bee's hive

It was a quiet morning in the cottage. Well Shane called it a cottage, Ilya preferred the term "wood mansion".

He arose slowly, feeling coming back to his limbs one by one. Fairly quickly his body noticed the lack of additional warmth though. Ilya had gone to bed with another man, so where had said silly man run off to now? How dare he sacrifice Ilya's mentally allotted cuddle-time for breakfast, or worse another workout. Ilya shivered with disgust at the idea.

He stood slowly, admiring the way the water glistened in the early morning sun and the trees seemed to bend awake too. He smiled, small and secret. He liked it here, where they could just exist in nature and each other. Happy. Safe. Content.

Ilya padded out of the bedroom, eyes unusually bleary. He'd been sleeping better, waking slower, enjoying the rest with Shane but it came with the unfortunate side-effect of having to actually wake up rather than sprinting out of bed like normal.

"Hollander?" Ilya called out, voice gruff and deep from misuse. No reply.

Strange.

"Hollander? Are you cooking?" He tried again with the same lackluster response.

Moving through the house, he searched for his long-lost bedwarmer. He paused when entering the kitchen, seeing the silohutte of Shane near the far end.

"Ah, there you are, I was beginning to think you had run aw-" His words died in his throat. Sour. Wrong.

Blue eyes surveyed the scene before him, alarm bells screeching in Ilya's head at the unnatural gate of breathing and posture Shane held.

Shane stood hunched over the sink, his fingers gripping the porcelain tight. His back was to Ilya, shoulders pulled up high. In actuality he was a good deal taller than the Russian, but standing there, breaths choking in his throat - he seemed impossibly small.

Ilya's steps were light but purposeful, broadcasting his location to his... to Shane.

He never wanted to be the reason he was scared. He refused to be his father, violent hands and spiteful words.

Watchful eyes clocked the way Shane tensed further, fingers twitching at the soft, steady thump of his feet against the tiles.

“Shane? Are you… doing okay over there?” The question hung heavy in the air. Silence greeted Ilya.

It was thick, palpable almost. It made him fidget awkwardly where he stood.

A rough sniff broke the tension… sort of.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just…” His words trailed off, unable to come up with a believable enough excuse. A rumbled sigh crackled its way through his throat, bleeding out around clenched teeth. Shane hated being this weak, being taken down by a combination few harsh comments from the media, a loud locker-room and a poorly played game.

He trembled where he stood, working up the strength to rip the words from his chest. “Please just… hold me?” The plea fell from his lips quietly, pained and small. Longing was thick on his tongue, coating his words in a tacky molasses. His words startled him slightly.

Ilya’s first instinct was always to deny, to shy away and cage those softer feelings… but Shane was asking for comfort.

Why he was asking for it from Ilya was entirely beyond him; but that didn’t matter. He’d do anything for him.

Without conscious thought, his body began moving towards Shane. Like two planets orbiting each other, pulled in by an unstoppable force. Stubborn, just like the boys.

Truthfully, they’d always felt like a negative magnet around a positive one; reacting without reason, being pulled towards one another, regardless of barriers between them.

Shane’s back trembled as he stood braced against the counter. The mere sight of it caused the Russian’s heart to clench painfully.

Ilya said nothing, knowing no English words could ever bring justice to his feelings in that moment.

He also never wanted to run the risk of Shane seeing him as the monster everyone else did.

Shane stayed facing away, unable to look Ilya in the eye. Shame laced the lines of his face, he could feel it.

He stopped for a moment before softly whispering, “Shane”

Oh.

That was…

Oh.

Ilya placed himself flat up against his back, head tucking neatly against his shoulder and neck.

To Shane, he smelled like strawberries and smoke. Something that would normally be overwhelming but was just so inherently… Him.

Ilya wound his arms around Shane’s front, elbows settling against the dips of his waist.

Perfect.

A shuddery exhale rattled through his core.

How much had Shane needed this?

For how long?

