5A Matter of Instinct
By Averick 2018
Warnings: Story may contain slash, violent and/or graphic content, foul language, etc. My usual stuff. It's not guaranteed to be slash, but there's always the possibility, knowing me. If you don't like it then feel free to hit the back button. As always, there's probably typos. All mistakes are my own.
1
Oscar Veer died because he did something nice for once. Normally, he didn't give a damn about anyone else; let them cross the street at their own peril. He looked after himself and his family, and to hell with everybody else. But today he was in a good mood. He got home early, for once. The red light he always hit decided to be green today, because of a car in front of him eager to turn left. The light changed seconds before he got to it, and he coasted through the intersection with a smile on his face. He got home two minutes earlier than usual. Not a lot, but enough to leave him in a good mood.
He lived in a nice little neighborhood with a roundabout at one end. All the houses looked the same, and all the yards were neatly kept. He worked hard to land himself here, with his beautiful wife and two daughters. He enjoyed working on the lawn and nodding hello to his neighbors, even if he rarely spoke to them. He never went to neighborhood cookouts because he worked weekends; not only that, but he worked nights. It made socializing difficult.
He made it home thirteen minutes after seven in the morning. The sun was just cresting the edge of the horizon. Birds chirped, shaking off a haze of sleep. Dew coated the well-kept grass. A chilly breeze circled the air, warning that the cold months were well on their way. Soon the birds would leave, and he wouldn't have to worry about mowing the lawn for a few months.
He was smiling as he exited his Mercedes. Two whole minutes early. Might not seem like a lot to some people, but sometimes it's the little things in life that make a huge difference. He didn't hit that dreaded light. The light he argued with every night before work, and every morning on the way home. He always hit that light. It was never green. Always red, and he had to wait two minutes every time. But today it was green, and he was home two minutes early.
Oscar Veer died that day because the light was green instead of red. He was in a good mood, and when he saw his neighbor struggling with her groceries, he hurried over to help her. Because he was two minutes early, and this was unprecedented. Sylvia was an older lady, in her mid-sixties. She got up at 4am every morning, without setting an alarm. Sleep was for the dead, she said. There was so much to do every day. So on Thursdays, every week, she got up and went to the local WalMart to go grocery shopping and beat the crowd. She said she enjoyed going so early; the store was empty and silent and she felt like a queen when the employees focused on her so attentively. Carrying in the groceries was another matter entirely, of course. She was old and frail and walked with a limp from a wreck she had some twenty years previous. It took several trips to get her bags inside, which was tiresome.
Oscar Veer was in a good mood and decided to help.
He helped her get her groceries inside. She thanked him for being such a nice young man, and he nodded and said you're welcome like any decent human being would do. Then he left her house and walked in his door at 7:25am. He threw his keys in the dish on the table next to the door like he always did and walked through to kiss his wife good morning in the kitchen.
She wasn't there. There was a note on the table that said she got called into work early, and the kids stayed at a friend's house last night. School nights weren't the best for their daughters to stay at a friend's house, but if his wife knew she would be gone before they got up she would let them stay elsewhere so they wouldn't have to worry about being unattended in the morning.
Normally, Oscar Veer went straight home from work and walked in the door at 7:15 sharp, a good ten minutes after his daughters boarded their school bus. His wife was usually due at the office at eight, but sometimes she got called in at five or six, depending on the workload and staff.
Today he walked in the door ten minutes later than usual, and everything changed.
There was a man in his kitchen, rifling through drawers. In a frenzy. He was growling under his breath, massive shoulders heaving with the effort as he all but tore the forks out of the drawer and tossed them onto the floor. For a moment, Oscar Veer stood in the doorway and tried to comprehend what he was seeing. He didn't make a noise, didn't even breathe, but his heart hammered loudly in his chest, crashing against his ribs and that must have alerted the crazed man because the tall guy spun around. His eyes were unnatural. They were glowing, a bright golden brown. There was blood on his mouth like he took a bite out of someone. Those crazed eyes landed on him and Veer turned to run. It was all he could think to do, some primitive part of him snapping into motion in a fight or flight response. The guy was well over six feet tall and looked insane and inhuman in that moment. There was no way he was fighting him. So he ran.
