. Her coat flared at her hips, stylish and bright against the monotony, and her boots clacked like punctuation against the linoleum floor. She was already talking about names.

You watched as she leaned in closer to the clerk, nodding enthusiastically as he launched into a lazy explanation about temperament ranges and adjustment phases. He looked bored. She looked enraptured.

“Now,” the clerk said with a grunt, stopping at a wide door, “the real stuff’s in the back.”

The lock disengaged with a mechanical clunk. The door hissed open.

Your friend lit up. She practically skipped ahead, her heels clicking against the floor like applause. Her silk scarf fluttered behind her, slipping from her shoulders as she disappeared around the corner.

You watched it float down near a cell in the middle of the corridor, totally forgotten.

“You coming?” she called, her voice light, sweet, unaware.

You sighed, moving forward beyond the door and entering the new wing. There was something heavier about this hallway. The quiet wasn’t sterile anymore—it was strained. Like the space itself had learned to brace.

You bent to pick up the scarf, its fabric whispering across the floor.

And then another hand reached for it.

A pale hand.

Too pale.

You froze.

The fingers were long, elegant in a strange, haunting way but covered in small sores. And when you looked up, you saw him.

He was crouched in the shadows of a side cell, where the corridor turned at a sharp angle. The bars cut harsh vertical lines across his face, but you could see him clearly enough. His hair was dark and matted. His face was like his hands, with scratches and cuts scattered here and there that were trying to heal. But it was his eyes that held you there.

Blue-grey. Bleached pale, like winter skies before snow.

They weren’t feral. They weren’t angry. They weren’t anything you expected.

They were… sad.

You stared. He stared back. Neither of you moved. The scarf lay limp between your hands, caught in the moment like a truce.

Then came the crack.

A flash of motion.

The clerk slammed his truncheon against the bars, the sound sharp and brutal. The vampire jerked back like he’d been struck, mouth parting just enough to flash two small, pitiful fangs.

He whimpered.

Not a snarl. Not a growl. Not even the sharp hiss they all expected from his kind. Just a soft, broken sound—like a wounded dog too scared to bare its teeth. It cracked something in you.

“Don’t do that,” you snapped, voice low, tight with something you didn’t want to name. You stood up without thinking, your body angling instinctively between the cell and the clerk like a barrier.

He looked at you with a scoff, as if you were the one being unreasonable.

“Trust me, this beast is unstable,” he said, lazily spinning the truncheon in one hand, like it was just another tool. “People keep bringing him back here after a week or two. Always angry. Always panicked. Bit a guy once just for trying to pet him days ago.”

He jerked his head toward the vampire, who had retreated into the furthest corner of the cell. There was barely any light back there—just the dim bleed of fluorescence from the hallway—but you could still see him.

Still watching.

He’d curled in on himself in a way that didn’t look defensive, just… small. His knees drawn to his chest. Shoulders bowed. Arms wrapped around himself like they were the only warmth he’d ever known. The long, tattered sleeves of his issued shirt had worn through at the cuffs, and his bare feet were pressed flat to the concrete, toes curled like he didn’t quite trust the ground beneath him.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He just stared, like he was bracing for the next blow—only it didn’t come from the truncheon this time.

It came from the clerk’s next words.

“Another few weeks and I’ll get him out of my way once and for all,” the man muttered, tired and unbothered, like it was just the weather or paperwork. He leaned against the cell, tapping the baton absently against the bars. “Useless stock like that? We can’t keep him forever. Not worth the space.”

Your blood ran cold.

Not adopted. Not rehabilitated. Not transferred.

They’ll end him.

Some quietly sanctioned protocol. A needle. A bolt gun. The kind of solution they saved for animals no one wanted.

Your friend called your name from the other end of the hallway. She’d picked a fairies already—a small, doll-like thing with green eyes and perfectly combed hair.

You turned back one last time.

He hadn’t moved.

Still curled against the wall. Still watching.

But now his eyes were different.

Not just sad.

Hopeful.

Like somehow, he knew you weren’t like the others. That you saw something—someone—underneath the filth and the hunger. The raw, trembling bones of a person no one else had bothered to look for.

You left with your friend. Her new pet levitating securely at her side, encased in a pink collar and leash.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The shelter was quieter the next evening.

It stood at the end of the street like a mausoleum waiting to be filled. No birdsong, no passing traffic—just the slow grind of your boots on frost-slick pavement and the low hum of distant machinery behind reinforced walls. The sign out front was the same as yesterday.

You had barely slept. You’d spent the night pacing your apartment, drowning in silence. Every room had felt too full and too empty all at once, like a life you’d half-stepped out of. The image of Remmick—curled in the back of his cell like something exiled from warmth—wouldn’t leave you.

Not his face. Not his eyes. That look—raw, trembling, and quietly hopeful—had followed you into your dreams. And when you woke to the first colorless light of morning, you already knew.

You couldn’t leave him there.

Not in that cage. Not with them.

The clerk at the front desk barely glanced at you as you stepped inside, his face lit with the glow of a cracked tablet screen. The front office smelled of sterile citrus and overheated plastic. Somewhere in the distance, a muffled voice called out a unit number, followed by the sharp click of boots on tile.

You cleared your throat. “I’m here for one of the nightkind. The one from Cell 17-B.”

The clerk sighed. “What for?”

You raised your eyebrow, your jaw clenched. “Adoption.”

He continued to stare at the tablet, looking perpetually bored. “Which breed?”

“Vampire. Dark-haired. Blue-grey eyes. Cell 17-B,” you repeated, harder.

Recognition flickered in his eyes, and then something colder settled in his expression as he looked up at you. He leaned back in his chair, sighed, and said flatly, “The biter?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He clicked his tongue and stood, muttering, “I hope you know what you’re doing,” before disappearing into the back.

You waited in the small metal chair beside the front desk. The air conditioning was too cold, the hum of fluorescent lights like a constant headache burrowed behind your eyes. A security camera in the corner buzzed faintly. Time moved differently here—thick, slow, and hard to swallow.

When the clerk returned, he had a clipboard in one hand and a data-slate in the other.

“Your name? We’ll assign him an owner record” he asked.

You gave it. He typed it in. The screen flickered blue for a moment, then green.

“You’ll need to acknowledge liability. He’s been flagged. Former owners returned him twice for aggression. You saw the notes yesterday, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Still want him?”

“Yes.”

He looked at you again then, really looked—like he was trying to gauge whether you were stupid, noble, or just hopelessly naïve. But he said nothing more. Just handed you the stylus.

You signed.

And the deal was done.

They made you wait in a different room—a release bay with heavy double doors and iron anchors built into the walls. The walls were gray, institutional, and bore the telltale scuff marks of boots and struggling creatures dragged in or out against their will.

When the door opened, it was not the creature who stepped through first, but two handlers in matte black uniforms. Between them, shackled at the wrists, bound in a collar and with a muzzle over his mouth, was the vampire.

Remmick, from what you read in his file.

His head was lowered, hair wet from you didn't know what. His posture was hunched, shoulders curled inward, as though bracing for a blow. He was thinner than you remembered—sunken in, fragile. His skin had the translucent quality of someone who had gone too long without nourishment, wounds that failed to heal properly.

But his eyes—

The moment they found you, everything changed.

