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bunky101 · 3 months ago

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Gods of War

mm. what if, hear me out, the 141 were gods. and obviously, gods of war. and what if, hear me out, people try to give them a sacrifice?

cw: some gore, violence, kyle might be unhinged

Her pleads were drowned by chanting. Hands grabbed at her body, free from her dress since the morning when she had been dragged from her bed.

Her mother cried, hunched over the strong arm of her father as they watched her fight against the hands of the village elders’ sons. They knew it was coming, had been warned two nights prior that she had been chosen by the gods. The Gods. Her mother wailed but her father only tightened his grip as she plead for her life.

The dirt was wet, almost mud, and caked her legs, feet, and arms. Every time she slipped from one man’s grip, another would tackle her to the ground then hoist her into the air. Her screams echoed through the village, drawing out the folk so they could watch.

She had no idea when her dress had been torn from her, only that it was freezing and anyone within reach was touching any part of her they could. Some whispered words of prayer at her. As if the gods hadn’t spoken for her life.

Rope wound around her wrists and she begged. The man in front of her, the son of Elder Torsten, kept his eyes anywhere but on hers. His hair was caked in mud, having just tackled her to the ground, and his hands were bloody. Had she done that?

As the rope tightened, she pulled at it, causing him to step forward. She pleaded again, but he never lifted his eyes from her wrists.

She remembered him. They had been friends in their youth, exploring the woods around the village with the other children. She recalled the first time he kissed another boy and had hidden in her house for a week after his father found out.

A sharp command came from behind him, Tage she finally remembered, and he was ripped away so she could stare up at the son of Elder Asmo. The oldest elder. The one who’s word was final. Jarmo was his name.

His face was twisted in a sick grin and his hands gripped her biceps.

“Are you ready to die for your village?”

The other elders’ sons stepped away to reveal their fathers. All of them wore a look of pity, shame at having condemned her to death by proxy. All but Asmo. His face was hard and he had no pity for her. He had sacrificed his own daughter ten years ago to the same gods and never flinched as she screamed over the flames. They had survived the battle by the skin of their teeth. And the blood of their sons.

“You have been chosen,” Asmo boomed, “you will save your people, child.”

Her mother screamed again but it was shuddered by a hand over her mouth.

“We,” Asmo turned to face the gathered village, “are at war. Lost many sons, fathers, brothers,” he threw his arms out and spun slowly, “but we have heard the gods’ will.”

A young girl stepped forward, her face pinched and her mouth open. An older woman put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back with a shake of her head.

“The gods need a tribute.” Asmo’s arms dropped to his side as he turned to look at her. Quieter, just to her, he spoke, “you are their tribute.”

“Please,” she whispered, tears leaving clean paths of skin down her cheeks, “please, don’t.”

“It is not my choice, child,” his hand cupped her cheek, rubbing at the tears and smearing dirt across the skin again. His skin was rough, calloused and gross. She could see the glimmer of joy in his eyes. “The gods have decreed it.”

His voice boomed again, spooking her and earning a grunt from the elders and their sons.

Tage and Jarmo stepped forward again. Tage still never looked up at her. They took her arms and forced her to walk. Rocks cut into her feet, blood dripping onto the dirt as she stumbled to keep up with them. Forward motion kept her from digging her heels into the dirt to stop them.

Other elders’ sons were laying kindling delicately on the pyre she would burn on. One who was the youngest of the sons, Svend, glanced up at her. His eyes lingered on her breasts before flicking to her bare cunt. He was too young to have laid with one of the village girls. How lucky for him to get to leer at her as she was led to her death.

Jarmo hissed at him as he lingered too long and Svend scurried back to lay more kindling down.

She recalled that Jarmo had lead his own sister to the pyre ten years ago. Said nothing as she had her forearms cut to the bone and the fire was lit under her. Watched as she burned. Listened while she screamed.

The icy winds shifted. Kindling flew off the pyre and brushed against her legs. It comforted her.

Svend rushed after it, tripping over his own feet as he struggled to catch the bundle.

A sharp gasp came from the gathered villagers. Tage and Jarmo froze and she stumbled forward, out of their grasp. Her bound hands offered her no help as she fell to the ground.