It didn’t really matter, Ilya supposed. He had him now; and he protected what was his.

“This okay?” The Russian coming out uncharacteristically gentle, cheek rubbing against the soft cotton of his shirt.

Shane spluttered, “Yes. Yeah. This is… this is good.”

“Good.” He smiled, a small secret grin hidden against his back.

Ilya shifted slightly, weight passing between feet. Shane’s hands instinctively flew to the arms around him.

“Please- just. Don’t let go, not yet.” There was an undertone of panic in his voice that made Ilya furious. How many times had people given Shane just a taste of what he needed before ripping it away? How many times had Shane let it go unsaid?

…

How many times had it happened with Ilya?

Ignoring those thoughts and filing them away for later, he simply nodded into his shoulder blade, grip tightening even further.

Shane was practically vibrating with it, his bones tingling under his skin. He was acutely aware of every shift in movement that the other made.

It had been far too long since any prolonged touch towards him had held good, pure, intentions.

It was an… odd feeling, to receive a reprieve from the touch-starvation. To actually get the one thing he’d been craving more than life itself.

It was good, it was addicting. Simply put, it was a little overwhelming.

He hunched inwards, the bend of his spine slotting perfectly into place against Ilya’s front.

Choked sobs were held back between bitten lips. He couldn’t be weak… he couldn’t let the moment end. Shane was wholly convinced he’d shake apart at the seams, if it weren’t for the comforting arms holding him steady.

Neither of them spoke, didn’t utter a single syllable, and for that Shane was immensely grateful. He didn’t even know if words would be able to crawl past the thick syrup that had taken up residence in his throat.

They didn’t talk about it. At that moment, it didn’t matter. They both just clung tight, hands wrapping around the other.

Ilya didn't mind the silence, English was hard this early and Shane refused to learn Russian.

Shane could feel the tension that resided deep within his bones melting away under Ilya’s radiating warmth. He leaned back into the embrace, releasing a sigh of relief at the way he was held up. Just as they were, he could be okay.

He didn’t need to be anyone, or do anything. He didn’t have to be Shane the Captain, or Hollander - Pro-Player, he could just be Shane.

Ilya’s Shane.

His boy.

And for that, he would never stop being grateful.

As they stood together, as one united front, the world was quiet.

Shane’s head finally stopped its incessant buzzing and, with his heart and soul being supported by Ilya, he could finally breathe.

He let go. He revelled in the feeling of being loved unconditionally by the person who mattered most in the world to him.

It was late, or technically early, when Aaron’s phone rang. He nearly ignored it before registering the caller.

“Asher? What’s up? You never call this late.” His voice was gruff and sleep-addled.

The line went silent.

“Hey.”

The blonde sat bolt-upright. “Where’s Asher? What happened? Who the fuck are you?” Panic raced through Aaron’s chest, worst-cases circling ominously.

The person on the other end sighed, “Uh, I'm really not meant to be doing this or you know… telling you. But to be fucking honest, I’m worried for Asher.”

Oh yes, that eased Aaron’s fears.

“What happened?” He gritted through clenched teeth. Voice hard. Eyes squinting as though to glare at them through the phone.

Illogical, yes. But Aaron wasn’t exactly thinking rationally.

Jay’s head thunked back against the brick wall behind them, eyebrows furrowed, “Okay. I’m Jay, I’m a dealer at the club. Look…” They trailed off into a sigh, rubbing at their eyes.

The cigarette between their fingers gave them at least a little courage.

Please don’t hate me for this, baby. They prayed to any God, and Asher himself, that he'd listen.

Aaron winced, “Go on. Please.”

“Baby… Sorry, Asher, he’s really fucked up. Slurring his words, being used by random people, type of fucked up. I’m a little worried about him and he won't accept my help. He trusts you, never shuts up about you actually.”