The guy was fast. Too fast. He caught Veer the moment he turned away. He didn't even make it one step before the tall man was on him. A hand caught his arm at the elbow in a crushing grip. He felt the bone snap as fingers curled into him. He shouted out in pain even as he was thrown to the ground. His other arm hit the ground first, wrenching his shoulder out of socket and shattering his collarbone. He fell backward with an excellent view of the ceiling as pain rippled through him. Then the man was on top of him again, and this time he was snarling. They weren't quiet growls under his breath anymore, but full blown snarls. His teeth were sharp. Sharper than sharp. Piercing. Like he wasn't human at all. An animal. He was an animal. He had blood on his mouth and blood on his teeth and rage in his eyes.
What Veer didn't know was that the man hadn't been in the house ten minutes ago. What he didn't know and would never learn was that the tall man had entered the house five minutes ago when it looked like no one was home. What he didn't know was that if he hadn't stopped to help the neighbor this man would have seen him inside and would have kept moving.
The tall man snarled. His breath reeked of death and blood and decay. Veer's stomach turned and he scrambled to get away but with both arms out of commission all he could do was backpedal. He shot backward until his back hit the wall and then the tall man was on him again.
The tall man lunged at him. Like an animal. Teeth first. At his throat.
Oscar Veer died that day because the light was green, and all his wife would remember was that her kitchen floor was coated red.
xXx
Alex Vaughn looked at the file on his desk. It was a gruesome scene, with a mangled body and intestines lining the kitchen floor. It was once a nice floor. Good tiling. His wife had a similar taste in her interior decorating. The man, dead and bloody in the photo, used to be nice-looking and well off, with a good paying job and a loving family. His wife found the body four hours after he died, when she came home on her lunch break. She called the police but by then the killer was long gone. The killer was a large man, judging by the massive bloody shoeprints left at the scene. The coroner was still trying to determine the type of blade used to cut up the body because it looked decisively like claw marks but no animal fit the bill. So it had to be some kind of blade. Except Vaughn knew it wasn't.
It was the fifth case like this, across several states. He knew it was the same person. The same monster. The bloody shoeprints were the same size at every scene. The bodies were all mutilated beyond recognition. The intestines looked gnawed and were ripped from the body. The victims died quickly enough, thankfully. They didn't suffer. The coroners said their throats were slashed with multiple blades simultaneously, but Vaughn knew better. He knew their jugulars were ripped out with a one merciless bite.
He pressed a button on his phone. The intercom button. It buzzed once, to alert his secretary outside his room. She buzzed him back immediately. "Yes, sir?" she asked.
"Get me Valentine," he said. "We need to wrap this up quickly."
"Valentine," she repeated. "Are you sure?"
"I want Valentine."
"Okay. But he's not happy with you right now."
"I know that. Send him an apology gift. Whatever he might like. And tell him to get his sorry ass back to work." Vaughn hit the button again, turning the intercom off. He looked back at the file. Ran his finger over the picture. Wrinkled his nose at all the blood.
They had someone working this case already, but obviously they weren't doing their job because the deaths kept happening.
This needed to stop. This monster needed to be stopped. Needed to be put down like the dog they were.
Werewolves, Vaughn thought, lips curling in disgust. Pre-Nats were disgusting creatures and they all needed to die. They didn't belong in this world. They didn't belong around civilized folk. They entered the picture and men like Oscar Veer wound up dead on their kitchen floor for no good reason. Just because a stupid werewolf couldn't control their violent temper.
Hunters were needed now more than ever. The government thought they could hide Pre-Nats, or supernatural creatures. Thought they could control them and use them as they saw fit, but they were wrong. It was about time they realized their mistake and got rid of them all.
Valentine would stop this monster. He always liked a good hunt.
Vaughn closed the file and took a sip of his steaming coffee.
xXx
Oscar Veer might have been the fifth victim in a spree across multiple states but he was the first victim in Indiana. The Indianapolis Pre-Nat Detective Agency worked alongside normal human police, just as they did in all major cities. Pre-Nats, or preternaturals, cleaned up their own messes. So when a werewolf went crazy and mutilated someone, someone of a like mind was assigned to contain the situation and clean up the mess. They solved their own crimes and cleaned up their own messes. In that moment, the tall crazed werewolf became Anthony Morgan's problem. The file landed on his desk Friday morning, a day after it happened. Werewolf confirmed, the file said. DNA samples from the scene, along with hair fibers, alerted them of the irrefutable evidence. Human police didn't have this kind of inside information; their DNA results came back inconclusive. But Anthony Morgan wasn't human police.