“Wot’s this?”

Her head snapped up and the breath left her lungs.

Standing atop the pyre, one hand resting almost playfully on the hilt of a broadsword and the other leaning a forearm against the stake she was to be tied to, stood a man.

His chest was bare, though covered in scars and intricate tattoos. Low on his hips was a tartan kilt, something like the Northern men would wear. It was bright; orange red and blue mixing together to mimic the fire she was to burn in. At his hip hung a broadsword, hilt covered with a gilded cage.

Her eyes had barely made it to his face when he spoke again.

“Ahm no’ speakin’ another language, aye?”

She shook her head and took in the final pieces of his features. A proud stripe of hair centered his head, though it didn’t appear that he’d maintained it in a long while. His eyes reminded her of the sky right before a storm rolled in; dark but vibrant with the possibility of destruction. On his lips was a lopsided, dark grin and she could recognize her god when she saw him.

“Then wot is this?”

Casting a look around her, every head was bowed but hers. Even Asmo had collapsed to his knees and buried his face in the dirt.

“Looks like a tribute.”

Her head whipped to the left.

Atop a thatched roof stood another man. What little skin she could see was dark and his eyes were trained on Asmo. He wore leather plated armour and a hammer at each hip. From the distance, she couldn’t make out any of the details on the weapons or armour. But she could recognize her god when she saw him.

“Nah,” the Northern man shook his head, “tributes a’ taken on the battlefield. No’ at home.”

“Dunno, Soap,” her eyes snapped back to the rogue, “looks like one to me.”

A quiet hum came from behind her, but she dared not turn away from the two gods in front of her.

“Somethin’ tae say, elder?”

“F—for you, great warriors,” Asmo’s voice shook when he spoke but the intent was clear.

“I remember this place,” the rogue was suddenly beside her despite her never blinking, “more disgusting than last time I was here.”

The rogue crouched down to her, “well, most of it.”

“Oi, focus,” Soap snapped from atop the pyre. The rogue smirked, shooting the look to Soap, before standing back up.

“Tributes are warriors,” a new voice shook the earth as it rumbled, “they die in battle.”

Beside Soap stood a berserker. He was clad in a wolf skin, his shoulders almost too big to be covered by the flattened legs. A set of steel pauldrons capped his shoulders and leather crossed his chest to keep them in place. Some of his chest was bared and scarred as Soap’s was. On his back hung a shield with a greatsword at his side, a red gem resting in the hilt. His face was obscured. Though the wolf pelt hung on top of his head, a human skull was pressed to his face. She could make out the scar that ran from his neck, through his lips, and into the skull.

“And yet, I see no war.”

A hand brushed against her back and she let out a cry.

“I mean you no harm, little one,” he said.

The final man stepped around her and yanked a dagger from his side. One stroke had the ropes falling to shreds and he offered her his free hand.

He looked like a knight. Armour thick and clinking with each shift of his body and the wind. It was silver with delicate gold filigree carved into it. The armour reminded her of the king’s guard, though the current king favoured red and black and no one had seen a silver and gold knight for over three hundred years. For there was only one.

A pelt was draped over her frame as she took his hand and was guided to her feet. The rogue had removed his gloves and was tightening the pelt around her shoulders.

“Did we not make ourselves clear ten years ago?” The knight sheathed his dagger and the scabbard vanished into thin air. “Did the graves filled with the bodies of fresh men not heed you? Are you simply,” the knight stomped to Asmo’s form and pulled him to his feet by his hair, “stupid?” The elder screamed but the noise was cut short.

“Do you think you know better than the gods?”

“N—no! No, great warrior!” Asmo’s hands grabbed at his scalp and the knight’s armoured hand. The knight merely slapped them away and dropped the elder to the ground.

“Are you alright, dove?” The rogue pulled the hood of the pelt, a cat of some kind from the snout that fell over her head, up and smoothed the skin over her shoulders.

She nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady in his presence. In any of their presence.

“I remember you,” the knight scoffed, “I remember the cries of your wife. The look on your face. Do you remember what happened after the girl died?”

“Y-yes, sir, yes, great warri—” the berserker backhanded him to the ground again.

“What’d we tell ya?”