They widened first in disbelief, then in something else—something too complicated to name. His lips parted, just barely, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t drawn air in hours.

You stepped forward. “Take those off.”

The handler frowned. “Protocol says he stays restrained until he’s secured on property. For your safety—”

“I don’t care about protocol. Take them off,” you said, louder.

There was a pause.

And then, wordlessly, one of the handlers knelt and undid the cuffs. The metal dropped from Remmick’s wrists with a soft clatter. The other loosened the muzzle, and it slid down his face like dead weight. The collar remained. They were not allowed to walk without it, or they would be considered "unowned."

You took a careful step forward, keeping your voice low.

“Remmick. That's your name, right?”

His head twitched slightly at the sound, as he recognised his name.

“Do you remember me? We saw each other briefly yesterday.”

No reaction. You were starting to get nervous. Maybe you'd misunderstood. Maybe he had no intention of leaving with you.

“Do you want to come home with me?” you asked.

That word—home—must have done something. His shoulders gave the smallest jerk, and his eyes narrowed, confused, as if trying to decode a word he’d never heard used without consequence. He blinked slowly, once.

Then, finally, he took a single step forward.

You didn’t reach for him. You just stood there, hands at your sides, letting him decide.

It was slow.

Tentative.

Like every motion cost him something.

But eventually, he crossed the last bit of space between you and you took the leash that was hanging from his collar and swinging in front of his body.

The walk out was slow. You kept your hand tight around the rope but you didn't pull or tighten it, you let Remmick decide the distance and pace at which to walk. He suddenly tensed up at the sound of a horn in the night. Every sound made him twitch. Every light made him glance over his shoulder. But he stayed beside you, clinging to his collar like a lifeline.

The front desk clerk didn’t say a word as you passed. But you saw the way he looked at Remmick—like something broken that should have stayed on the shelf.

You met his eyes.

And kept walking.

Outside, the cold air wrapped around you both like a sheet of glass. Your car waited at the curb. You opened the passenger door and helped Remmick in gently. He stared at the seat, then at you, as though unsure he was really allowed to sit.

“Go on,” you said softly. “It’s okay.”

He settled in slowly, limbs still unsure. You closed the door after him, circled to the driver’s side, and got in.

You hadn’t meant to linger in the doorway, watching him.

But there was something about the way Remmick stood there—just inside your apartment, arms curled close to his chest, eyes wide as he took it all in like a wild animal unsure if the trap was hidden in the warmth.

His clothes hung off him in layers of gray and brown—threadbare fabric that clung like a second skin of dust. He smelled faintly of old concrete and damp metal. You didn’t say anything about it. You just smiled softly and said, “You must be freezing. Let me run you a bath.”

The water steamed as it filled the basin—an clawfoot tub tucked into your tiny bathroom, old porcelain but nice and clean. You added a handful of the nicer soap you’d been saving for yourself, watching bubbles bloom over the surface like fragile clouds. The steam fogged the mirror. It felt quiet in there. Safe.

You loved your bathroom. It was the one place where you could relax and leave your troubles at the door. You hoped Remmick felt the same.

You stepped from the bathroom and saw him standing in the hall, silver-eyed and hesitant. The guilt of his position prickled—somehow, you felt less human for seeing him so stripped of fear, so entire in his insecurity.

"Come." You called to him, waving a hand to inviting him closer.

He blinked, then walked slowly across the lacquered floor.

When he reached the bathroom door and glimpsed the tub fully—steam rising like mist from a secret pond—he halted again. Regulators clicked in his mind. Hope, indecision, fear.

He cleared his throat, voice rough as gossamer. “…All of this—is it… for me?” His fingers brushed the rim of the tub.

You nodded. “Yes, of course.”

He stared at you. Then he asked, voice pointed at the bubble-laced water, thick with fragrance and light flicker, “How long can I stay?”

You blinked. “You mean...in the bath?”

But just nodded. He wasn’t looking at the water anymore. His eyes were on you now—direct, uncertain, fragile.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “…As long as you want.”

He blinked at that. Once. Twice. Like he wasn’t sure he heard you right.

Then he looked back at the bath. His hand lifted slowly—hesitating in the air like it was reaching into a memory—and he touched the rim of the tub, tracing the porcelain edge with his fingertips.

“Alright,” he said softly.

And then, without any preamble, he started to undress.

Right in front of you.

The motion wasn’t sultry. Wasn’t calculated. It was casual, automatic—like the idea of modesty didn’t register to him as something that applied. He pressed his thumbs into the waist of his pants, tugged them down inch by inch, exposing thighs pale as polished bone.

Your breath hitched when the room suddenly felt too small. Embarrassment flushed every inch of you. Your heart thundered. You bolted upright.

“There are towels… on the sink.” You coughed, voice tight, a little choked. “And, uh, soap’s already in, just—uh—take your time!”

You didn’t wait for a response. You backed out of the bathroom like it was on fire and shut the door with a little more force than you meant to.

Outside, your heartbeat was in your throat.

You leaned against the wall and let out a long, slow breath.

It was fine. Totally fine. He didn’t mean anything by it. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.

You headed to your bedroom and grabbed the loose, comfortable clothes that your ex-boyfriend left at your place without ever coming to pick them up. You'd never felt like throwing them away, especially since if he ever knocked on your door again, you didn't want to tell him you'd thrown them away. At least they'd have a use now, even if only briefly.

The bathroom light glowed beneath the door, soft and golden. You’d given him time. Enough to sit, to soak, to breathe. Enough to warm the chill from his skin and loosen the weight in his bones.

But eventually, you needed to make sure he was alright.

You raised your hand to the door.

Knuckles hovered for just a moment. Then—gently—you knocked.

“Remmick?” you said, your voice low so it wouldn’t startle him. “Can I come in?”

There was a beat of silence. Then you heard the soft splash of water shift, a towel rustle on tile.

And then—his voice. Throaty. Thin.

“Of course.”

You opened the door gently.

Remmick was standing with a towel around his waist, hair damp and curling slightly now that it had been washed. He wasn’t looking at you directly—just standing there, uncertain, his hands gripping the towel too tightly. His collarbones jutted out like fragile sculpture, a faint bruise still visible beneath one. Steam clung to his skin like silk.

He was very frail; you could see the bones sticking out too far, and his skin was an ugly, faded color. He had probably not been properly nourished in months.

He cleared his throat to bring your attention back to his face, and you mentally slapped yourself for being so indiscreet in your analysis.

“No need to be askin' me for permission.”

You blinked.

A chill moved through you—not because of his words, but what lay beneath them. The quiet resignation in them. The learned pattern.

“…I belong to ya now,” he added, quieter.

You wanted to tell him that you didn’t agree with the system. That he could choose to say no to anything that was being forced on him. That he wasn’t a slave. He was no longer human, but he was still a living being.

However, a speech like that could have thrown him into a crisis or pushed him toward behavior that would get him into trouble.

So you simply added:

“I will always ask your permission,” you said softly, stepping in with a folded bundle in your arms. “For anything involving you.”

He looked up at you then. The light caught his face at an angle that made his eyes look like bright rubies.

You offered the bundle out.

“Here,” you said. “Clean clothes. They’re probably a little big, but soft. Thought you’d be more comfortable for tonight.”