The file was thin for what it was. A werewolf, a large man due to the shoe size, and very angry. Werewolves had to constantly fight their tempers. Anything could set them off. They only mutilated like this and munched on intestines when they were out of control. They only tore up a body like this when they were in a rage. Angry, blood-filled gaze. They couldn't stop themselves. It took a lot of control for them to pull back from their angry haze. Some lost themselves to it. Clearly this werewolf had.
The first step in hunting down this werewolf would be to determine where he'd been. His first stop would be to the Veer household to see the crime scene for himself. He took a sip of his coffee and dumped the now empty cup in the trash next to his desk before he got to his feet and shrugged on his jacket. It was a chilly day today and was supposed to rain sometime. The sky was gray and gloomy as he stepped out of the building. The building looked ordinary enough. It looked like any government building in a city. Large stone walls, few dark windows, and security cameras everywhere. There were also invisible scanners that detected pheromones and body temperature. It was how Pre-Nats were usually viewed. To get into the building you had to scan your wrist band. A silver band that looked like a medical alert bracelet to normal humans. If you had clearance, the doors would open for you. If you didn't, they remained locked and the building appeared rather vacant and empty. They parked two blocks away to maintain the empty façade. Normal humans could not enter the building as they didn't have the wrist bands, and those who had the wrist bands would only be granted the ability to enter if they had clearance. It was a secondary security measure.
Anthony's car wasn't anything fancy. He preferred to walk when he could but it was a long drive from Indianapolis to Richmond, Indiana. No way he was walking there. His car was an old beat up Chevy Impala. Black in color, rusted along the edges, with a few dents here and there along the back left where he had a minor accident a year ago. The car still ran great and got him from point A to point B so he saw no need to fix it. He got behind the driver's seat and keyed the ignition. Listened to the engine rev to life. Turned the radio on and flicked through three stations before he called it quits and flicked it off. He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road.
He stopped at a gas station on the way out of the city and grabbed another cup of hot coffee. It didn't taste very good but gas station coffee rarely did. At least it would keep him awake for the drive. He hated working days. He usually only worked nights but the Chief called him in specially for this case and he couldn't say no. He had no real excuse. 'Sorry, sir, the sun hurts my eyes' wouldn't fly with them. Either you did the job or you lost it. So he did it. He worked too hard to lose it now.
He made detective young. He was twenty-nine now, but he made detective three years ago. It was his theory that got a rogue psychic caught before they could murder their twelfth victim. It got him a commendation and a promotion and job security. It landed him a spot here in Indianapolis and a partner. His gaze slid toward the empty passenger seat. His partner was a great woman but she died six months ago in a stakeout gone bad. She was the senior detective so what she said went, and she told him to stay put so he did. He stayed in the car and waited to cut off their target after they saw movement in the apartment building. But she never came back and the target never went his way and when he went upstairs to find her, against her own orders, he found her and the target dead in the target's living room. A double murder, and they never did find the murderer. The Chief said it was a human, and thus a human crime and it wasn't their jurisdiction anymore. Anthony thought that was stupid and wanted to find the asshole who killed his partner but the Chief said no and if he wanted to keep his job, he'd keep his mouth shut and do as he was told. So he did. Because he worked too hard to get here and he couldn't lose his job now.
Didn't mean he liked it. The Chief tried to saddle him with several new partners but they never panned out. They didn't like being saddled with a half-breed like him, and he didn't appreciate their presence either. He didn't want a new partner. He preferred to work alone.
He made it to Richmond quickly enough. Traffic was light between rush hours. Navigating through the city was the more difficult part. Intercity traffic was worse than the interstates. Lights stayed red forever and stayed green only a few short seconds before flashing red again, and the wait started all over. It was a process Anthony was familiar with but it irritated him. It was one of the reasons he preferred to walk. He raced an old lady with a walker for two blocks but in the end she pulled ahead because of yet another red light. He lost her when she took a left and he went straight.
He coasted through another intersection and consulted his GPS. He was close. The lights were thinning out and so was the traffic. A suburb of houses here. Nice houses, all the same with well kept yards. The kind of hell he could never stand. He hated places like this. They made his skin crawl. The sun was too bright and the traffic was lousy and werewolves were pests on the best of days. He was also out of coffee and had been for well over an hour. It was more than enough to land him in a foul mood.