Asmo cowered under the skull’s hollow eyes, “it must be—”

“Battle.” The berserker stabbed his sword into the ground. Straight through Asmo’s thigh. “We don’t take innocent souls.”

“She...she fought,” Asmo cried, “she bloodied them!”

“An’ tha’ makes her a warrior?” Soap stabbed his sword through Asmo’s bicep. “Fought a battle, she did, but nae the kind like us.”

The rogue bundled the pelt around her tighter, almost as if he was trying to stop himself from leaving her side. Up close, she could see the iridescent filigree in his leather and the shimmering of the onyx hammers at his sides. They twinkled with power and she reached for his hand.

Gaz’s head snapped to look at her. His deep, brown eyes froze her entire body.

“Don’t tell me you feel pity for him,” he whispered, “don’t show him mercy.”

Her hand loosened in his grip and the hammers glitched blue.

A sharp, instant scream tore through the silence and the rogue pressed a wet hand to her cheek. Blood covered his armour, skin, and face. His hammers dripped with it.

Asmo lie, what little was left of him, on the dirt. Blood spilled from his neck into the crater where his head once was. Brain matter splattered over those close enough to watch the savagery and the rogue brushed some away before it fell onto her hand.

“Gaz.” The knight bellowed, but cut himself off before he’d begun.

“A sacrifice has been taken. See to your wounded,” the knight commanded, “we will be taking what is ours.”

She could not even find it in herself to fear the words he said.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

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bunky101 · 3 months ago

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Gods of War Masterlist

They were the gods of war. Four pieces that work as one. And they take their tribute in blood. What they don't take is the blood of innocents, despite what their worshipers believe.

Sacrifices are common but only the most desperate attempt to sacrifice the innocent to them. Not that it's ever garnered any favour with the gods.

This time, however, they're able to stop it before she's killed and since her village didn't want her, they'll certainly take her.

Sacrificial

Folklore

Advent

TBD

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bunky101 · 3 months ago

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Part Seven

Mafia!141 x courier!reader

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Summary: The 141 discusses Kyles findings and John realizes he is not as in control of the family as he thought he was. Some new characters enter the chat. CW: mdni, complete series warnings

“They’re right braw, if ye ask me,” the Scot announced, grinning at the assembled group.

“English, MacTavish,” Ghost growled, not for the first time that week.

“Aye, they can be a bonnie lass when they want.”

“Is that what does it for ya?”

“Aye, sometimes. Ye can dae it fer me too, big boy.” MacTavish winked at the former lieutenant.

John ran a hand down his face, pulling lightly on his beard. The last week had him regretting agreeing to take on the Scot. The timing was terrible, and while his insight so far had been invaluable when it came to the courier, his constant bickering and flirting with Simon had all three men on edge. Even now, Kyle was watching them warily, waiting for Simon to lose his carefully constructed control.

“That’s not what we are here for. Kyle, you had an update?”

Kyle nodded, opening his laptop, the screen behind him flashing to life, mirroring Kyle’s desktop. The other men turned to watch as Kyle navigated to the Hermes website. At this point Kyle, Simon and John were very familiar with the limited information the site had to offer without signing up as either a courier or a user.

“I did some digging, called in a very discreet favor and made some progress.” Kyle navigated away from the website and opened a powerpoint. It was a proposal, timestamped July 2022. “This RFP was presented to Royal Mail two years ago as part of a commitment they had made to expanding their services, one of those services was same day delivery or courier services. This specific presentation was made by a local, Gary Sanderson, uni drop out who studied system operations and had specialised in app development. He’s a bit hard to follow, his job history is sparse and mostly freelance. This presentation was for a service he called ‘You need it, we move it.’ Obviously his strong point wasn’t the marketing side of things.”

Kyle clicked through the slides, finally stopping on a mock up of the client view, it was eerily similar to the screenshots that Simon had taken when he did his fake shipment.

“Could it be a copycat? Someone else could have gotten their hands on this.”

“Sure, but it's unlikely. This was one of countless RFPs submitted, and while it was a finalist it was overlooked because a key component of this model was that the ‘couriers’ were picking up the shipments from a marketplace and could therefore cherry-pick what they wanted to do. Royal Mail might be public, but they still have laws they have to abide by for the services they provide. This,” Kyle said clicking through more of the mockups, “was much more like the Uber model than anything.”