He hesitated for a long second—then reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of the shirt with awe. He stared at it in his hands like he didn’t quite understand what he was holding.

“There’s a hoodie in there too,” you added. “And tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it… we can go out. When the sun goes down.”

His eyes flicked up again.

You smiled gently.

“I thought we could go to one of the nice shops. You can try on anything you want. Choose what you like. It’s up to you.”

Remmick didn’t answer.

Not right away.

He stood there, half-dressed in steam and silence, holding soft cotton like it was treasure. His lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you—or didn’t believe you.

Then, finally, in a voice that cracked on the first word, he whispered:

“I can… choose?”

“Of course you can.”

Another pause.

“No one’s ever…” he began, but the words trailed off. His shoulders slumped a little, eyes glassing over—not with fear this time, but something closer to disbelief. Hope, maybe. Soft and shaking and half-buried.

His fingers dug into the hoodie at his chest. He looked down at it like he was afraid you can take it away from him at any moment. Take away that moment of happiness for your own personal enjoyment.

“I don’t really know what I fancy,” he said, almost apologetically. “Clothes, sure. I just… wore what they handed me. What they picked out.”

“We’ll figure it out,” you said.

He blinked.

You could see it in his eyes: the way the idea bloomed. Slowly, quietly. The way it tried to take root in soil that had never been made to grow anything. The shape of a life he’d never been allowed to imagine.

“Thank ya,” he said finally. Not performative. Not automatic. Just quiet. Real.

The first weeks Remmick spent in your home felt like living inside the slow thaw of an ancient winter. He moved quietly, like someone learning how not to disturb sunlight—careful around corners, lingering with purpose but not permanence. It was as though he was still bruised by the shape of captivity, carrying the echo of barred cells inside his bones, and every step he took beside you was a question: Am I allowed this?

He never asked for help, but soon enough he offered it. You’d wake in the morning to find the living room arranged: pillows fluffed, the coffee table wiped, dust erased from corners you hadn’t even bothered to see. Dishes cleaned before breakfast. Laundry taken in sets, towels folded and stacked neatly on a rack.

He never show off. But you could feel him: the way he hovered at the edge of chores, hesitant, not sure yet if it was his space. Eventually, he began to follow timid instructions—“If you’d like help, Remmick…”—and he nodded, like an apprentice afraid to claim the title, learning fast.

You still found him watching you when you weren’t looking. His eyes—those eyes of his, grey during the day, and carmine red at night—drifted from the hallway, peeking around doorframes or across the kitchen threshold as you moved about. Not because he distrusted you. Not in any way you’d ever make something for ill intent. But because he hadn’t been sure anyone was trustworthy before.

In those first days, his hunger stayed muted. You left blood packets outside his laundry room door like a ritual—gentle, hands gloved, voice soft: Here’s today’s pack. I’ll check back in a while. He never asked for more. He never even lingered at the door. He took it. Walked away. Waited.

Blood for him was life. A way of reconditioning a body that had known deprivation. You found him this way: perched on the corner of the bed after dinner, blood packet in hand, head bowed. Trying not to make the slightest noise.

Almost cute.

That afternoon, you came home with groceries, groceries for you, groceries for your evening at home, and within the crate, tucked under your arm, a fridge box for his blood sacs. You rested the box on the counter, half-inclined to set it aside and when you looked up you found him sitting on the other side of the counter.

His eyes darted toward the box in your hands. His nostrils flared, just a bit. A tiny betrayal of the need he was trying to suppress.

You lifted the sac with a gentle tilt of your hand. “You want another one?”

The question was casual. Offered like anything else you might ask a friend. But the moment it left your lips, his body tensed.

Remmick’s gaze dropped. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet yours. Not directly. Slightly to the side of your face. A habit, you’d come to learn. A softened way of looking without confronting.

His voice came out quiet, dry with shame.

“I… I don’t wanna be a pain, ya know,” he said. It cracked partway through the sentence, just a tremor. His hands twisted in front of him, fingers digging nervously into the hem of his sleeves. “It’s grand by me. You’re already too kind. No need to be spendin' any more on me.”

He tried to smile after that, and it was the worst part of it all. That broken attempt at reassurance—at making you feel better for what he needed.

That smile, half-curled and tight at the corners, said more than the words had.

The bag in your hand felt heavier than it should’ve.

You set it down gently on the counter, your heart tightening in your chest. You took a small step toward him—not too fast, not too close—just enough that he could see you fully now, without obstruction. His breath caught slightly, a barely audible inhale, like a reflex he hadn’t meant to make.

“Remmick,” you said, softly, as if trying not to disturb something delicate. “You’re not a bother. You’re not costing me anything that matters.”

He blinked, rapidly, like the words didn’t compute. His jaw worked—once, twice—as if he were trying to bite back a response before it escaped on instinct.

“I mean it,” you continued, your voice steadier now. “If you’re hungry, you tell me. That’s not something you have to earn.”

His hands fidgeted again. A slow, unconscious gesture—you recognized it now. Like a tic he used to keep himself grounded when the emotions were too much to handle all at once. When shame wanted to eat through him faster than hunger ever could.

“I’m fine with less,” he murmured. “I can go a few days… or even weeks, sure. I’ve done it before. I just thought—I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.”

You exhaled, slow and aching. “You’re not ungrateful. You’re just… used to people expecting you to apologize for being alive.”

That made him flinch. Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would’ve noticed. But you saw it. A twitch at the edge of his eye. A small shift in his stance. The way he held himself tighter.

“I’m here to make sure you’re safe,” you said, “not to ration your comfort. You’re allowed to ask for more, Remmick. You’re allowed to want more.”

He stared at your hand. For a moment, you thought he might back away because of your proximity and walk away. But he didn’t. Instead, he let out the softest, weakest laugh you’d ever heard.

“That’s… really hard to believe,” he said. “But I’m givin' it a go.”

You nodded once. “That’s enough for me.”

And then you handed him the blood sac.

He took it this time.

Carefully. Reverently, almost. Like it was a gift he hadn’t known how to accept.

And when his fingers brushed yours in the exchange, cold and trembling, you didn’t flinch. You just held his gaze for a moment longer than before. To make him understand that you neither feared him nor disgusted him.

Then, you turned back to the fridge and started putting away the rest of the box like it was just another part of your day.

But in your peripheral vision, you saw him.

Still standing there. Still holding the sac. Still stunned, somehow, for your unusual behaviour.

From that day on, you offered aloud: “Do you want two or three tonight?” And he began answering: “Maybe three… if that’s okay.” And it always was. You made sure it was—tucking away guilt with each pack you placed, ensuring his body could begin to heal and finally breathe.

Remmick hadn't gotten physically close to you until that fateful night.

The hum of the TV filled the living room. You’d chosen something mindless—a late-night reality show with canned laughter and predictable drama, the kind of background noise that didn’t require your attention more than necessary.

Remmick sat at the far end of the couch, knees drawn up, arms tucked in the pajamas he had chosen himself at the store under your constant urging. He had started sharing your space, becoming more verbally present. He was no longer just a presence, but also a companion. Sometimes he even made suggestions. Small ones, sure, but always made on his own initiative and with pleasure.

He especially loved playing and singing, so you bought him a banjo, which he strummed every now and then, writing down the lyrics and chords in his notebook.