He found the right house and stopped along the curb. Yellow police tape cordoned off the house. A police car sat in the driveway, apparently guarding the house. Understandable, given the crime. It had only been a day. They were still gathering what evidence they could. Anthony stepped out of the car and walked toward the police car. The officer stepped out to greet him.
Anthony flashed his badge in his right palm. "Detective Morgan," he said. "I've been assigned to look into what happened here."
"The detectives were here yesterday," the officer said, frowning at him. He was a young man with short-cropped hair and bright eyes. His clothing was smooth and pressed. He was eager to please, eager to do well on the job. There was passion in his eyes.
Anthony smiled. "I'm a different branch. You can call it in if you'd like but that would waste our time. All I want to do is look around. You can stay with me the whole time if you want."
The man hesitated, but only briefly. He was eager to please, after all, and if he got to stay with Anthony then what harm could there be? So he nodded and lifted the line of tape to allow Anthony to duck underneath it. Anthony was a little taller than him, but then that could be said of a lot of people. He was six-foot even, while the average male height in the United States was five-foot-nine.
The officer, whose badge said Filmore, opened the door to the house and waved him inside. Anthony stepped over the threshold and listened as Filmore followed after him. Anthony had never been in the house before, nor did he see any pictures pertaining to the exact layout, but he knew where the kitchen was. He could smell it. Blood had a rusted metallic smell and it was thick and heavy in the air. He stopped just shy of entering the kitchen, gaze lowered to the floor. The floor used to be a light brown color but now it was darker with dried blood. It smeared the flooring in a wide pool, from the doorway toward the kitchen table. Bloody shoeprints left the pool and took long strides toward the back door. A bloody handprint rested on the white painted wood. No fingerprint matches, he assumed, or they would have been included in his file. The handprint was a smear, so maybe it wasn't intact enough to get a fingerprint.
The body had been removed. It would be with the coroner. The victim's car was still parked in the driveway, behind the police car. He could see it through the window. A dark blue Mercedes. New. Untarnished. A smooth ride. A good house, a loving family, and suburban hell. This guy had it all. And then he died anyway, because death didn't care if you led a good life or led any kind of life at all.
Anthony inhaled. Opened his mouth. Tasted the air. He had extra taste buds and extra sensors in his nose. His sense of smell was superior to a human's but not as keen as a werewolf's. Nevertheless, he could smell the werewolf in the air. Could smell the rage and the blood and the fear. The victim died terrified. Maybe died screaming, until his jugular was ripped out. No defensive wounds on the body. He didn't have a chance against a raging werewolf. Poor sorry bastard.
"Mr. Veer died here," the officer said unnecessarily.
"Tell me about Mr. Veer," Anthony said. His file was thin. He didn't have a lot of information, because he was hunting a crazed werewolf and the motive for the attack probably had nothing to do with who Veer was as a person, like with normal human crimes. All the same, knowing about the victim couldn't hurt.
"He worked nights at an accounting firm. He typed numbers and read through accounts so things were neat and tidy for the day crew. He just got home Thursday morning when he was killed. His wife found him a few hours later on her lunch break. She works at a law firm. He had two daughters, two years apart."
A quick rundown of a man's life. Anthony bit his lower lip and nodded. "Thank you." He turned and left the scene, using his long legs to get him out of the house quickly. The shorter man followed after him, moving his legs faster.
"Wait," Filmore said. "Is that all?"
"I just wanted to see the place," Anthony said. "Thank you for your time."
Now he needed to see the body.
xXx
Anthony disliked morgues. Hate was a strong word, so he just really disliked them. They smelled like death and decay and bleach. It was a nauseating smell to his acute senses. It tasted even worse, despite the fact he breathed solely through his nose. The mortician led him back to see the body but to his surprise, there was already someone standing over it.
"I'm sorry," the mortician said, "but who are you and how did you get back here?"
The man looked up. He was short, shorter than the average of five-foot-nine, and he had light blond hair and bright blue eyes. They landed first on Anthony, and then on the mortician. A smile carved across his face, slow and steady and not at all genuine. "Sorry," the guy said in a casual voice void of an accent. "Just needed to see the body."
"And you are?" the mortician asked.
Now the man flashed a toothy grin. "Jack Valentine," he said, waving his left hand briefly. "Nice to meet you. I'd like to see the autopsy report now. You didn't leave it with the body. Usually you attach it to the slab, right? So, what'd you find that's left you wary?" Those baby blues blinked innocently at the mortician, but ice slid up Anthony's spine.