“What’s the deal with Sanderson?” Simon asked.

“Looking into him, his last known address was with his parents in London, but I have reason to believe he’s here.”

“So what’s this all mean then?” John might have understood most of what Kyle was explaining, but he didn’t understand how an individual could just make an app and then people used it.

“Typically, with something like Hermes there would be investors, either individuals, companies or firms that back the idea financially and aid in the establishment or running of the company. There should be a record of a founder, an owner, a creator of the product but Hermes is like a ghost. It's private and unclaimed by anyone so there isn’t a lot to go on, but based on what I learned of our friend Gary, he has the smarts to put the whole thing together but wouldn’t have had the funds. Hermes seems to be privately backed, the only name associated with it in any official capacity is a shell company that’s not associated with anything else.”

“What’s the company?”

“Vindicta LLC.”

“For fucks sake,” John groaned, running a hand roughly over his face as Kyle continued to click through the presentation.

“What’s that?” MacTavish asked.

“Revenge.”

The word sat heavy over the rest of the meeting. The men going over who to trust when it came to looking into Vindicta, Hermes, Gary Sanderson or the courier. They had to be careful, MacTavish was already enough of a wild card, although, there was a part of John that knew Kyle might not be here had it not been for the Scot. The words fearless and feral had been used to describe his handling of Ryker’s bodyguards.

And that was another problem for the 141.

The backstabbing bastard was currently rotting away in the basement of a secure warehouse, Kyle had worked him over but it seemed like he was determined to go to his grave without revealing who their mutual friend was. It could be linked, the same person trying to get ahold of Kyle as the one sending the threats, but the M.O. felt different, why threaten them, over the course of months and then try and kidnap Kyle?

“What do you think, MacTavish?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t be shy now, couldn’t get ya ta shut up earlier,” Ghost chided.

MacTavish blew the masked man a kiss before turning his attention to John. His brows furrowed as he thought a beat before starting.

“Ah still dinnae think the courier is involved. But, Ah get why ye would be suspicious of ‘em. Ah say Kyle keeps lookin’ in tae Hermes and the techie, and we find some way tae subtly chat with the courier.”

“How?”

“They stopped at a club with some frou frou french name, can approach ‘em there all natural like, Kyle can charm ‘em if they’re in tae bonnie lads and if nae, can still charm ‘em.”

“You think I’m bonnie?”

“Bloody hell, can we get through the rest of this without flirting?” John growled out as Simon’s shoulders shook at the outburst.

“Ah cannae make any promises, but Ah can try.”

********************

“John, do we have a meeting I do not know about?”

Nikolai sat at the end of the bar, the corner was dark and secluded but had a view of most of the club. John had been surprised to see him there when he entered looking for a spot from which he could watch Kyle.

“No, why are you here?” John asked, sliding in next to the Russian, their thighs pressed firmly together, John more than aware that the two of them together would be enough to draw attention from the wrong people.

“This is my club, why would I not be here?”

John frowned, watching as Nikolai waved over the bartender, asking for a bottle to be brought over and two glasses. The frown deepened when the bottle the bartender returned with was vodka, chilled, the frosty glass showing a perfect imprint of Nik’s hand after he poured them each a shot.

“This is not your club,” John said flatly, eyes moving over the mess of people.

The club was new, it was on neutral territory and Nikolai hadn’t mentioned any new business acquisitions. John had looked into it after MacTavish had reported seeing you stop here. It was a legitimate business with silent owners. Its main draw was the dancers, but it wasn’t a strip club. Le Éphémère advertised itself as a modern cabaret, tonight’s main attraction was the performers, singers, musicians, the works, and then the dancers would take the stage to close out the night.

The crowd at the bar was what you would expect from the area. Men in button ups, ties loosened, shirts untucked. Women with a fresh swipe of lipstick, maybe a little more color on their cheeks. All of them drinking, and chatting, already a small crowd forming in front of the stage where neon lights cast a red and blue glow, one of those vintage style microphones set up center stage.

