#dark mercenary au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

edensrose · 2 years ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ꒰❀꒱ 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲!𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐮 ❜࿔

( ❀ ) ˙ ˖ manwë⠀& melkor⠀ ❜࿔

· ⊰ synopsis. manwë deals with his bastard of a brother whilst they try to pick a new colour scheme for their syndicate. he quickly remembers that there is no one who can drive him up the wall more than melkor ( dark themes ៸៸ blood mention ៸៸ corpse ៸៸ strong language )

· ⊰ note. idk but I've just been feeling them lately. their dynamic in this au is one of my favourites

─────── .°୭̥ ✿ˎˊ˗ au info post

♡. — 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒂 𝒅𝒂𝒎𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒓

"Hmm."

Pale violet sweeps over the newly decorated wall. His cruxed index finger pressed against his lips and his thumb stroking beneath his chin for added effect.

"Not sure. Don't think I quite like the shade of red."

A click of tongue sounds through the office.

"You complain too much." Manwë rolls his eyes to the ceiling and flexes his hand against the wall. "What's wrong with it? You didn't like blue, you don't like red, what exactly do you like then?"

"Maybe black?" Melkor offers, running a thumb along the wall. As though feeling the new colour was possible.

"Vilisse is black." Drips Manwë's obviously exasperated tone as he arches his brow. "I thought Vilisse was green?" Melkor counters to which his brother sighs and shakes his head so that white locks bounce around him.

"Are we gonna settle on a colour or are you just going to paint fucking rainbows all over the syndicate?"

"That a challenge?" Melkor meets his sibling's irritated expression with a grin and a quirk of his brow. "I quite think your desk will look splendid in hot pink." He motions to the aforementioned wood to which Manwë tightens his fingers once more.

"That's Italian Maple you dick."

"Oooo fancy." Shrugs the older as he flicks his finger and sends a droplet of crimson onto the revered Italian Maple desk. "As if you couldn't just import a new one, Tweetie. Don't be such a scrooge."

Manwë inhales, reminding himself that his brother is right and refraining from slamming his head into the desk he had just stained. Instead, he fights back the urge to roll his eyes once more at the childhood nickname. It was hard to believe who was the true older of the two.

"The task is still at hand. What colour are we transitioning to? Lest you want to keep the old man's design?"

Melkor groans and hangs his head back after stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Decisions, decisions. . . How about purple? Maybe blue?"

"I thought you said no to blue?"

"Well I change my mind."

"For fucks sa —"

"You know what? I actually quite like the red."

With that last sentence from his brother, Manwë finally relaxes his fingers from the head of hair he was flushing against the wall. A loud thud echoes through his office and he nonchalantly steps past the body laying on his rich wooden floors. The crimson stains drip from the wall and soak into the ground as Melkor admires the 'shade of red'.

"Hey now," the older chuckles as Manwë's shoulder knocks with his as he makes a beeline for the door. "No need to throw a tantrum." He muses, spinning around to face the other's back. "All that blood's gonna get on your precious Italian Maple y'know!"

"Clean it up then." Manwë mutters, retrieving his handkerchief to clean his fingers from the sorry soul whose blood became a paint sample. "And come find me when you're done playing these fucking games."

He receives only a mocking croon before Melkor thinks to himself. Just before his brother leaves the doorway he calls out, stopping him dead in his tracks.

"You know, I think gold would do the trick. What do ya say?"

A moment of silence fills the office before Manwë glances over his shoulder with a curl on his lips. "Gold for glory. I like it." And with that, he steps out, yet not before calling back.

"I'm serious about that blood. Clean it up, lest I overload your flask with gasoline."

"Bastard."

"Dick."

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beloveds-embrace · 1 month ago

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(Poly mercenaries 141 x princess reader, time loop au

Masterlist | Part One | Part Two | Part Three)

The night stretched out before you, dark and endless, the sky yawning open like the mouth of a beast, its hungry maw swallowing the stars of ypur hope and happiness one by one. Clouds rolled in thick and heavy, smothering the moon in a suffocating embrace, leaving only the barest slivers of silver to carve shadows across the battlements. The wind howled, a low, keening thing that wound through the stone corridors like a mourning mother, wailing for something long lost.

Except there was no mother to cradle nor mourn you, and instead, you were left longing for an embrace you had only dreamed about.