The mortician blinked at him, attempting to connect his words with his presence and it didn't add up. "I'm sorry. Who are you? Why…? Are you allowed to be in here? I need to see some ID."
"Of course." The fair haired man pulled a neatly folded paper from his pocket and flicked it at the mortician. "Jack Valentine," he said again. "Special Circumstances Division. And this is indeed a special circumstance, wouldn't you agree? I mean it's not every day a man's intestines get gnawed, am I right?"
The mortician caught the folded paper and unfolded it after tossing the blond man a glare. He read it over carefully, saw the government official seal on the bottom, and looked over the top of the paper at Valentine. "You're a special agent? SCD?"
"I know. You thought I'd be taller," Valentine said, grinning. "I get that a lot."
"They didn't warn me you were coming."
"I like to get ahead of the warning. People try to hide things otherwise. I needed to see the body without interference." His blue eyes snapped toward Anthony. The ice thickened in his spine, a sharp blade of angry ice all cold and hot and stabbing. "And you are?"
"Detective Morgan," he said.
"Well. Detective. They not have full names where you're from?"
He sighed. Clenched his teeth. "Detective Anthony Morgan."
"Alright," Valentine said. "I like your bracelet, Anthony."
Anthony flinched. Fingered the silver band on his right wrist. He forgot it was there sometimes, because he'd worn it since he was fifteen-years-old. It labeled him as a registered Pre-Nat, for those who knew to look, and the ice just strengthened and cooled and burned in all the wrong ways because Jack Valentine was trouble. He knew what to look for and he knew what to see and he was there to put people like Anthony in the ground.
Jack Valentine was a hunter. Or, rather, a government-approved assassin of their kind. He went after Pre-Nats and killed them. If the hunters got involved, things were serious. Anthony couldn't think of any reason a hunter would be involved in this werewolf case, though. It was just one body, in a werewolf rage-fueled homicide. Open and closed, really. No need to involve elite mercenaries.
"So," Valentine said, switching his gaze back to the mortician. The ice thawed slightly in Anthony's spine, allowing his tense rigidity to ease. "I need that autopsy report. And then maybe the good detective can see it if he plays nice and says please and thank you." One blue eye winked at him.
Anthony grit his teeth again. "Please," he said.
The mortician looked back and forth between the two of them, before he sighed and waved them both toward his office at the back of the room. They stepped through the doorway and into the office. It was slightly warmer than the fridge that was the main room of the morgue. His desk was solid oak and he plucked a file off it before turning to hand it to Valentine. Valentine grabbed the file and sat on the edge of the oak desk. Just hiked a leg up and sat his butt down on it like it was made for him. He flipped through the pages, a crease forming in his brow, before he closed the file and handed it to Anthony.
"Tell me what you see," he said.
Anthony sighed and accepted the file from him. The file was ultimately inconclusive. The cause of death was clear. The man died from blood loss and shock when his jugular was cut and ripped out. He died quickly, but those few seconds would have felt like hours to him. Post-mortem injuries included the mutilation of the body and the intestines being torn out. The teeth marks on the intestines were inconclusive. Not human, but not any animal they could easily identify, either. A werewolf, Anthony knew. He caught Valentine's eye and nodded.
"Keep going," Valentine said.
Anthony looked back at the file. The liver was intact.
His previous file hadn't mentioned the liver, but it came first from a human file that didn't exactly know what they were looking for, and it came before the autopsy. So the results of the liver, at the time, were insubstantial.
Werewolves in a rage always took the liver. They ate it. All were-creatures did. It was an instinct. It was delicious to them, unless the victim had liver disease. A quick check at the medical history next to the autopsy report confirmed that Oscar Veer did not, in fact, have a bad liver. Which meant it should have been gone. The werewolf should have eaten it.
They didn't.
"Yeah, I found that confusing too," Valentine said to the frown on his face. He looked back at the mortician, who stood behind the desk, watching the two of them. "You kept this in here instead of out there with the body. Why?"
"It seemed too violent," the guy said.
Valentine quirked an inquisitive brow. A sort of 'oh?' question.
"I think the killer chewed on the intestines. But I can't confirm that because the teeth marks aren't human." The mortician shook his head, teeth catching his lower lip nervously. "I don't know. I wanted to run more tests. It felt wrong to me."
"You have good instincts," Valentine said. "But don't worry about it. We'll take it from here. Come on, Detective."