But not tonight, tonight he seemed to want to share the evening of TV with you.

You were halfway through an episode when the camera panned across a couple on-screen, nestled in a corner of a nursery. A small baby curled between them, cheeks round and flushed. The father kissed the child’s head. The mother held them close. It was simple, mundane. Affection dressed in soft cotton and domestic warmth.

And beside you, something in Remmick shifted.

You didn’t notice it at first. Just a faint change in how he held himself—shoulders rising slightly, eyes flicking toward the screen, then away.

The next moment, he wasn’t watching the TV anymore. He was watching you.

You felt it more than heard it—that brittle stillness that signaled something unseen was breaking open beneath the surface.

Remmick didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. He just sat there, folded in on himself, like something inside him was twisting tighter and tighter with every beat of quiet that passed.

His eyes were wide and red, unfocused, like he wasn’t seeing the room anymore. Like his thoughts were somewhere else. And then, without warning, without a sound—

He leaned in.

It was slow. Hesitant. Not like a predator approaching prey. Nothing calculated or hungry in the movement. It was more like watching a wilted flower lean toward the last light of the day—weak, instinctive, a pull toward something it couldn’t name.

His cheek came to rest against your shoulder.

You froze, not out of fear, but surprise. You hadn’t expected it—not from him. For weeks, he’d kept a careful, respectful distance.

But now he was here, curled gently against your side, head pressed just under your collarbone, like a creature trying to relearn touch.

His body was trembling. Not violently. Just a faint, barely-there shiver—like he was holding in every impulse not to bolt. And still, he stayed there.

“Just a bit,” he whispered.

His voice was raw, barely audible.

Then, after a breath, you felt something else.

Air moved across your neck. Cool, unnatural.

His breath.

His lips parted.

You didn’t see it right away. You felt the shift first—the soft draw of muscle, a change in tension where his mouth hovered just at your pulse.

And then you saw them.

Fangs.

Not bared. Not flashing in threat. Just there—half-covered behind his pink lips.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

Your hand rose to your neck, more from the tickling than anything else. But Remmick probably interpreted it differently.

He recoiled like he’d been struck, crawling away from you before you could say a word. His face twisted in confusion and something that looked horribly like shame.

“No—” he gasped, voice cracking. “I—I wasn’t—didn’t mean to—I wasn’t gonna bite ya, I swear it—”

His hands flew up like he expected to be grabbed, shoved, punished.

“I was just—just—” His breath hitched again. He backed away further. “I’m sorry.”

His knees touched the floor of the apartment, right in front of the sofa you were sitting on. Clawed hands covering his face, and then—you saw it.

He bit down. Hard.

Not on you.

On himself.

His fangs dug into the side of his thumb, teeth sawing through the flesh like he couldn’t tell the difference between punishment and pain anymore.

You moved forward on instinct.

“Remmick—”

But he was already biting harder, his other hand twitching as he tried to steady himself, nails raking down his arms like he couldn’t bear the skin he lived in.

“No, no, no,” he muttered. “Stupid. I’m stupid. Ye were kind and I— I ruined it—”

You caught his wrists gently before he could draw more blood and do more damage.

He didn’t fight you.

Just stood there, shivering, eyes wide and terrified.

You guided his hands down slowly.

And in that moment, you understood.

He was asking about being held. About being seen. About the terrible, unbearable yearning to be near someone who didn’t flinch from him like he was a monster.

“Remmick,” you said softly. You didn’t let go of his wrists. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours—startled, desperate, disbelieving.

“I know you weren’t going to bite me.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but no sound came out.

“I saw you,” you continued, your voice as gentle as you could make it. “I saw what you were trying to do.”

He shook his head slowly. “But ye—ye froze—”

“I was surprised,” you admitted. “It’s not the same thing as being afraid of you.”

That stopped him.

His lower lip trembled. His arms had gone stiff beneath your touch, but he wasn’t pulling away anymore.

He was listening.

“Next time,” you said quietly, “tell me. That’s all.”

A long, shaky silence passed.

Then he nodded—once. Barely.

And then he did something you weren’t ready for.

He pressed his forehead into your stomach and let out the smallest sound you’d ever heard from him.

A whimper.

Not from pain. Not from fear.

From the awful, weightless relief of not being rejected.

Your arms came around him slowly, your hand absentmindedly scratching the base of his head.

He melted into you like a creature whose bones had forgotten how to hold shape without comfort. He sagged against you, arms around your waist, breath hitching softly. Not crying—he didn’t make a sound after that.

But you felt it in him.

The tension giving way.

The hunger easing—not the one for blood, but the other one.

The one deeper than anything physical.

The need to belong.

And you held him.

As long as he needed.

The bond deepened like rot in the walls—not sudden, not loud, not even visible at first. It wasn’t something you could name when it began, just a presence. A feeling.

Remmick began to exist nearer to you, in ways that weren’t quite deliberate but not accidental either. His hand brushing yours when you reached for the same mug. The way his shoulder sometimes bumped yours when you passed too close in the kitchen, and he didn’t recoil—didn’t apologise.

You stopped keeping physical distance like a boundary and started doing it like a dance. Testing where closeness didn’t overwhelm either of you. Letting moments bloom and soften instead of snapping them shut with polite withdrawal. You noticed how, when you curled into a blanket, he curled with you. How his head would sometimes tilt and rest lightly against your shoulder, and then stay there.

Months passed.

And also his appearance started to change. Slow, but unmistakable.

The vampire who had once been curled in your laundry room like a broken thing was growing into himself.

His hair, once matted and dull, now shone in the light. You caught him once in the hallway mirror, gently running his fingers through it, lips parted in faint disbelief. He hadn’t seen himself like that in years. Maybe ever.

His body had filled out, too. The sharp angles of his ribcage softened. There was muscle on his arms now, not from effort, but from consistency. From nourishment. From safety.

He still moved quietly, but no longer with the crouched, skittish gait of someone expecting to be punished for every step.

And his fangs—once a source of fear, of tension, of held breath and flinching instinct—now brushed your skin in moments of affection.

He’d lean in as you passed on the stairs, nose nudging your collarbone, his lips ghosting over your neck—not biting, never biting—just being there. You’d feel the faint scrape of fangs against your shoulder when he laid his head on you, and he always pulled back after, embarrassed, whispering, “Sorry,” even when it hadn’t hurt.

You stopped finding excuses for liking it.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours—when the lights were low and the world had gone still—he’d curl into your side and fall asleep like that, arm flung over your waist, breathing shallow but real. He didn’t make a sound. He just rested against you like someone who had finally found a warm place to die and realized, to his own confusion, that he was living instead.

Everything seemed to be going well.

Until something changed.

It was cold enough outside that your breath fogged the air. The city had quieted down to its late-night lull—stores closing, streetlamps flickering, the distant buzz of someone’s late dinner delivery echoing across the sidewalks. You walked side by side without touching, but close. Always close.

That evening, you felt like going for a walk after getting home from work, and it had been weeks since Remmick had set foot outside the house. He didn't seem to particularly enjoy going out (also because of the strange looks he got), but when you reached the old park, you could see his shoulders visibly relax. He loved nature and the solitude of the night.

You also liked it there. The wildness made it feel private.

