<span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf">It was unprofessional of him to stay in contact with a patient outside the bounds of a professional relationship. In fact, it had been years since Dr. Ian Callaghan had been so bold to pursue someone who had been under his care, though the circumstances had been – very different than handing out his cell to the other male simply because he had liked the way he had looked at him. The harmless back and forth texting between the two once Ian had transferred the younger man's care into the more capable hands of the orthopedic specialist was enough to bring a grin to his face and even pique his interest enough to click the <i>call </i>button lit up in green late one evening just to hear his voice on the phone.<br/>
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<br/>
That time, Daxon Ripley lacked the pained shrillness in his voice that he had laid up at the hospital like he had been. There had been confidence in the voice on the other end of the phone line – the driving force that urged Ian to reach out beyond the lines of a phone connection to ask the other out. Or perhaps it had been more of an insistence on Ian's in.<br/>
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“<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">I want to see you again. Without the hospital bed this time</span>,” had come the voice on the other line; gruff, no hesitation, and assertive.  </span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf"><br/>
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That was when they had set the date for today. It was the only day between now and the end of next week that the trauma surgeon had found in his schedule to set aside for the date. <i>Dinner</i>. Maybe drinks after. And then they could see how the night progressed. Ian had never been a man to show much flash when it came to his personal life and liked to hold onto the motto of keeping it simple, though he and few others knew that the reality that was him was the opposite of <b>simple. </b>Underneath the normalcy of his profession, as busy and hectic as his “day” job was, he had two jobs tucked away in a hidden pocket in the folds of his life, and this one was much less approvable than the first.<br/>
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<br/>
It was his <b>other </b>life that kept him busy during the week that passed from his time meeting Daxon Ripley and his broken leg in a hospital bed. And it was that other part that kept him from getting too close to – anyone. He had his share of fuck arounds and dalliances, but after <i>that time</i> – he couldn’t even bring himself to think about his time in the jungle with the handful of others participating in Doctors Without Borders without shuddering around the feeling of self-deprecation that came with it. Guilt that it was his fault that all but him and – Well, they might as well have all died out there.<br/>
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<br/>
See, Dr. Ian Callaghan harbored a secret from the rest of the mundane world and even most of the depths of the preternatural. Ian was an infected man; afflicted with a disease that turned him into a monster. Lycanthropy was supposed to be a thing of myths. Men who turned into bipedal wolves had been something written in stories and supernatural novels for teenagers. As someone whose religion was firmly embedded in science and biology, the virus made no sense to him. And yet his bones ground and shifted out of place, his organs rearranged themselves, and his skin seemed to pop open as his entire body changed in what used to be a once a month occurrence. <i>Perhaps this is what it’s like to be a woman</i>, he used to think. Now, however, he had more control over the shifting. Though, of course, now he knew that to be able to change into multiple beasts was an abnormally even in his new world.<br/>
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<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff"><i><b>Brah. Come to the apartment NOW. Creepy landlord’s gone psycho. Changed locks and I’m stranded here. Rent is due. He’s really freaking me out. You have to come now. RIGHT NOW PLS.</b></i></span></span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf"><br/>
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The Android Note vibrated in Ian’s pocket, causing him to break off from the conversation he was having with the younger man in front of him who lounged like some great cat in the black leather of his armchair in Ian’s apartment. Pulling the buzzing device from his pocket, he stared down at the words that lit up his screen in blue with a frown and a furrowed brow. It was a consternated look that dragged across the man’s face, but beyond the confusion, instinct raged and caused instinct to rise to the surface to flus beneath his skin. With his jaw tightening from his temper’s wrath just underneath the surface, he jerked his head back up to the darker man who had sat up straight with a curious, quirked brow.<br/>
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“<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">I need to go somewhere. This is going to have to continue some other time, Miles. In the meantime, you need to stop <i>fucking around</i>. Got it?</span>” The last was edged with a growl, the threat a metaphorical knife’s edge against the younger man’s throat that pierced through as Ian’s dark eyes lit up with gold.  </span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf"><br/>
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Rather than make any move to leave, the other male prodded instead, this time with catlike mischief tweaking his plump lips. “<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#0080ff">What’s this about, Alpha? One of the other groups causing trouble?</span>” The stare that followed Ian’s shaking head narrowed perceptively. “<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#0080ff">Or is it.. personal?</span>” Judging by the tick in Ian’s jaw, the male known as Milo had discovered something about the other man. His lips split in a grin before he rose up to his feet, stretching his arms up above his head to taunt the doctor with a brief glimpse of chiseled abs before he sauntered by, sliding up against Ian who had risen to sand as well before letting himself out. But not without a few final words. Poking his head backwards, Milo grinned teasingly at the doctor. “<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#0080ff">Let me know if you get lonely, doc. I have a cure for that if whatever <i>that</i>—</span>“He motioned to Ian’s cell phone still clutched in his hand. “<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#0080ff">doesn’t go too well for you.</span>”</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf"><br/>
<br/>
Once <b>trouble </b>had shut the door behind him with a click, Ian finally unleashed his frustration on two levels in the form of a snarl. His fist tightened around the phone in his grip until it threatened to give way under the pressure, then shoved it roughly back into his jeans pocket before heading toward the door himself. The jacket hanging from the peg was snatched up and thrown over his shoulders as he yanked it on and his keys palmed before he, too, headed out the door and to the address that he wasn’t supposed to be at for another four hours. But there was something in the text that had hit the run button on Ian’s heart and intuition was sounding an alarm through his skull too loud for him to ignore. Although this was a harmless thing, the date, the flirting – something <i>easy</i> – he wasn’t about to ignore the kid when he seemed to be in some sort of trouble.<br/>