You stood at the edge of it all, hands curled around the frozen parapet, your fingers numb where they gripped the crumbling stone. The cold bit at your skin, but you barely felt it. There was something else pressing against your ribs, something deeper, heavier, clawing at your insides like it wanted out.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear at your own chest, to crack open your ribs and let it spill out, let it bleed into the night, let it take you with it.

Instead, you just stood there. Silent. Watching the darkness stretch out in front of you, a vast nothingness where the horizon should be.

My fate…

Ghost found you like that, his footsteps swallowed by the wind, a phantom emerging from the night as if the darkness itself had conjured him.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to. His presence was a weight at your side, solid and unshakable, something that should have been comforting but only made the knot in your chest pull tighter.

There is no saving hand to pull me out of this nightmare.

“What do you want?” Your voice barely carried over the wind, brittle and worn, as if speaking was just another burden you had to bear.

“To talk.” He said simply, after a few seconds of letting the silence hang.

A sharp, humorless laugh scraped its way up your throat. It was a jagged, broken thing, brittle as the ice forming in the cracks of the stone beneath your palms. “What could we possibly talk about?”

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. He just stood there, watching you with the same quiet intensity that had always unsettled you, like he could see past skin and sinew, past bone and blood, down to whatever ugly, raw thing was buried inside you.

“The weight you’re carrying,” he said at last. “I know what it’s like.”

Your fingers dug deeper into the stone, nails scraping against the frost. A thousand memories clawed at you from the depths of your mind, hands reaching, grasping, dragging you under. You swallowed hard against the rising tide, against the pressure building behind your ribs, against the suffocating knowledge of what was coming. What will always come.

“No, you don’t.” Your voice was hoarse, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Ghost turned his head, the faint glint of moonlight catching on the bone-white of his mask. Dark and fathomless eyes locked onto yours.

“No,” he admitted with a heavy sigh, a boulder letting tiny pebbles roll off it. “But I know what it’s like to feel trapped. To carry something so heavy it feels like it’s crushing you from the inside out.”

The words hit you like a blacksmith’s hammer to glass, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

Your pulse thrummed in your throat, uneven and frantic.

“…And how do you manage it?”

A long silence stretched between you, thick as smoke, suffocating in its weight.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, low. “You don’t,” he huffed. “Not really. But it’s easier when someone knows it’s there.”

The breath you had been holding left you in a quiet, shuddering exhale.

Something inside you cracked. A fault line splitting open, raw and bleeding, a wound too deep to ever truly heal.

You turned away before he could see the tremor in your hands, not answering him. Yet you did not pull away from the heavy hand that settled on your lower back.

The next day, the training yard pulsed with the sound of combat, the sharp clash of steel on steel echoing against the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and sweat, torches flickering like fireflies in the encroaching dusk.

You had not expected Soap to drag you here- his grip firm but not forceful, his expression unreadable save for the glint of something dangerously playful in his eyes. He pressed a wooden sword into your hands as if he expected it to be an extension of your own body.

“Ye need to let off some steam, lass,” he had said, his grin sharp as a whetted blade. “Let’s see what ye’ve got.”

You scowled down at the weapon, turning it over in your grasp as if it were foreign to you. In truth, it wasn’t. Kyle had made sure of that.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Humor me.”

Then, without warning, he lunged.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up. The sword snapped up to meet his strike with a crack that rang through your bones, the force of it reverberating up your arm.

“Johnny-“

“Focus.”

His voice was low, edged with something almost serious beneath the usual lilt of mischief. He moved with the ease of a man who had long ago turned battle into a dance, each step precise, effortless, meant to lure you into his rhythm.

But Kyle had taught you better than that.

Soap pressed forward, relentless in his pursuit, his strikes calculated- each one meant to chip away at your defenses, to pull you from the depths of your own mind and into the present moment. And for a while, it worked. The world shrank down to the space between you, to the swift parry of blades and the hurried breath leaving your lungs.

He was fast. But you had learned patience.

A feint, a sidestep- his sword arced just wide enough for you to slip past him, your movements honed from nights spent training in the shadows where no one could see your failures. Kyle’s voice echoed in your memory, steady and instructive.

“Wait for the opening. Someone will overextend. Someone always does.”

And then-

Soap slipped.

Just barely. A misstep, a fraction of imbalance, but it was enough. You pivoted on your heel, catching him off guard as you drove the wooden blade forward in a strike that should have been impossible for someone with your supposed lack of experience.

He fell.

Not hard, not gracelessly- just enough to land sprawled in the dirt, a stunned laugh escaping his lips before he could stop it. His sword clattered beside him, momentarily forgotten.