Remmick’s eyes wandered like a child’s, curious and quiet. The moonlight caught his face in glints—his long lashes, the soft shine of a smile on his lips. He didn’t look like something anyone should be afraid of. Not like this.

You sat on a low stone, the surface cold beneath you, and leaned back slightly to look at the sky. He stood for a while, then crouched beside your knee. His fingers brushed the grass.

The trees were tall here. Older than the buildings that surrounded the block, their trunks thick and gnarled with time. At night, they cast deep, comforting shadows—like guardians rather than watchers. And when the wind moved through their leaves, it made a soft sound, like breathing.

And Remmick shared the same millennia-old age. Perhaps that was why he seemed to feel so at ease.

The lampposts barely worked—only one or two flickered on after dusk. They made the whole place feel like it lived just outside of time.

Then, he broke the silence.

“I used to sleep outside, before they took me back,” he said quietly, not looking at you.

You turned your head, unsure what thread of thought had led him there. But something in his voice made you pay more attention than you usually already do.

Remmick didn’t speak for another minute. Then, so softly it barely rose above the creek, he said, “I tried not to need folks.”

Your heart gave a small twist.

“I used to think… if I acted just right, maybe someone'd keep me.” He tilted his head back, exhaling. “Me first owner was an old woman. She was very… precise. Gentle, but distant. She fed me, trained me to sit proper, speak proper. She even let me read in the evenings. But I wasn’t meant to ask for more. When I started lingerin' too long by her chair, or… talkin' too much, she got cold. One night, I fell asleep by her bedroom door. Next day, she brought me back.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“She said I was exhaustin'.” His smile was faint, tired. “She said I was clingy. Said I needed too much.”

Your stomach knotted. You wanted to reach for him, but he kept speaking, and something about the way his voice emptied itself into the night stopped you.

“The next one was a man. He believed in structure. Obedience. He never hit me, but he never let me touch him either. Not even to help him with his coat. I remember once, after he had a nightmare, I went into his room without knockin' to see if he was alright. I tried to explain, but he said I was manipulat'n him. Called me creepy. He locked me out of the flat for the night, and the next, I was sent away again.”

You exhaled slowly. The moon was brighter now, painting the grass in pale silver. Remmick kept his eyes down.

“I stopped tryin' after that,” he said. “For a while, anyway. I tried to be the right kind of quiet. Didn’t know when it was alright to look at someone. Thought maybe if I watched closely enough, I’d learn when to speak. When to smile. When I was too much.”

You reached out then, slowly, and let your fingers rest against the curve of his hand.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried so hard to be what they wanted. Quiet, obedient, grateful. I didn’t even ask to be touched after a while—I just wanted to be in the same room. Thought that'd be enough.”

He turned to face you, finally. His eyes looked too big for his face, luminous in the dark.

“But I was always too much. Or too little. Too clingy. Too cold. Too hungry. Too strange, so I was.”

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat.

“They didn’t know what they wanted,” you said.

He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “They didn’t want me. That was all.”

The wind shifted. A few dead leaves skittered across the path.

“You’re not too much,” you said, barely more than a whisper. “You’re human.”

“Not technically,” he said with a soft laugh.

“You know what I mean.”

You didn’t take your hand away. Neither did he.

You stayed in the woods for a while, talking about this and that. You told him the reasons why you had never wanted one of them — and the reason why you wanted him instead. The atmosphere, and his devoted attention, made you want to tell him everything. To get closer and open up in ways you couldn’t allow yourself.

You walked for a while, following the beaten paths, venturing into the small dense grove further ahead. Away from the city lights.

Remmick walked ahead for once.

You let him. Unclipping the leash from his harness. No one would see you, no one would report this improper behavior of yours.

He seemed to be looking for something with his gaze, shifting his head from side to side as you kept a respectful distance. Then, when he found it, his face lit up.

He turned toward you with a small, crooked smile. “Close yer eyes.”

There was no command in it. No expectation.

You obeyed before you knew you had decided to.

The darkness behind your eyelids was soft and strange. You felt vulnerable in a way that wasn’t frightening—like laying down trust in its purest, simplest form. You could hear him shift beside you, the gravel beneath his shoes crackling faintly as he turned toward you.

And then you felt it.

His hand, reaching out. His fingers hovered near yours.

Not grabbing.

Offering.

You opened your hand without hesitation.

When his palm finally met yours, the contact was almost nothing—just warmth, cool around the edges, a trembling stillness beneath the surface. But it was everything. Because it wasn’t just a touch.

It was pure and complete trust that you were giving him.

He led you a few steps deeper into the grass, toward the little clearing where the trees bowed back and let the sky in. You could hear the creek nearby. The night was full of quiet things—crickets, the rustle of leaves, Remmick’s breath.

“Alright,” he whispered. “Ye can look.”

You opened your eyes.

He’d led you to a place where the grass opened like a nest, and there—tucked into the curve of a mossy root—was a tiny cluster of white flowers. You recognized them immediately: moonblossoms. Fragile, delicate things that only opened at night.

He knelt beside them and picked one.

Carefully.

Like it was a sacred thing.

He stood again, approached, and without a word—tucked it behind your ear.

“There,” he said softly, fingers lingering near your cheek. “It matches the way ya glow.”

You laughed gently—because that was what you were supposed to do. That was how people responded to soft gestures, right?

But your throat was suddenly too tight.

His smile faltered. “Was that… weird? I just thought ye’d like it. I can take it off, I didn’t mean—”

You grabbed his wrist before he could pull away. Held it. Pressed your face in his open palm.

“Remmick,” you whispered. “You’re perfect.”

He blinked at you, startled. Blushed faintly.

And in that moment—his eyes glowing faintly under the moon, his mouth soft and uncertain, his hand brushed your cheek slightly—you felt it.

Like something cracked open in your chest.

The shift was subtle, but it roared through you: I’m falling in love with him.

Not kindness.

Not pity.

Not caretaking.

Love.

You were in love with the way he looked at you like you were the only safe place he’d ever known. With the way he was learning how to smile again. The way his fingers grazed yours when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he wanted to make you happy, even if he didn’t know how.

And gods, it terrified you.

You pulled back, turning your face away from his hand.

He frowned.

“…Did I do somethin' wrong?”

“No,” you said too quickly. “No, it’s not that.”

Then softer: “It’s me.”

He tilted his head, brows creased.

You stepped back another inch. Your skin ached where he had touched you. You could still feel the weight of that flower behind your ear.

You weren’t allowed to love him.

Not by law.

Not by society.

And not by the promise you’d made to yourself the day you first saw him, curled in that filthy cell like a broken thing. You had sworn you would never become one of them. You would never use him. Never blur the line.

But love… love had blurred everything.

“I can’t—” you whispered, mostly to yourself.

Remmick’s expression shifted—softened into something so heartbreakingly gentle.

“Ye don’t have to say nothin',” he murmured. “I know what we are.”

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And it shattered something else inside you. Because he meant it. He was trying to make it easier for you. Trying to protect you.

Even now.

Even when it hurt him.

You wanted to fall into his arms. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to take his hand and run as far from the world as you could until the only thing left was the feeling of him, safe and warm and yours.

But you couldn’t.

So instead, you nodded, barely holding back the tears. And whispered the only thing you could manage.

