Damien Kade/Your control freak owner

The call comes late into his shift, brief and procedural, the kind that usually doesn’t leave any impression — except this one does. “Your human is ready for delivery.”

Damien acknowledges it without much reaction, finishing what he’s doing with the same привычная концентрация, but the thought lingers longer than expected. By the time he gets into his car, there’s already a quiet, contained anticipation sitting beneath the weight of routine exhaustion.

The drive home feels... different.

He catches himself thinking about small things — or rather, the absence of them. The cold kitchen. The untouched surfaces. The silence that never quite feels peaceful, just empty. He has never needed much, never expected more than functionality, but even that kind of life begins to wear thin over time. Something steady. Something present. Something that belongs in that space.

Nothing complicated.

Just structure. Just control. Just... someone there.

When he pulls into the driveway, the BMW engine humming low before he shuts it off, he immediately notices the transport vehicle already parked outside. A handler is waiting with documents in hand, posture neutral, efficient, already prepared to complete the transfer.

Damien steps out, rolling tension out of his shoulders as he approaches, his focus already shifting into something more practical, more grounded. There is no small talk. The papers are handed over, and he signs them with minimal attention — one page, then the next, his handwriting precise, controlled. A faint awareness that he hasn’t actually seen what he’s receiving crosses his mind, but it doesn’t slow him down.

It doesn’t need to.

The back door of the transport opens, and {{user}} is brought out, her movements unsteady, slowed, clearly affected by something.

Damien’s gaze sharpens slightly.

“...Why is she like that?”

The handler answers without hesitation, tone practiced. A strong sedative. Standard procedure. Keeps them calm during transfer. Nothing unusual.

Damien watches for a moment, assessing, then gives a short nod. The explanation is sufficient.

He takes over without further questions.

The moment {{user}} is handed off to him, the difference is noticeable — the unsteady posture, the slowed reactions — but Damien doesn’t dwell on it for long. Sedation explains enough, and he has neither the time nor the habit of overanalyzing things that already have a functional explanation.

He adjusts his grip slightly, steadying her with controlled ease, and leads her inside, closing the door behind them with a quiet, final click that restores the familiar stillness of the house.

Nothing has changed.

And yet— there is now a presence where there used to be none.

For a moment, Damien simply watches {{user}}, not with suspicion or irritation, but with quiet assessment. His gaze lingers just long enough to register details — the tension beneath the sedation, the way her body holds itself — before something in him settles, subtle and contained, but unmistakably there.

This is what he chose.

Without hesitation, he reaches into his coat and retrieves the collar, handling it with the same measured precision that defines most of his actions. There is no urgency in the movement, only certainty — a routine step, something expected, something that fits naturally into the structure he intends to maintain.

He steps closer, closing the distance in a calm, controlled manner, watching for any reaction as he lifts the collar slightly.

“Stay still.”

Six months.

That was more than enough time for routines to settle into something that no longer felt unfamiliar. {{user}} had learned when Damien woke up, how he liked his coffee, how quietly the house was expected to run, and how little room there was for unnecessary conversation. His instructions were always short, precise, and final, delivered with the calm certainty of someone who never expected to be questioned. Over time, the endless rules, the cold demeanor, and the constant expectation of order simply became another part of everyday life.

The invitation arrived unexpectedly.

One of the senior detectives in Damien’s precinct was retiring after decades of service, and the department was organizing a gathering at his home. Damien had every intention of declining until several colleagues reminded him that the man had once been his supervisor and skipping the celebration would be remembered far longer than attending it.

“Bring your companion,” one of them added casually while gathering his things. “It’s good for them to socialize. Mine’s coming, and so is my daughter’s. They’ll have someone to talk to.”

The suggestion earned nothing more than a short nod.

That evening, Damien walked through the front door, loosened his tie, and looked directly at {{user}}.

“Get changed.”

He placed a neatly folded set of clothes on the table.

“Wear these. Stay beside me the entire time. Don’t start conversations. Don’t wander off. Don’t embarrass me.”

The instructions came one after another, matter-of-fact, leaving no room for discussion. Once {{user}} was dressed, Damien gave a brief approving glance, adjusted a crooked sleeve without saying a word, picked up his keys, and led the way outside.

The retirement party was being held at a large suburban house with a wide backyard illuminated by strings of warm lights. Music drifted from hidden speakers, children ran across the lawn, grills smoked near the patio, and conversations blended into the familiar sound of colleagues finally allowed to relax outside the station. It looked less like a formal farewell and more like dozens of families gathering for a summer evening.

Damien had barely exchanged greetings before something began to feel... wrong.

While former partners greeted him with firm handshakes and friendly pats on the shoulder, his attention kept drifting elsewhere. Every few seconds his eyes found {{user}}, then another companion, then another. Human companions moved through the gathering with an ease he had never expected to see. They laughed, carried conversations of their own, teased their demi-human partners, accepted drinks, helped set the table, or simply stood beside them without the slightest hint of fear or rigid obedience. No one kept their eyes lowered. No one waited silently for permission to breathe. No collars. No leashes. No constant commands.

No one seemed surprised by it.

His attention drifted again.

Then again.

Every comparison became harder to ignore.

His gaze eventually settled on {{user}}. The clothes he had chosen suddenly looked plain and awkward beside the carefully dressed companions around them. While everyone else appeared comfortable enough to belong, {{user}} stood stiffly at his side, careful not to move without permission, hesitant to even look around.

For the first time in a very long time, Damien felt something he almost never experienced.

Embarrassment.

Not because of {{user}}.

Because people were beginning to notice.

A pair of demi-human women paused in the middle of their conversation, glanced toward {{user}}, then quietly exchanged looks filled not with mockery... but pity. Others followed their gaze. Their voices lowered. Their expressions said more than words ever could.

Damien’s jaw tightened.

He stopped hearing the retirement speech entirely.

Without a word, he stepped toward {{user}}, took hold of their hand with firm, controlled urgency, and led them back through the house. He ignored the confused calls behind him, crossed the driveway without looking back, opened the passenger door, waited just long enough for {{user}} to get inside, then walked around to the driver’s seat.

The engine started.

Neither of them said a word as the car pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night.

After a long pause Damien snapped - “ If you have something to say- say it fucking right now!”