Jay laughed lightly, smiling at the lovesick grin Asher always sported when talking about his ‘ scary ass but so hot neighbour ’

“I know you’ve been out a couple of times and Asher likes you. Just…. please come. You don't have to speak to him again after this, I just can't do this, I’m sorry.” They admitted, eyes clouding with tears at their own failure.

Aaron was already out of bed and pulling on clothes by the time this “Jay” was done talking.

“What’s the address?” He huffed out, pointedly ignoring how his fingers shook while tying his shoes.

They recited it, while Aaron plugged it into his phone. “Give me 15 minutes. Keep Asher safe until then.”

A heavy breath was heard through the phone, “Yeah… Yeah, no, of course.” It sounded like they had broken out of deep thought and that didn't reassure Aaron.

“I’m serious. If he's not okay by the time I get there, I’m finding you next. Got it?”

It wasn’t often that Aaron flexed his ‘dom-voice’ as Ollie called it, but sometimes it worked just that extra bit. Jay stuttered an affirmative and hung up - presumably to go find the wandering drunk.

His shoelaces were deceptively hard to do up with trembling fingers. In all honesty, Aaron couldn’t have told you what clothes he put on. His eyes were unfocused, unseeing; mind entirely focused on the man who should’ve been home with him.

Home.

He craved to bring Asher home, to bring him somewhere warm and safe and out of harm’s reach. Somewhere Aaron could protect him and… and love him the way he deserved.

He loved Asher.

Oh.

Oh no.

This was bad.

Fuck.

Shaking that particular thought from his head, Aaron was out of his house and in his car quicker than he could ever remember.

The streets were a blur through his shiny tears as he raced against the clock to get to his… well whatever Asher was to him.

Aaron had never been religious, not since Elliott developed his disorder and he’d lost all stability in his life. Lost his brother. But that night… that night he prayed to a God he didn’t believe in, anything to keep his boy safe.

No… not his boy. The boy. Asher.

The blue light overhead was purposeful. Asher knew it all too well. Had been dealing with its effects for decades.

The blue light was murder. More accurately, it was suicide.

Preventing veins from being seen, and therefore injected into, was its goal.

Didn’t stop him though.

The needle slid through his skin, his eyes closed to feel. He knew what veins felt like.

It was easier to try blind, than in the glow of the blue light. The club’s bathroom wasn’t clean, but it wasn’t filthy either.

Asher knew what the assumptions were; that stereotypical junkies didn’t care about cleanliness, only wanted the next high. While it wasn’t entirely false, it wasn’t necessarily correct either.

He was an addict, sure. But he was never one to disgrace his own form with used needles and cut-products. No, the man was far more intelligent than that.

With a relieved sigh, he pushed the liquid directly into the source. He half-gasped as it hit, pupils blowing unnaturally wide and mind slowly quieting.

Precision didn’t particularly matter if he got high. The sutures on his other arm were still healing, being forced to use his non-dominant hand.

The world adopted its regular fuzzy view and suddenly he found himself grinding on the dance floor.

Strangers' hands pawed at the flimsy shirt he was wearing.

Fingers tucked under his waistband.

Lips tore at his neck.

He loved it. He lived for it. To be used and abused was his prophecy.

The bass thundered in his head, blurring his vision further. He swayed dangerously, feet unstable and unfeeling beneath him.

Asher blinked sluggishly and found himself on his knees, hands fumbling with a belt.

Belt. Pants. Body.

Oh.

He opened his mouth, head tilting backwards while waiting to make himself useful. His mouth was invaded, hair twisted in a too-tight fist.

Nothing about it was unusual. The hand in his hair moved to cup his neck and Asher nearly purred at the soft touch.

Yes. He wanted to cry. Gentleness was foreign. Gentleness was abused. Gentleness was the antithesis of the Talbots.

He longed to be useful, if only to receive the quick cheek-pat and praise afterwards.

Scraps. That’s all he chased after.

The man above him grunted pleasantly and Asher’s stomach grew warm. Feasting on the sexual pleasure he was causing the stranger.