“Thank you… for the flower.”

He smiled faintly.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

And neither of you said another word on the walk home.

Relationships between humans and nightcreatures weren’t just taboo.

They were illegal.

The law was clear: no intimacy, no romantic involvement, no crossing the line. Not even implied affection. Nightkind existed under conditional protection—leased, trained, collared. They could serve. Be owned. Be fed. But never loved.

Never wanted.

The consequences for violating that law weren’t a slap on the wrist. They were sharp, immediate, and permanent. And Remmick… he had already been marked once. A returned “asset.”

You knew better than anyone that if someone reported him for behavioral aggression—or worse, for unauthorized companionship—he’d be taken away in hours. No trial. No questions.

So you never crossed the line.

The days piled up quickly. You dedicated a lot of time to work and your deadlines — partly to push away that knot in your stomach, partly because you needed to bring order back into your life (the one you had set aside to help Remmick recover).

As busy as you were, you didn’t notice the vampire’s response to your behavior, but he had begun to withdraw again. Afraid he had made — or might make — another misstep.

When you came home, he always tried to have everything ready and in place for bedtime. He no longer sought your touch, but his fingers would tremble and claw at the fabric of his pants whenever you passed too close or brushed against him by accident.

But he said nothing. He remained respectfully silent — so you wouldn’t have the chance to start a conversation he’d already heard a million times.

One evening, however, you decided to take a step that might finally drive Remmick out of your heart for good — and everything would go back to the way it was before.

You told him you had a date.

You tried to say it casually, just a murmur as you passed through the living room. You were barely even out of sight before you heard the change in the air.

Remmick’s breath hitched. You turned. He was sitting hunched on the couch, blanket half-fallen off his shoulder, face pale, eyes wide and dim.

You forced a smile. “I won’t be long.”

“…oh,” he said.

That was all.

But you felt it. Like something inside him wilted.

You left anyway.

You had to.

Some part of you needed to prove—to yourself, to the law, to your own racing heart—that you could still live within the lines. That Remmick was a creature you had saved, not a man you were falling in love with.

The man you met at the bar was nice. Polite. Handsome in a polished, too-clean kind of way. He talked about his job. His apartment. His own registered nightkind—one of the elegant, docile ones, purchased for status.

You laughed in the right places. Smiled when he touched your hand.

But as you stood together at the curb, shoes scuffing concrete, something began to twist in your chest. A wrongness. Subtle. Creeping. Like a stone lodged just behind your ribs.

He stepped in close.

Too close.

His hand brushed yours, then settled at your side like he had every right to it, and your spine stiffened under your coat. His scent—cologne and something warm and unfamiliar—clung to your skin. Then his hand slid further around your waist. His voice dropped, a murmur meant to be sweet, intimate.

“I had a really great time.”

And before you could answer—before you could step back, laugh it off, say me too and mean it without meaning more—he leaned in.

For a kiss.

It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t aggressive. It was gentle, even tentative. But the moment his face moved toward yours, the moment you felt his breath brush your cheek, your entire body tensed like an animal beneath a spotlight.

No.

Something cold snapped through your gut. Not because of him—not entirely. But because this wasn’t it. This wasn’t who you wanted this closeness from. The thought made your throat tighten, made the moment feel strange and unreal.

But just before his lips could touch yours, an arm wrapped around your neck from behind, and you were yanked away from your date in a sudden jerk.

You landed hard against a cold chest, your back pressed into something solid and trembling. Arms locked tight around you. An embrace—not tender, but possessive. Shielding. Terrified.

Remmick.

You knew it was him before your brain caught up to the moment. The chill of his body. The way he pulled you in, arms around your neck, one hand splayed flat across your stomach like a barrier.

He was shaking.

Not with fear.

With fury.

You could feel it rolling off him in waves—hot and icy at once, a storm under skin. His breath came fast, sharp through his nose. You turned your head just slightly and saw the way his eyes had narrowed —two bright red discs lit by something primal locked on the man in front of you.

Lips peeled back. Fangs bared.

Like a wolf guarding a mate.

“W-What the fuck—” your date staggered back. “Is that—is it yours?!”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Your heart thundered in your chest, not from fear, but from the sheer violence of the moment. Not violent in action—Remmick hadn’t hurt anyone—but in presence. In the way he loomed behind you, wrapped around you like armor.

His fingers twitched against your side, and you realized then: he was waiting. Not for permission to attack—but for you. For your reaction. For confirmation that you were okay.

“…yes,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s mine.”

Your voice shook.

Your date scoffed and took another step back, already shaking his head. “You should have him collared if he’s gonna act like that in public. I could call enforcement, you know—”

“There’s no need,” you interrupted, faster this time. “It’s my fault. I forgot to feed him before I left. He… he gets anxious. I’ll take him home now.”

You didn’t wait for more. You just turned, guiding Remmick with you, his body still taut and coiled around yours. You opened the car door with one hand, and he followed wordlessly, slipping into the passenger seat like a storm being ushered into a bottle.

The ride home was quiet.

Your hands shook on the wheel from the sheer weight of what had just happened.

And beside you, Remmick sat curled into himself. His posture hunched, head bowed, one hand gripping the hem of his hoodie like he might unravel it.

He looked broken.

Ashamed.

You pulled into the drive, turned the engine off, and turned to him—but before you could speak, he did.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was barely a thread.

You stared at him, then the fury came.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

Remmick flinched, taking a step back. His jaw clenched. His mouth opened. Closed.

You kept going. You couldn't stop. Your brain was spinning, your heart was pounding against your ribcage.

“If someone had called the police—you could’ve been taken—do you understand that?! You could’ve died! I wouldn’t have been able to stop it—you’d be gone, Remmick!”

His eyes widened. His shoulders curled inward. His voice came out small, quiet.

“I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t tryin' to be scary. I just… I saw him that close to yer face, and I—I didn’t think. I didn’t even know I was running until I had ya.”

You shook your head and got out of the car without looking back. You knew Remmick was following you back into the house.

“I'm sorry if I—I scared ya. Y'know I would never hurt ya!”

You kept walking. You didn’t want to listen to him. You needed to calm down. But before you could take another step out of the apartment hallway, his claws wrapped around your wrist, forcing you to stop your escape.

“Please… please don’t be angry with me.”

You stared at him. Breath caught in your chest.

You ran your free hand through your hair, letting out a loud sigh. You hadn’t meant to let the words slip out. They came out on a breath, caught in the thick silence of the room like an echo you immediately regretted.

“God,” you murmured, voice thin, “I don’t know what to do with you.”

You sighed. Loud. Tired. Overwhelmed—not by him, never by him.

But Remmick didn’t hear the fear in your voice. He didn’t hear the heartbreak. He only heard the sentence.

And it shattered him.

He flinched like you’d struck him.

His whole frame tensed, and then he dropped—just dropped—to his knees with a breathless panic, his hand came off your wrist like you burned it with your skin.

“No! No, please—don’t—don’t send me back!” he cried, eyes wide, face crumpling into desperation. “I can do it right this time, I swear, I swear I will—just don’t—don’t give up on me, please—”

Your eyes widened. Confused by his reaction. Your heart fractured.