Everything about the place spoke of finesse, an attention to detail and commitment to aesthetic that was decidedly not like the Russian who was staring expectantly at John.

Nik shrugged, “it’s mine if I say it is. But yes, it’s really theirs.”

A door opened to what John assumed was the backstage area. Farah, very quickly followed by a frazzled looking Alex. He was furiously speaking into a headset, a hand covering the mic to block out the din of the room around them.

“The lovebirds need a fresh start, I give them fresh start.”

John felt his carefully maintained control slipping. They were already dealing with the mysterious packages and threats, the last thing they needed was a turf war because one of the other families thought the 141 was encroaching on their business.

“Nik,” John started, his gaze shifting from the newlyweds to the courier.

The Russian followed his gaze just as Kyle sidled up next to you.

“Are you spying on his date?” Nik asked as Kyle spoke to you.

You turned to Kyle, eyes wide as if surprised to have been approached by someone, nodding in response to whatever question he had asked. Kyle was the charmer, a silver tongued devil when he needed to be.

“Not a date. That’s the courier,” John explained, voice low despite the lack of risk of you overhearing him. The 141 could never be too careful.

John looked back at the Russian once he was certain you had been ensnared. He wasn’t spying, or worried that Kyle wouldn’t be able to do his job. John was a planner. And if Kyle wasn’t your cup of tea, or if you were meeting someone here he would need to be prepared for plan b or even c based on what Kyle found out.

Nik had heard of the courier, the Russian may have been distracted in the last couple of months, the reason for which John was now privy to as he looked around the space again. It wasn’t that there was a strict rule that Nik couldn’t bankroll the club, or that Farah and Alex couldn’t run it, but John like order and control, and he couldn’t maintain that if one of his most trusted men had opened an entire fucking club without him even knowing.

“Why bring them here?” Nik asked, gaze dragging over the bar towards where Kyle and you were sitting.

“We didn’t, Ghost’s been tailing the courier with the Scot. Seems like they are living a double life, Ghost was certain they were a bloke, but turns out they’re…” John trailed off, taking another sip of his drink.

John wasn’t someone to judge, not when he had been intimate with men and women, when he knew that attraction and even love knew no boundaries, no rules, no limitations. His own love life was a web of partners who didn’t have time for labels for their relationships with each other. Even Nik, who sat looking so fucking sure of himself had found himself in John’s bed on more than one occasion.

But that had not prepared him for the Scot declaring that the courier was not some criminal mastermind living a double life and was probably non-binary or something of that nature. Even when the two Johns had followed you around, he wasn’t sure what to think. And now? Now you were sitting very pretty at the bar, hair styled in a way that was far more feminine then when John had last seen you, a very light touch of makeup, the top you were wearing was a far cry from the tee shirts and leather jackets that Ghost had noted as part of his intel gathering.

Those grainy phone photos were nothing compared to seeing you in person, all dolled up.

It didn’t help that the Scot had said that you were both braw and bonnie, making John pause, trying to wrestle the dichotomy of you being a civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time with Simon’s insistence that you were the enemy. And then trying to see what the Scot saw, because as much as the 141 could explain the threats to him, explain the way their privacy had been destroyed, the Scot would always be an outsider with an outsider's perspective.

And that perspective was that you weren’t living a double life, you just didn’t conform to the gender norms.

John wasn’t judging, not you at least. He was judging himself for the way he couldn’t look away as your lips turned up in a smile at something Kyle had said. He judged himself because in that moment he wasn’t sure if it was just the mysterious threats that were causing his eyes to drift over in your direction over and over.

The Russian must have noticed because he leaned forward, resting a firm warm hand on John’s upper thigh. The touch was familiar with a strength that John had come to know on and off the field.

“You are a haunted man tonight, let’s exercise your demons, da?” he nudged another shot John’s way.

John made a point of not indulging when he was working, and not drinking at establishments that weren’t part of the family. But already this night felt out of his control. But he trusted Kyle to do his job and he trusted Nik to have his six, so what was the worst that could happen?

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bunky101 · 3 months ago

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Veil of Blood & Immortality

Summary: Laswell assigns you to Taskforce 141 cause you have a 'special' ability. Surrounded by vampires and cursed with the way your life is, the last thing you expected was to be attached to Simon Riley.