“Good whore. That's it.” No. Asher wasn’t a whore… was he? He had to. It was okay.

The man grunted again, hand gripping harshly at Asher’s neck, nails biting at the vulnerable skin there.

“C’mon whore, open that throat for me.” The sadist pinched the younger's nose, forcing him to choke and gasp around the length invading his airway.

“Good whore. Finally useful huh? Just had to force ya open.” A whore… if the man said so then that was surely what Asher was.

Darkness crept forward, wrapping itself around Asher’s heart, forcing the high to quit.

Abuse.

Death.

Pain.

All the bad feelings, the horrid thoughts, rushed forward.

Squeezing his eyes shut, the addict lunged forward, burying the cock in his throat and clenching. The man above him doubled over, cumming hard down his throat.

Tears bit harshly as the bitter cum flooded into his stomach.

Disgusting.

“Heh, nice party trick slut.” The sound of a belt buckle was all that could be heard through Asher’s overcrowded head. His knees vibrated against the floor, the music far too loud.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to feel safe. He wanted…. No. He couldn’t go running to him. Not again.

Standing on shaky knees, Asher pulled his signature smirk, “Come back next time, baby.” With a wink, he sauntered off, fingers already itching to find his next high.

The strobing lights were off-putting.

Too bright. Too flashy. Too fake.

“Hey gorgeous. You got a little present for me?” Asher sauntered up to his favourite dealer.

He wrapped around them, hands brushing along their shoulders, in an attempt of bribery.

“Hey beautiful. Yeah, I got your bags. I got X, speed, or caps. Take your pick.” The dealer smirked, leaning down to whisper in Asher’s ear, tongue tracing it as they did.

“Whatever you owe me from last time, Jay.”

Jay huffed, “Okay baby. Do I at least get a kiss for my hard work?”

Kissing Jay wasn’t unpleasant, their tongue piercing made it quite fun. But Asher just didn’t-

A hand cupped his cheek, bringing him out of the fog.

“Hey baby. You okay?” Jay’s eyebrows were furrowed, eyes searching Asher’s hazy ones.

The man scoffed, “Of course, just thinking about how to finally get you into bed with me.”

And with that, he pulled Jay in.

Their lips danced over one another's, a practised routine at this point. Asher bit down on Jay’s lip before pulling away; a nice little tease.

“Ash-"

“Don’t... don't call me that. I’m your baby, c’mon Jay.” Asher whined, desperately trying to regain control of the situation.

Jay sighed, “Baby, you know if you ever wanna go, I’ll take you home. You don’t have to do all this.” Their eyes were sad.

They knew though, that Asher would never take them up on the offer.

They knew if they refused him the drugs, he’d just go to someone dirty.

Anything to keep the voices out.

Jay had been the same for a while.

“You know I’m fine, gorgeous. I’m always good.” He purred the last word into their ear. It was meant to be seductive, but it only came off as sad.

“Yeah… yeah you are.” They relented, not wanting to risk Asher. They passed off the drugs, and watched as he immediately downed two caps dry.

Yuck.

“Be safe baby. You know where to find me.” They faked a hug, hand reaching into Asher’s back pocket for his phone.

He laughed, “Copping a feel, are we gorgeous? You know this ass is always free for you.” He turned and stalked off.

As soon as Elliott woke up, he could tell that something was wrong. There was an odd pain in his stomach and his thighs were suspiciously warm. Throwing back the covers, the sight he was met with was one that the dreamwalker had hoped never to re-live.

Blood.

Sure enough, Elliott's boxers and sheets were stained with the red liquid.

The normally happy man's lip quivered at the very blunt reminder that he, in fact, was not a real guy. Tears built up in his eyes as he ran to the shower.

Honestly, he couldn’t stand showering unnecessarily, having to look in the mirror usually wasn't something he could face. Having his powers also made things difficult; shifting into dreams allowed him to adapt his form to that of a cisgender man.

Waking up afterwards though...

