Disclaimer: All characters are mine. No takey.

A/N: And I've started another story... I'm rather fond of this one, though, so chances are, it will actually get finished. ^_^' Hopefully. Reviews do encourage progress, though...

So- the main character and a large portion of his friends are Russian, or at the very least European. Why? I'm not positive, so don't ask. Anyway- I'm not going to try to imitate dialects and switch out v's for w's and such, so you'll just have to use your imagination.

As for any Russian that may be spoken- I'm not going to translate. For the most part, it will only be profanity anyway. So use your imagination.

Warnings: Slash/homosexuality, language, implied sex and sexual activities involving minors, dubious consent, blood, gore, murder, possible angst, death, suicide, cutting, implied child abuse, drug and alcohol abuse by minors... and if I think of anything else, I'll add it.

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Malicious Intent

by Kat-chan

chapter one - wicked ways

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"Another one."

A folder with photographs inside dropped onto the already cluttered desk of one Detective Aaron Winters.

"Central Park. A young woman this time. In her early twenties. Caucasian," The woman, Detective Sarah Fieldings, continued, tapping the folder with the eraser of a pencil, "Throat torn out... One arm chewed entirely off, the remains of which were found almost a mile south of the body... Scrapes on the knees, and a sprained ankle, as if she'd been running from something. Skull fractures, bruising on the chest, ribs and thighs, scratches and bite marks over her entire body, chunks of flesh ripped out... Her clothing practically shredded..."

Detective Winters, who had begun flipping through the photographs paused to look up- over the rims of his wireframes- at his colleague and raise an incredulous eyebrow, "It looks to me like she was attacked by a dog. Or... a pack of dogs. Why is it coming to us?"

"There's too much of a pattern to it for this to simply be stray animals. Three nights each month, for the past five months... Every victim killed in the same area, all around the same time of night. And not a single person has reported a pack of stray dogs roaming there. The NYPD searched the entire park, and the surrounding areas. They've come up with nothing." Fieldings cleared her throat and tucked her mousy brown hair behind her ear, "We're going to have to investigate the possibility of a serial killer of some sort."

"And just where do you suppose we should start?" Winters asked with a sardonic smirk, closing the folder, "Maybe dusting for pawprints?"

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He was fifteen- give or take a few years- and a bit small for it. His bones stuck out some and his clothes all seemed a little too big. His hair was tawny, the colour of reddish honey, hanging in and around his boyish face, over his right eye. The visible eye was a pale, wintery blue, haunting if you looked too long, though few ever dared to.

His nose was slightly snubbed and his ears were a bit pointed- in a vague and unnoticable sort of way. His cheeks were still rounded softly, retaining the look of a child, while his eyes told of something darker... And it seemed that he never smiled, despite the countless smug smirks and sadistic grins that loved to play over his lips.

He didn't walk so much as prowl, each step calculated, eyes taking in every bit of his surroundings, taking note of every passer-by. He had an air of superiority about him. He knew he was better than everyone else and he left no room for questioning.

He spoke with an accent- born in St. Petersburg and raised in a poverty ridden neighbourhood in Moscow- but his English was infallible, if not a bit vulgar. And on the rare occassion one might see him truly and genuinely upset, he'd swear in his native tongue, foul language spilling easily from his normally smirking lips.

At the moment, his lips held none of that familiar smirk- but not because there was anything troubling his dark little soul. He was simply thoughtful, entranced by the glow of the television set before him, stretched comfortably out in his favourite old recliner.

It was because of this that he payed no attention to the black haired girl draping herself over him, pouting her full, red painted lips and and flaunting her plump breasts.

"Mishka darling?" She called him, stroking his cheek sweetly. She leaned up enough to whisper in his ear, lips brushing his skin, "Why don't you come to bed, Mishka darling? I'll make it worth your while..."

The surprised squeak that forced itself from her as he shoved her aside was most undignified and at the very least... counter-seductive.

"Go away, Katya," He growled, though he showed no sign of annoyance, "That awful perfume you bathe yourself in is suffocating me. And between your terribly overdone make up and what little clothing you did bother to put on, you look like a prostitute. Get yourself checked for disease before you touch me again."

She was caught between shock and offense, raising a hand to slap the younger teen, "How dare-"

She didn't have the chance to finish, nor deliver the blow. Fingers closed around her thin wrist in a crushing grip, jerking her backward. Her blue eyes widened, staring at the boy who had stopped her, and immediately, apologies began to spill from her lips, Russian and English alike before she scrambled away like a frightened puppy.

