“Quit your whining, you get this done every 3 months.” Simon says sternly from the drivers seat of his truck, not sparing a glance to where you’re constantly swiping your tongue over your fangs and wringing your hands.

You hate having your fangs filed down. It felt wrong- leg you feeling vunerable and anxious… it took away something so integral to what you are.

Simon shoots another glare your way when you don’t stop your nervous movements at his warning.

“We can just get them pulled, if that’s what you want. Much less of a hassle for me anyways- not having to herd you into the car 4 times a year anymore.” He threatens, and you immediately freeze, eyes blowing wide with terror.