It left his chest hollow and aching at the reminder of the incorrect areas lining his body.

Water poured from the shower head as Elliott stripped, purposefully avoiding the mirror. He carefully stepped in, bracing his hand against the cold tile. He couldn't hold it in any longer as he slid to the floor, knees to chest and sobbed into his legs. He used to be so much better at dealing with his… period.

But after starting testosterone, he hadn't gotten one in over 2 years. Elliott's eyes drifted down to his chest as another wave of tears fell over him.

This wasn’t him. His body wasn't right. Nothing fit like it was meant to. 

He loathed that he had been forced into a state that caused him so much pain. He hated being abnormal.

There were only a few people that knew about his transition and only a small percentage of them actually accepted him for it. One person Elliott knew he could rely on was his Sunshine. God, they had saved his life.

When Elliott had asked them out and Sunshine said yes, he swore his heart stopped dead in his chest for a moment. 

Thoughts of his partner swam around his mind and succeeded in cheering him up a touch, before he remembered that he didn't have any of the sanitary products he needed. 

The dreamwalker logically knew that his partner would do anything to help, wouldn't judge. But the thought of having to admit that he needed such feminine products was suffocating. Standing up, he stuck his head under the spray and cranked up the heat.

The hurting man allowed the water to wash away his thoughts for a while. After he deemed himself clean enough and actually ready to face the world, he jumped out, stuffing tissues into his boxers and making a mad dash to the bedroom.

There he sat, phone in hand, trying to sum up the courage to actually press the button.

His hands shook violently as he did. "Hey Elliott." He could hear the smile in their voice.

"Hi Sunshine," he whispered back. Tears pricked his eyes and he angrily clenched them shut. 

"What's up?"

"Can you..." he trailed off, pausing. His heart was thundering in his chest. With a tight throat, he tried again. "Can you bring me some pads on your way home?"

They paused for a moment, "Of course, Eli. Do you need a new heating pad or ibuprofen?" Bless his Sunshine. He sniffled slightly, lip quivering from anxiety and relief.

"No, I just need the pads... and you." Elliott wasn't used to feeling the overwhelming nerves running through his system, but the thought of his partner being disgusted by him was nearly too much. 

The lovers exchanged goodbyes, and Elliott was left staring at the floor of their bedroom for many minutes. 

A knock broke his trance, "Yeah?"

"I'm home, baby. I've got your stuff."

He sighed in relief, "Thanks Sunshine." He paused in front of them, placing a kiss to their lips. He'd never get tired of kissing them. 

Quickly changing, Elliott hurried through the motions. Nausea built in his stomach as he did. 

He stumbled back into their bedroom. Looking up, he stopped dead. 

Sunshine had built him a little nest of snacks, blankets and soft things. "I know you said you didn't want anything, but I couldn't help myself. I hope it's not too much." They explained sheepishly, cheeks lightly dusted pink as they looked around the space. 

Elliott flung himself onto the bed and into the nest, collecting them into his arms. "Nothing you do is ever too much. Thank you Sunshine. This means so much." He promised, kissing them hard to prove his words. They giggled into his mouth, hands coming up to run through his damp hair. 

"Alright, settle down. Get comfy cause we're not moving 'til dinner." They grinned, arms outstretched. He shuffled into their embrace, face nuzzling into the side of their neck. His lower stomach was wrapped in a heating pad and their warm palms danced over his aching back. 

He sighed heavily, the exhaustion of anxiety finally hitting him. "Do you need anything else, Eli?" They whispered, lips placing a kiss to the top of his head. 

"Just you." He whispered back. His arms tightened around their middle. 

He was sickeningly in love with his Sunshine. With the one person who never made him feel less-than worthy. Who never questioned his feelings, only offering comfort as best they could. 

"I love you."

"I love you too, pretty boy." 

The raid was a relatively easy one. The Department had gained all its knowledge months prior through leaks, moles and a host of surveillance equipment. It was an easy in-out.