“I’ll behave, I’ll stay quiet—I was bad, I know, I shouldn’t have gone out—I’m sorry, just punish me if ye have to, just don’t abandon me—please—”

He was trembling, folding in on himself, hands splayed on the floor like he was trying to ground himself in the floor of your apartment so that it couldn't be dragged away. He was breathing too fast. His shoulders shook with the effort of holding in tears, because he’d learned not to cry out loud. Even that had been trained out of him.

And you—

You dropped to your knees beside him, the motion swift and wordless, driven by instinct more than thought. One hand went to his cheek, guiding his face up to yours, the other curled gently over his shoulders. His skin was cold, but his panic was burning.

“Remmick,” you said, voice breaking around his name. “No. No, no, no, listen to me—baby, please, look at me.”

His eyes snapped to yours. Wide. Shining. Desperate. And it gutted you.

“I’m not angry,” you whispered. “I’m not sending you back. I’m never sending you back.”

His lips trembled. He didn’t believe you. Not yet.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said, brushing a tear from his cheek with your thumb. “I was scared. Not of you—but for you. I don’t know what I’d do if they took you away. That’s what I meant. That’s all I meant. I didn’t choose the right words and I’m so sorry.”

He was still shaking, still clinging to disbelief like it was the only thing that had protected him for years. He tried to apologize again, stammering, but you stopped him—gently, firmly—with your fractured words.

“I can’t lose you.”

That word hung in the air—thick and raw and real.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, your breath soft between you.

“I’m the greedy one,” you whispered. “Because I want you. Because I keep thinking of you. Because I’ve fallen in love with you.”

His breath hitched.

“And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” you whispered, your voice threading between the silence and his heartbeat. “I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want to. I’ll keep protecting you. I’ll keep caring for you, no matter what—”

You didn’t get the chance to finish.

Remmick’s lips found yours before the next breath could pass.

He kissed you—hard, desperate, like the truth between you had finally split open and neither of you could survive keeping it buried anymore.

His hands tightened gently against your back, and your body answered before your mind caught up, leaning into him like you’d been waiting for this touch your entire life.

You let him pull you against him, mouth devouring yours like he’d been starving for it since the first moment you’d touched him and not been afraid.

The world stopped narrowing to logic. It bloomed around sensation.

You had barely caught your breath from the kiss—your heart still fluttering wildly in your chest, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt—when he pulled back just enough to look at you. Really look.

His eyes were wild with disbelief and something rawer, something almost wounded in its hope.

But then, slowly, his mouth softened into a smile—wide and crooked and so heartbreakingly sincere it made your chest ache.

And then he laughed.

Not loudly. Not mockingly. But stunned.

“For heaven’s sake, darlin',” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, eyes shining as he leaned closer, “ye should’ve told me months ago.”

His hands cupped your jaw like you were something fragile and holy. His lips brushed against your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then lower—trailing to the base of your jaw where he kissed you once, twice, then lingered, the warmth of his mouth sending a shiver down your spine.

“What the hell were ya waiting for?” he murmured against your skin, the words half-laughed, half-confessed.

You couldn’t speak. Your throat was too full. Your hands slid up his back hair, clutching at him with something between relief and disbelief, like now that you’d opened the floodgates, nothing would ever be the same again.

He pulled you on his lap—arms wrapping around your waist with the kind of desperate reverence that said I need you close or I’ll fall apart. And then, quieter, his lips still against your jaw:

“I love y'too,” he breathed. “So fuckin' much.”

It came out cracked, like he was afraid it would break if he said it too loud. But he said it anyway.

You touched his face with careful hands, your thumbs brushing the soft hollows beneath his eyes. His skin, always cool, seemed to flush beneath your fingertips—not with heat, but with something just as alive. You tilted your head, searching his expression, trying to decipher the look in his eyes.

There was too much of it—too much feeling. Too much need.

“Are you sure it’s not just gratitude?” you whispered. The question came out too small, too soft. Your heart bared itself in the silence that followed, every beat echoing like footsteps in a chapel.

His eyes darkened—not with sadness, but with something else entirely. They burned low and rich, like embers finding oxygen, igniting from within. The red hue bled through the pale blue of his irises like spilled ink in water. He blinked once. Slowly.

And then he moved.

You gasped as his hands gripped your hips—not rough, but firm, possessive, grounding. His fingers curled against you, claws barely grazing the fabric at your waist, not threatening, just present. He pushed you gently, deliberately, until your body hovers over his and your hips are perfectly aligned — pressed against each other. Your legs wrapped around his waist, his legs neatly positioned beneath him.

He held you down against him with one hand behind your neck and an arm wrapped around your waist, chest to chest, breath against breath.

His voice was a low growl in your ear, but it wasn’t angry—it was honest. A deep, raw vibration of restraint and need wrapped in reverence.

“Gratitude?” he repeated. “Y'think this is just gratitude?”

The space between your bodies was gone. You could feel him—every line of him—solid and real. The hard, undeniable form of his cock pressed against your thigh through clothes that suddenly felt like they barely existed. Your breath hitched again, this time from the sudden pulse of heat that spiraled low in your belly.

“Do ya have any idea what ye’ve done to me?” Remmick's mouth closed over the curve of your ear, making you shiver and clutch his hair tightly. His warm tongue licked and wetted your skin, and you’re sure that something else between your legs was slowly getting drenched too.

“I was a ghost before ya. Not just locked up in that place—they’d already buried me inside meself. No one ever saw me. They wanted obedience, silence, something that smiled when fed and vanished when ignored. And then ye—”

His nose brushed against your temple, and you could almost feel his lips trembling slightly against your cheek as he continued.

“Ye treated me like I was real. Touched me like I mattered. Ye let me want things. Feel things. Ye were gentle. I’d follow ya into sunlight if it meant one more second being yers.”

Your breath caught. Your heart raced.

His voice, laced with fierce devotion and vulnerability, reached into the deepest, quietest corners of your heart, lighting fires you didn’t know were waiting to be ignited.

He pulled his head back to look you in the eyes. He looked desperate, eager to make you understand.

“Please don’t call this gratitude. It’s love. For ya. All of it is for ya.”

And without waiting any longer, you lunged forward, your mind blinded by a sudden impulse you could no longer contain. You tilted Remmick’s neck, your fingers tangled in his soft hair, and pulled him toward you with a firm, almost possessive force to devour his lips.

You felt his body respond beneath your touch: a slight tremble, a muffled sigh that turned into a soft moan, almost a whisper of surrender. His lips, soft and warm, gave way to yours as he held you balanced against him, moving his hips in small, quick thrusts.

His lips parted slightly, silently inviting your tongue in. You felt his breath deepen and slow as his mouth closed around yours gently, as if wanting to suck away every thought and hesitation.

His words slipped against your lips like a whisper filled with devotion, each syllable soaked in an almost sacred sweetness.

“Me mistress is so sweet,” he murmured in a low, vibrating voice, his eyes shining with an intense light as he looked at you like you were the center of his universe. “So carin'. Think so much about me well-bein'.”

His breath grew deeper as he lifted you up so your feet were back on the ground and he was kneeling before you. The promise in his voice became palpable, almost tangible.

“Let me make ya feel good,” he continued, the determination to make you happy clear in every word. “I’ll be so good, darlin'.”