Mishka, who had slipped back into his television induced trance, smirked.

"Laine," He stated, not having to see to know who had interfered, "I have been waiting for you. Did you hear the news? Dreadful, really... Some poor girl, torn to shreds in the park by a pack of..." He paused to chuckle, "Canines..."

His smirk widened to a grin and he twisted in his chair to grab a fistful of the other boy's shirt, pulling him into the recliner, forcing the older teen to squish in uncomfortably.

"Come now, malchik," Mishka continued, "You've been gone so long and I have been so -lonely- without you... What have you been doing all day?" He shifted about until Laine was beneath him and he was straddling the green haired boy's lap, rather effectively pinning him in place. Laine gave a small snort, watching the Russian boy with amusement dancing in his dark crimson eyes. He said nothing, allowing slender hands to caress his face- one thumb tracing the scar that ran across the bridge of his nose and down onto his right cheek, and the other trailing over his lips.

"You are beautiful. You know this, do you not?" Mishka's hands drifted down a bit, cupping Laine's face and tilting it upward, "With your blood coloured eyes and your Angelina Jolie pout... How do you expect me to get anything done with you and your perfect little mouth always begging for my attention, huh?"

A kiss whispered over the favoured bit of anatomy, before Mishka went on, "Why won't you speak for me, my love? I hear you growl and snarl... and even laugh when the sadist in you is pleased... But I have never had the honour of hearing my name on your sweet lips..."

His hands drifted again. Gently, almost affectionately, over the pale skin of Laine's neck... And then back up, into the dyed green hair, stroking a moment before tightening and wrenching the older boy's head back.

"What must I do?" Mishka asked in a low voice, giving Laine's hair another rough tug, "It troubles me so, darling, that you do not care for me as much as I care for you... What must I do to have you speak to me?"

When no answer came, Mishka gave an exasperated sigh and released Laine's hair with a slight shove.

"Fine. You will not speak to me..." He looked thoughtful for a moment, before slipping out of Laine's lap and standing before the taller teen with another smug smirk on his face, "I know there are other uses for that pretty mouth of yours. I suggest you put it to work. And quickly."

With an exasperated sigh of his own, Laine slid to the floor, on his knees at Mishka's feet, and carefully drew the fly of the Russian boy's jeans down.

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"Daddy Mishka! Daddy Mishka!" A girl of no more than seven bounded into the living room of the small apartment, golden girls bouncing as she ran. She skidded to a stop at the foot of Mishka's recliner and stared for a moment, at the sleeping boys- Mishka in his chair and Laine on the floor, with his head in the Mishka's lap- and then she yelled. Loudly.

"It wasn't me, Papa!" Mishka shouted as he started awake, looking lost and confused for a long while. Laine only opened one eye lazily, and closed it again once he recognized the intruder.

"Daddy Mishka! Come quick! Come quick!" With a still slightly confused blink, Mishka looked down at the girl, and then smiled.

"What is it, little one?" He asked gently, making no motion to get up.

"I said come! Ylenia and I were listening to the radio!" The girl was bouncing, tuggnig at Mishka's hand, "We were listening and you won't believe what they said! You won't -believe- it!"

"What did they say?"

"Nonono! You have to come and hear it!" She tugged harder, "They called us stray dogs! Stray dogs!" Mishka laughed and patted the little one's head.

"It's nothing to worry over," He assured her, "If they knew who they were talking about, they'd never say such a thing. I would have to kill for such disrespect to my pack. And most especially to my beloved little ones."

"That's right! You'd have to tear *all* their throats out!" The small blonde clapped excitedly, "And eat their hands! And their -toes!-" Again, Mishka laughed, feigning the same level of enthusiasm.

"Yes, yes. I could never leave their toes!"

"And their eyeballs!"

"Of course! -Especially- their eyeballs," He patted the girl's head again, and then shooed her gently, "Now go back to playing, and ignore what the people on the radio are saying. They don't know what they're talking about."

"-Yeah!-" The girl agreed, looking determined and stomping her foot, before grinning and running off, calling ahead of her to her playmates.

Once she was out of range, Mishka's expression hardened and he smacked Laine in the shoulder.

"Wake up. We have some business to tend to."

-end chapter one-

^_^ So how many people are confused? You'll understand eventually... give it time... And remember- reviews encourage progress.