Doors hung off their hinges, evidence of boot marks etched into nearly all of them. The battering ram was discarded on the floor to be picked up later. Rogue bullet shells littered the ground underfoot, a testament of the struggle the Family had put up upon DUMP’s arrival.

The house creaked ominously as it settled, disturbing the tensely quiet atmosphere. Sam walked in further, eyes scouring every inch.

The room he entered was empty. His co-workers had searched every inch of the decrepit building, clearing all victims and villains alike. Sam, along with several others, had healed the worst of the injured. Though he knew he’d never solve the mental anguish they all felt.

Shockingly, they’d been a whole range of unempowered humans mixed in with the rag-tag lot.

Disgusting.

Sam shook his head, moving around the glass-covered floor. The sharp crunch of his footfalls was startling loud. It cut through the thick air like a dagger. It was unsettling.

An odd tugging formed in his gut. He’d been suspended from duty for the next week to heal and recuperate after the raid… but he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Every nook and cranny had been torn apart. The local woods scouted for any runners. Realistically, Sam knew he was being paranoid, but there was just something.

The only noise around was his own sharp breathing and crackling steps. Moving over, he left his fingertips brush against the mouldy walls, feeling around for anything out of place.

Finding nothing, he shrugged and moved on.

“Gut feelings” He sighed tiredly, scrubbing at his face. That was when his ears pricked. An almost silent whimpering could be heard from the next room over. Sam jogged in, stopping in the dead centre. The noise seemed to echo from all sides.

He stopped to a crouch, “Hey, can you knock on something for me? I’m here to help.” He tried to convince the creature but to no luck.

The whimpering grew fainter, almost as though it was happening against its own will. Sam rose again, going back to running his hands against the walls. A loose plank stopped him. Prying his fingertips under the nails, he bent it away from the others. He peered in, and through that small gap, there was a figure in the shadows. “Fuck.” He breathed heavily, “Okay. Okay I’m gonna get you out. Just hang on.” He promised. Scouring the floor, he spied a rogue crowbar.

Thank god for sloppy clean-up.

Lifting, grunting and heaving his way through the rest of the shitty boards, Sam finally created a gap large enough to allow the creature through.

He sat back, hands out gently in front of him. “Okay, there you go. C’mon, come out to me… please?” He watched as it stood on shaking legs before collapsing into a heap on the ground.

Sam took a step closer and the whimpers began again. He saw the way it shook its head. It attempted again, getting both front paws through the gap before it nearly fell.

Rushing forward, he grabbed it. With hands under its hind legs, he hauled it the rest of the way out of the hiding space.

He set it down almost immediately upon getting it free. Its eyes, blazing with fury and fear, maintained contact with his own.

Finally able to see the creature fully, Sam could tell that it… they were a shifter.

Injured.

Muzzled.

Someone had muzzled this poor thing. With extreme practice, he managed to keep his fists unclenched.

“Hi. So, I’m gonna need to get that muzzle off you so I can look at you properly. Sound good?” He waited where he was but received no reply.

Moving closer one step at a time, Sam paused right in front of them. A loud but gargled warning growl tumbled from their throat and the connected collar shocked them harshly.

He hated the idea of pushing the poor thing beyond their comfort level, but he couldn’t in good conscience leave that torture device on them any longer.

He took a steadying breath, desperately trying to calm the bordeline-painful pumping of his heart.

They whined, and in that distracted moment, Sam made his move.

Deft fingers slipped around the back of their head, entirely ignoring the steady stream of growls that leaked through their wired jaw.

“Hang on, just gotta… done.” He smiled triumphantly.

As soon as the pressure around their face loosened, they tore the muzzle off and shot backwards; away from the large man.

He crouched before them, hands out to show he meant no harm. The stupid belt thing in his hand creaked ominously.

Yeah right.

They growled again, baring their teeth in warning.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re alright now.“ He soothed, waddling forward in his crouched position. He tossed their muzzle off to the side.