He grabbed the waistband of your elegant pants — the ones you had carefully chosen for someone else and that were clearly driving him crazy. You felt enveloped by a wave of emotions — tenderness, desire, and a warm, comforting certainty that only he could give you.

“Ask me. Like a good boy.”

You looked down at his lips parting into a dumbfounded, fucking smile, his sharp teeth on full display.

“Ride me face, love. Ya won’t regret it.”

You nodded slightly, letting Remmick pull down your clothes all at once with a tug. You were almost certain you heard a rip, but you didn’t want to think about it — not when Remmick’s face and tongue were desperately reaching for your center.

You pressed a palm against his hair and tilted his face enough to free yourself above his mouth, one leg straddling his shoulder to keep yourself steady.

His name rang on your lips like a sacred whisper, a spell lost between his cold breath and the racing beat of your heart. His tongue slid slowly and surely, drawing soft, delicate curves over your clit, exploring every millimeter with a precision as sweet as it was voracious. Every small movement was a caress that lit fires beneath your flesh, and when he lightly nibbled your thighs, an electric shiver ran through you, making you spread your legs just enough to let him turn, inviting him to discover new corners of your desire.

A cool hand rested on your ass, the contact featherlight, as the heat flowing between your legs grew, palpable and enveloping. His rough beard caressed your skin in perfect contrast, sending shivers down your spine. You felt his warm breath as you brought your hips closer to his mouth, as if his breath could merge with yours, warm and protect you. Your muscles tensed, your senses sharpened, and time seemed to slow around you.

Then, suddenly, his tongue invaded you with a sudden thrust, making your head spin and erasing all other thoughts. You felt yourself engulfed in waves of pleasure as he whispered words that intertwined with the heat enveloping you. “Ye’re incredible,” “So perfect,” “Let me lose meself in ya.” His other hand, the one not pressing you against his mouth, rose slowly, like a promise, and began to move over your body with sweet determination. His fingers traced light, bold lines on your clit, like an artist painting his most precious work, and each caress was an invitation to let go, to immerse yourself completely in that moment of intimacy and pleasure.

“Remmick…Remmick, God,” you murmured, your voice broken by desire, an echo that shattered your soul.

“Gimme everythin', darlin',” he begged you, his mouth hovering just to touch yours, “ye taste so good.”

His fingers curled and rubbed against your bundle of nerves and the orgasm hit you in waves, making you cling to his shoulders and head to keep from being dragged away.

The whorelike moan of pleasure that escaped your lips echoed through the hallway, but you didn't have the strength to be ashamed. Your legs trembled under your weight, but Remmick was already there, supporting you and sliding you back down, straddling his hips.

His lips covered you in soft kisses, scattered like rain across your face, while his fingers dug into your hips with gentle urgency, holding you close. You felt the cold of his skin against yours, his breath brushing over you in deep pants—a symphony of longing and intimacy.

Your thighs parted gently, embracing the sides of his body, as your hands tangled at the nape of Remmick’s neck, pulling him softly toward you for another slow kiss, heavy with promise.

His whimper, lost between your lips, vibrated like a whisper of deep pleasure, and he held you with a strength that felt like he wanted to fuse your souls into a single breath.

You could taste yourself on his lips, and it made you smile without even realizing it.

Your hands began to wander downward, fingers brushing along the waistband of his clothes, tentative but steady. But before you could go further, Remmick’s lips pulled away, just enough to speak, and a faint growl rumbled from deep in his chest.

“Ye don’t have to,” he murmured, breath catching. “I’m great. I don’t need—”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a calm you didn’t quite feel, false sadness outlined all over your face. “You don’t want to fuck me, Remmick?”

His breath faltered, and he closed his eyes as if the weight of the question undid him.

“Jesus, darlin',” he whispered, almost broken, “there’s nothing I want more than this. Than ye.”

You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. “Then shut up.”

Remmick became docile, remaining still as his hands gripped your hips tightly, anchoring you to him. You gently and confidently sank your hands between his legs, pushing apart the barrier of his jeans and firmly grasping his thick, throbbing cock. A muffled moan escaped him as he clamped his lower lip between his sharp teeth, his head tilting back slightly, his chest heaving in ragged breaths to contain his impatience.

“Fuck…”

You felt the thick, moist tip press against your entrance, and for a moment it felt like the world stopped.

Then, slowly, painfully, inch by inch, you let go, sinking into his length. The sensation was dizzying, a sweet and powerful relaxation that filled every corner of your body, as if every fiber craved that union. Your flesh welcomed him eagerly, sucking him in with an ancient and necessary intensity.

A low, muffled moan escaped his lips as you reached the bottom, the sensitive tip of his penis gently resting against the deepest part of you, a contact that sent both of you shivering.

“You feel so good, darlin',” he gasped, his words broken as he nuzzled his forehead into your shoulder. “So perfect around my cock.”

His tongue slowly slid down the side of your neck, leaving a trail of hot shivers that made every fiber of your body vibrate. Then, with malice and desire, his teeth barely grazed your artery, that light, dangerous touch that made your heart race, as a thrill of pleasure and tension mingled within you.

With a decisive movement, his legs spread further, forcing your thighs apart, granting him complete access. He sank into you with a new, profound depth, as if wanting to melt completely inside you, awakening every hidden corner of your desire.

His name escaped your lips spontaneously, a bold, shameless moan that was lost in the air, filling the room with that intimate, burning confession.

Before you could truly grasp the full force of his movement, his hips snapped upward with sudden, almost ferocious force, echoing the sound of his skin slapping against yours—a wild, primal rhythm that saturated every sense.

The pleasure that washed over you was so intense it dazzled you, igniting your nerves and vibrating every nerve beneath your skin. His thrusts were swift and precise, penetrating you with a consistency that made your heart race.

“All fuckin' mine...yes...No one else gets to see ye like this. Not that bloody prick...not any other loser. No one. Just me...”

Remmick's muffled moans and whimpers mingled with the incessant sound of skin against skin, overriding every other sensation, and his head rested close to your ear, his hot, labored breathing a whisper of need and adoration that made you feel desired like never before.

“R-Rem....Remmick—”

Your voice broke as he tilted his hips just enough to grind his pelvis against your swollen clit.

“Aye, just like that, sweetheart. Say me name. Tell me what a good boy I am for fuckin' ye so well.”

“My precious boy...” You lowered your head into his neck, hugging him tightly as you tried to follow his movements with the new orgasm slowly approaching. “I'm close...So close...you're doing so good...”

His muscles tensed beneath you as your walls gripped him tightly, his hands digging firmly into your hips as his body trembled with an almost painful intensity.

“Come on, love. I'm right here. I got ye. Let me feel ye come 'round me cock, please. I'm beggin' ye...”

Your body responded with a deep shiver, a wave of heat emanating from your core, expanding and enveloping you, making you gasp for breath. Your nails dug into his back as a strangled cry escaped your lips, your mind clouded only by the sensation of being completely possessed and loved.

His moans, now deeper and more vibrant, mingled with yours in a symphony of pleasure and abandon. Remmick trembled, his body tensing as he reached his climax, and you felt his cum invade you, a fire that united you in an indelible bond.

You remained like that, clinging to each other, your hearts beating in unison, your breathing wheezy and your bodies filled with a primal sweetness, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in that fragile, fierce intimacy.

Fuck the world and its rules.

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