Masterlist

Deathless|Reader x Vampire|Simon

The hum of the plane's engines barely died down when your boots hit the tarmac. Night pressed heavy against the horizon, the air sharp with the bite of something charged. Something predatory. You adjusted the strap of the duffel slung over your shoulder, Laswell's last words still circling in your head:

"You're not there to make friends. You're there because you don't stay dead."

Taskforce 141. A name that echoed like a warning. Vampires, all of them. Some of the best - and worst - kind.

And there you were, not one of them.

Something... else.

They were already waiting when you approached the hangar. Four silhouettes standing against the dying light, the energy between them intense with something you couldn't quite name. Price was the first to step forward, expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.

"Laswell said you'd be coming." His eyes darting over you - assessing; calculating. You nodded in acknowledgment, offering no more than necessary.

The one next to him grinned faintly. "Soap." He introduced himself, Scottish accent thick. He gave you a once-over, not unfriendly, but curious. "Didn't think Laswell would be sendin' anyone... alive."

The last one had his arms crossed, eyes narrowed, but mumbled a 'Gaz', and that was it.

And then there was him.

You felt it before you saw him; felt the way the air seemed to stretch thin and tight. He wore a skull face balaclava, dark hood drawn low, shadows clinging to him like it was natural. When his eyes met yours, they burned reddish-gold behind the mask. Not subtle. Not polite.

Ghost.

He didn't move; didn't speak. Just stood there, gaze locked on you like he could strip the skin from your bones with nothing more than a glance. It took effort not to shift under it. Your pulse kicked hard in your throat, a warning from the instincts you spent lifetimes learning to ignore. And yet...... you held his stare anyway. Something deep inside your chest tightened.

The silence dragged on what felt like forever.

"Ghost." Price said, voice slicing through whatever invisible thread was between you. He turned away without a word, his steps quiet, purposeful, and vanished into the darkness of the base like he had never been there at all.

Soap gave a low whistle, breaking the tension. "He's not usually that quiet."

You took an even breath, eyes lingering where he disappeared before turning back to the others. Quiet wasn't the word you'd use for him.

No.

It was something dangerous. Something that felt a little too familiar even if you've never experienced it at all.

******************************************************

You didn't see Ghost again that night.

Not when Price walked you through the base layout, not when Soap cracked a few jokes in the hallway, and not when Gaz pointed out the secured armory like he expected you to ask for weapons you couldn't possibly handle. Ghost vanished into whatever shadowy corner he liked to haunt, and you told yourself you didn't care.

The rest of the base wasn't much better though. The moment word spread that a non-vampire had been stationed here, whispers started curling through the halls like smoke. You felt them trailing behind you wherever you went. The side glances, narrowed stares, and quiet scoffs . It was worse among the women. Vampires, sharp-featured and beautiful in that ageless, untouchable way, eyed you with piercing cold in their gazes. Curiosity edged with something more hostile. You weren't prey, but you weren't predator either. A thing outside the familiar food chain.

A thing that didn't belong.

One woman brushed past you in the hallway.... deliberately close. Her voice was low enough no one would have caught it. "Careful, little thing. Strays don't last long here."

You didn't flinch; didn't bother looking back. It was a dance you did before.... in other lifetimes... in other wars. Being the anomaly in the middle of monsters. The trick was knowing when to keep your attitude hidden.

For now.

The barracks were..... interesting. Vampires huddled in their own cliques, soldiers lounging with the kind of lazy, dangerous ease that came from knowing they could kill you faster than you could blink. You kept moving - silent, observant, ignoring the sharp eyes and fake smiles.

Laswell hadn't brought you here to make friends.

She'd brought you here to bleed.

Later, in the dim light of your quarters, you sat on the edge of the bed, unzipping the duffel at your feet. The noise of activity outside the door faded, though you could still hear the occasional echo of laughter, the low murmur of voices too fast for human ears. Your fingers brushed over the worn fabric inside the bag before closing around the hilt of a small, silver-bladed knife. You turned it over once... twice.

No one really knew what you really were. They could stare, whisper, bare their fangs all they wanted. Let them. You'd been surviving monsters long before any of them.