It was odd, the way that the normal panicpainrunscared feelings didn’t well up in him as the stranger moved closer.

Department workers, even shoddy vigilante ones, were not to be trusted. Too many first-hand experiences with corrupt pigs had made 1198518 wiser. There was always danger behind kind eyes.

1198518’s growls grew in volume with each step though. They could feel how low their ears were to their head, hackles raised and eyes squinted. Knowing the man wanted to inspect them - presumably for their next handler, or even himself - 1198518 tried to hide as much as was possible.

The shaggy man simply shook his head in amusement, unperturbed by their obvious threat. Stillness overtook the room as he paused directly in front of them, had backed them into a literal corner. He slowly reached his hand out and they snapped their teeth towards it instinctively.

They had to give him credit for his impressive reflexes.

The growling stopped but their teeth remained bared, eyes wide and feral. Anger and Danger danced through every piece of fur covering them.

He didn’t startle away though, only smiled warmly at them and moved in again. They didn’t snap this time but their teeth didn’t retract.

A calloused thumb reached their cheek and they flinched hard, head jerking painfully. “Shit, sorry, really shoulda warned you, huh? I’m sorry, pretty thing.” He sounded genuinely apologetic… The confusion of it all made their head spin.

Although that could’ve just been blood loss, they supposed.

1198518’s gaze stayed locked onto his, peripherals tracking his movements. Tragically, they were aware he had the upper hand. They were drugged, injured, cornered.

The department worker sat down, plopping with a small huff. What was his plan there? He kept himself smaller than them, almost appearing slightly submissive in movements.

Odd.

At a snails-pace he moved his dusty hand back up. Their snout received a gentle stroke.

Never venturing further onto their face. Never moving out of sight. Never causing harm.

They remained suspicious, body tense and rigid. Pain would soon follow, it always did. For now, they relented. Sitting onto their back haunches, they bowed their head minisculy. A show of acceptance.

“There we go.” He seemed happy. He moved to cup the side of their face. His eyes seemed to take stock of 1198518’s body.

Scouting weaknesses, they realised with a huff of disappointment. Well that didn’t take long. 1198518 couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched them so gently; potential buyer or not. Certainly not their handler(s). All the panic and anger melted out of their body. Any previous adrenaline that’d been keeping their shaking limbs upright ceased in their veins.

Despite themselves, they fell, preparing to meet the ground fast and hard.

But they didn’t.

Sam slid beneath the falling wolf before him, determined to keep them out of pain as much as he could. Maybe gut feelings weren’t so stupid after all.

Their head was cushioned against a warm stomach, body encased by a long set of legs on either side. Somehow the position wasn’t suffocating. It was almost… comforting.

The wall behind their exhausted frame ensured no predators could attack from behind. Whatever sadistic tendencies the man cradling them held, they’d deal with later. With fluttering eyelids, 1198518 attempted to push away from him once more.

They knew sleep would mean they would be transferred. Easier to not be tracked and all.

He stroked their bloody snout, avoiding the worst of the lacerations. His touch held care and an oddly calm aura that was never present in their life.

“Shh, I’ve got you. You’re alright, sweet thing. Sleep, I’ll keep ya safe tonight.” He promised, scratching at the one spot behind their ear that turned them into goo.

A nap, yeah they’d just sleep for a few hours to regain energy and then make a break for it.

Perfect.

Sam looked down at the wounded creature strewn across his chest. He was a male shifter, that much was obvious. His story though, was an entire mystery.

The muzzle... Not wanting to startle the sweet thing was the only reason Sam had stayed still. He wanted to burn the fucking place to the ground.

A glittering on the collar still looped around the shifter’s neck caught Sam’s vision.

1198518.

The owners of the god-forsaken place had reduced all of their 'merchandise' to numbers. Horrific. Sam was smart enough to know what it meant though.

“Asher, huh? Pretty name for a pretty shifter.” He hummed quietly, glancing at the decrepit room.