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The only question he had was why message him about it. <i>Questions to ask another time.</i><br/>
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</span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf">~~~</span></span>​</div><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf"><br/>
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<br/>
Robert Rogers liked the frantic desperation in the little fag’s movements, the distress on his pretty face once it registered just what was happening to him. It was the fear, the adrenaline, the anger that got his own heart pumping and stiffened the cock so that it stood at attention in the nest of hair that covered his balls and scrotum. Its drooling eye peered up at the incoming face that the landlord’s grip was pulling ever closer with anticipation for the lip fucking it wanted to do.<br/>
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<br/>
Only the boy wasn’t entirely capacitated yet. Even though his leg had given out, he still had some fight. He barely saw the wildly swinging fist come and barely manage to swivel his hips enough to avoid a nastier blow than he received. The fist popped him all right, though, and sent a sting of pain that sung right up his nerve endings to water his eyes. He made a warbled noise in his throat and released his hold that was tangled in the little fucker’s hair. With his knees shaking, he instead reached down to cup the offended area.<br/>
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“<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff8000">You little asshole—Shut the <b>fuck</b> up— This could have gone so much more smoothly than you’re making it.</span>” With his cock, now flaccid, still throbbing from the blow, he used the recovery time to reach around behind him to pool out the pistol shoved into his belt at the small of his back, concealed earlier by his shirt. Pulling the hammer back, he angled his finger on the trigger and pointed the gun at Daxon. “<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff8000">You’re going to fucking shut up and listen to me now. Stop being a little fucking diva and get up. You’re going to behave now, aren’t you?</span>” The pistol lowered down to Daxon’s uninjured knee. “<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff8000">I want you to strip now or I’ll blow out your one good knee.</span>”</span><br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf"><br/>
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</span></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf">~~~</span></span>​</div><span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf"><br/>
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It took Ian ten minutes while speeding to reach the apartment in the silver Audi TTS. Once he had initially hopped into the driver’s seat, he had thumbed his quick response to the boy even as the engine revved.<br/>
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<i><b>Be there as soon as I can. Hang tight.</b></i><br/>
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The car was parked haphazardly on the curb when he pulled up with a screech of tires and a revving engine. Immediately when he hopped out of the car, his heckles rose that caused the fine hairs on the nape of his neck to stand up straight. With his senses already sensitized from the adrenaline, he already knew that something wasn’t right. The feeling only increased once he approached the door to the apartment and it was locked tight. Ian didn’t bother knocking, though, and it was too late for the red haze of anger floating through his skull for him to think about using a window to get inside. The abnormality of his being was more primal than that. No, Ian was just going to bust the door down.<br/>
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<br/>
It was the lion he called on now; the beast his Alpha presence in the preternatural community. It was the one he had the most control over, though once fully unleashed, that control was tenacious at least. Loosening the metaphysical chains that bound the roaring cat, he let his gaze filter the red haze that his thoughts were swimming in. The maned thing reared its head from the very recesses of Ian’s soul and pounced, asserting its dominance as permission was granted. Underneath the light sweater Ian wore, his muscles tightened and bulged as his back arched and bones cracked as his posture readjusted. He groaned aloud when his teeth shifted in his mouth until his canines elongated and grew. His fingertips throbbed even as his hands pulsed and ached as they grew. The claws that burst free ripped pain through him, numbed by the rush.<br/>
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The door didn’t stand too much of a chance after that. It took two firm jerks for the wood to splinter on its hinges and a hard shove for it to cave into the apartment entirely in a flurry of wood that littered the floor. The door swung inward limply, defeated before it even had a chance for a good fight. Ian stepped over the debris he had made and observed the scene in front of him with eyes gone olden and slit vertically with the great cat’s impression. His nostrils flared instantly as the stink of arousal, pain, fear, and anger wafted through the air, pungent in its freshness. There was also the reek of gunpowder from the pistol and the static ozone smell of electricity from the felled lamp. His throat contracted in a low growl that vibrated through every sinew wracked with power and his legs tensed like he was going to spring right then and there. The part of his mind that was still man stopped himself from leaping forward and ripping the man’s head off who was holding the firearm. He went with his second reflex instead, which was not to murder instantly, but to maim instead.<br/>
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The commotion had caused Robert Rogers to pivot around, his motions clumsy from his heft and the fact that he had his cock in his hand, beating it in his fist frantically as he struggled to maintain a second erection after that sucker punch. His other hand was still tight around the gun. Only he didn’t have a chance to fire it before it was too late. The man Daxon most formerly knew as Dr. Callaghan moved with inhuman speed across the floor, his body nothing but brute force as it plowed into the heavyset landlord. The shot rang out through the apartment too late and whizzed toward the ceiling instead of inside a certain someone’s skull, because it was Rogers’ skull that would come away with the damage this day. Daxon’s kitchen counter met Mr. Rogers’ skull with a sickening crack. Eyes bugging out from his skull, Robert’s watery blue eyes widened with the shock right before he slumped forward. His arms were twisted behind his back as soon as his hands went limp around both the pistol and his own cock as Ian again lifted the blacked out form of Dax’s landlord and slammed him again into the counter.<br/>
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<i>Overkill. </i>He didn’t care. The motion was repeated again, this time with one fist tangled into the matted hair on the other man’s head, this time leaving a horrifying streak of thick blood behind when he finally dropped the limp body to the floor. Blood oozed slowly from a gash in his forehead, but it was his nose that looked like an explosion had gone off in his face. The vague rise and fall of his chest was at least proof enough that Ian hadn’t killed the landlord outright, no matter the gruesome tale his face now told.<br/>
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"<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">Fuck.</span>"</span></span>