And for the first time in your life...

You weren't planning on running.

******************************************************

The briefing room smelled faintly of gun oil and blood - common scents mingling under the fluorescent lights. You leaned back in your chair, the edge of the table cool under your fingertips, watching as Price paced at the front, laying out the mission details.

Eyes flickered toward you every few sentences. Some subtle, some not.

"...Makarov's latest movement puts him just outside Verdansk." He continued, flipping through satellite images. "Recon intel shows he's pulling in rogue clans. Mercenary types. No allegiance except blood and coin."

Soap leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "And let me guess... he wants to expand. Again."

"Exactly." Price glanced toward you then. "Which is why Laswell's sent us a specialist."

You felt every gaze settle on you. No one spoke, but the weight of expectation pressed deep. He didn't elaborate further..... he didn't need to. Your presence was the question mark hanging over everyone's heads.

But Soap was the first to break the silence, tossing a smirk. "So... specialist, huh? Mind tellin' us what exactly you're made of?"

The others shifted a bit, feigned disinterest that didn't fool you for a second. You tapped your fingers against the table a couple of times. "Something harder to kill than most."

His grin widened, but Gaz just studied you, chiming in. "That's not hard when most of us don't stay dead."

Across the table, Ghost hadn't moved. He hadn't looked at you since the moment you walked in, his hood pulled low, mask covered as usual. But you could feel the heat of his stare even when he wasn't. Like a pressure at the back of your neck or the point of a blade pressed against your skin.

Price cleared his throat. "Details on that aren't important right now. What is important is that she's part of the team. Get used to it." He gave you one last look - a warning and a reassurance - before the briefing wrapped up. Conversation rose and fell as everyone filed out, but you stayed seated.

And so did Ghost.

He lingered at the far end of the room, arms crossed, posture stiff. When you finally stood, his eyes tracked your movement, keen and unblinking. It was the first time you'd been this close since your arrival.

"Something on your mind?" You asked. His gaze didn't waver. He didn't even goddamn flinch. But his voice - his fucking voice - was captivating even with how jagged it sounded.

"Vampires hunt in packs." He simply stated. "Doesn't mean we trust the new wolf."

The implication wasn't subtle, and you fought the urge to furrow your brows. Instead, you held your eyes as you tried to keep your pulse steady.

"Good thing I've never needed a pack."

The aura shifted into that same feeling as before - ancient, involuntary, itching at your awareness. He turned, leaving the room and walking down the hall. He didn't know what the fuck it was about you that had him on edge.

Couldn't put a name to it........ didn't want to.

It wasn't just the way you didn't flinch when others stared, or how your eyes remained calm.... even around him. It wasn't even the fact that Laswell vouched for you without offering answers.

It was something deeper...

The second you'd stepped onto the tarmac, it hit him like a punch to the gut. That scent. That pull. It clawed at his skin. Unfamiliar, but terrifyingly... familiar. He didn't believe in mates. Never let himself entertain the idea, never let himself feel that vulnerable. He knew vampires could bond. Knew what happened to the ones who did. Ferals, the lot of them. Possessive. Reckless. Weak.

And yet....

When you'd met his gaze across the table, steady and unafraid, it took everything in him not to bare his teeth. He needed space.... distance... control. Anything to stop whatever this thing inside him was from snapping loose.

******************************************************

Later, when the sun was long swallowed by night, you leaned against the railing overlooking the training grounds. Footsteps approached, before Soap sidled up next to you, arms resting casually on the rail.

"Ya know.. Laswell says you've got a specific skill set." He glanced over, curiosity flashing across his eyes. "Still can't wrap my head around it. Ya don't smell like prey, but you're not one of us."

You gave him a half-smile. "That's the point."

He chuckled. "Doesn't scare me, if that's what you're wonderin'."

"It should." You arched a brow.

He barked out a laugh at the comment, shaking his head. But behind the easy grin, you could still feel the question hanging in the air.

What exactly were you?

Okay.... first chapter... intrigued?????

Like, comment, repost, give me feedback please :)

Again, only first chapter going up until I finish the other story!

Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @nappingmoon @kittygonap @ohdrey89 @chaos-4baby @skeletonsucker

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