He slid off the desk and walked out of the room. Anthony stared at his retreating back before Valentine turned and stared at him expectantly. Sighing, Anthony put the file down on the mortician's desk and followed after the hunter.
They left the building in silence. Anthony walked to his car. Valentine followed him. The ice was back in his spine and every instinct screamed at him to run, but he fought it down because honestly, what kind of threat was Valentine?
Valentine was short. Blond hair cropped in untamed waves. Blue eyes. He looked like a surfer, equipped with a tan face and smooth complexion. Short, lean, more like a surfer or beach occupant than anything. Anthony was six-foot even, pale with angry freckles splotched all over his body in haphazard patterns, and he had dark green eyes. He was tall and lean but even he didn't fear a short and lean person. Especially a short, lean human. Because that was what Valentine was. Human. All hunters were human. Specially trained, but Valentine looked younger than Anthony was, and short and lean and he smiled too much. So he wasn't a threat. And if he was, Anthony could take him because he was bigger and decidedly not human. He had speed and strength and size on Valentine.
So when Valentine followed him to his car he spun around and allowed his eyes to flash from dark green to bright green flecked with gold. "Back off," he snapped, flashing his teeth at the human.
The human didn't flinch. Just grinned at him. "I'm gonna say were-something. You're not a werewolf, that's obvious, but you're a were-something. Interesting. And you're not scared of me. That's presumptuous of you, but I mean, at least you're confident."
"The fuck do you want?" Anthony asked. "I haven't done anything wrong. I'm a detective."
Valentine rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to hunt you."
"Good."
"I'm here to hunt the same werewolf you are."
"And?"
The smile faded. Irritation slipped into the blue gaze. "Look, I don't like this any more than you do. But the situation is bigger than you think. This is the fifth body this werewolf has dropped. In three states. He's moving west. He's off the rails and he'll kill again, and I don't think you need me to tell you that more bodies is a disaster."
Five bodies. Anthony blinked at the human. Five bodies. No one said anything about a serial killing werewolf. "Five?" he asked.
"Five," Valentine said, nodding. "So get off your high horse and let's work together to get this finished quickly, unless you're okay with this maniac killing again."
"I thought you hunters hated Pre-Nats."
"We do," Valentine said. "I mean, you're all evil pieces of shit, right? And all hunters are bloodthirsty killers who judge everyone immediately by the silver bracelet. That's why you're still alive, clearly. Because I hate you. Because I killed you the second I saw your bracelet."
"Do you have a point?"
Valentine stared at him for a moment. Just stood there and stared like he couldn't figure out a puzzle. Then he shrugged, blinked, and walked away. Just like that.
Anthony stepped after him. "Wait, what?"
"I changed my mind."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Hey, asshole." Anthony easily caught up to him. Cut him off, and stopped in front of him. Valentine stopped and looked at him. He had to angle his head up at this short distance. "You can't just demand my help and walk away."
"I didn't demand. I said it would be more productive if we worked together, but I changed my mind. Your services are no longer needed, or wanted." Valentine stepped around him.
"Just like that?"
"Yep."
"Then why even demand my help in the first place?"
"Have a good day, Detective."
Anthony watched Valentine disappear around a corner, and then turned back to his car.
A/N: Yeah, I know. Another new story. But bear with me. I like this one. xD yeah that's really all I have. It started similar to how Almost Living and that series started, but with a tiny bit more planning. See, I actually picked names and vague descriptions of the characters before I started and that's about it lol. And those were shot to hell almost immediately because my characters hate doing as I say. So, there's that. But, give it a chance? It's kind of slow going at first but it will pick up. Feedback is welcome :) This is just written for fun and isn't that serious but I am enjoying writing it. It will eventually be a series. I haven't decided if there's going to be slash or not.
Right now I'm at the beginning of chapter five, so that's good I guess. Debating on posting all chapters at once or pacing myself. We'll see. Probably all at once because, meh. If you know my work then you kind of know the warnings. Might be slash, might be violent and/or graphic, there's swearing so if you're feeling sensitive about that then maybe click the nice little 'back' button. If any of this isn't your glass of pineapple juice please feel free to return to the fridge and try again.
Thanks :) Reviews are love and really do inspire me to continue! The series doesn't have a name yet, so. But eventually it might. We'll see how it all works out.
Chapter length: 5517
Song listening to: "Legendary" by Welshly Arms
~Averick~