The sight was so absurd, so unexpected, that something in you cracked- an uncontrollable, sharp bark of laughter tearing itself from your throat. Not the polite, measured sound you had been trained to offer at courtly affairs, nor the brittle, hollow one you used when masking your fear.

A real laugh.

Raw and nguarded- like the first breath after drowning.

Soap lay there for a moment, blinking up at you, his expression shifting from shock to something unreadable. Then he grinned, wide and victorious, as if he had won something far greater than a simple sparring match despite losing.

“There she is,” he said, voice warm and undeniably fond. “Thought I’d lost ye for a moment.”

The words struck something deep within you, a place untouched by kindness for longer than you cared to admit. Your laughter faded, the sound slipping through your fingers like sand.

Because for a brief second, you had forgotten.

Forgotten the weight of inevitability pressing against your ribs, the slow march toward your own doom. Forgotten that no matter how much warmth you found here, no matter how much these men made you feel something other than fear-

The noose was already waiting.

The library was a sanctuary of forgotten knowledge, steeped in the scent of parchment, ink, and candle wax. The towering shelves stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, their wooden spines whispering secrets of eras long past. It was the kind of place that felt untouched by the chaos outside its doors- unmoving, unwavering, eternal.

But you knew better. Even the strongest walls crumbled eventually.

Gaz sat hunched over a heavy wooden table, surrounded by a fortress of books and scattered documents. The candlelight cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the deep furrow in his brow, the quiet intensity in his eyes. His fingers traced over lines of text with purpose, as if the answer to everything lay buried within ink-stained pages.

“Still at it?” You murmured from the doorway, reluctant to step inside and disturb the peace- as if your presence alone is an unwelcome blight.

He looked up, startled at first, but his expression softened the moment he saw you. There was exhaustion in the curve of his mouth, but warmth, too- a small, steadfast thing you wished to cling to.

“Someone has to figure this out.”

Your stomach twisted. He was still searching for a way to fix things, to find the root of the rot before it consumed everything. You had known he wouldn’t give up easily, but seeing him like this- dedicated, determined, unrelenting- it was almost too much to bear.

You weren’t worth the effort.

You stepped inside, the floorboards groaning under your hesitant weight. The room felt too still, too safe. It was an illusion, just like everything else.

“And if it’s too late?” you asked quietly, not sure if you wanted to hear the answer.

Gaz didn’t even hesitate.

“It won’t be.”

His certainty twisted something sharp and aching in your chest. “I don’t know how you do it,” you whispered after a moment of stillness. “Hold onto hope.”

For a moment, he just looked at you. Not with pity, not with doubt- just quiet understanding. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, unwavering.

“Because someone has to.”

He reached for another parchment, but as he did, his fingers brushed against yours. The touch was fleeting, barely there, but it was enough. Enough to steal the breath from your lungs, to send a shiver through your bones.

Gaz didn’t pull away immediately. His eyes searched yours, something unspoken lingering between you.

“I promised I’d stand by you,” he said, quieter now, as if the words carried more weight in the hush of the library. “No matter what.”

Your breath hitched.

No matter what.

But he didn’t understand- none of them did.

Because when the time came, when the accusations struck like a blade to the gut, they would have no choice but to watch you die.

You swallowed hard, forcing the thought away, forcing yourself to focus on something else- anything else. Your gaze flickered to the mess of papers spread across the table, the careful notes he had scribbled in the margins. Names. Dates. Rumors.

He wasn’t just trying to stop what was coming.

He was hunting for the source.

“You’re searching for the ones who started the rumors.” You murmured, not a question, but an understanding.

Gaz nodded, pushing a book toward you. His handwriting marked the page, sharp and precise.

“Someone planted them carefully,” he said, low and angry. “The accusations, the whispers of treason, the claims that you’re planning to overthrow the king- it didn’t spread on its own. Someone wanted this to happen.”

You swallowed, the bile rising in your throat. As if you didn’t know- though you wondered, distantly, if they were the same people who might have thrown you into this cruel loop.

“And?”

He sighed, raking a hand over his face. “And they’re careful. Too careful. Most rumors start with someone- some courtier, some servant, someone who benefits from the chaos. But this? It’s like chasing smoke. Every trail leads to nothing.”

A chill curled down your spine.

“Then maybe that’s the point.” You said softly.

Gaz’s jaw tightened. He had thought the same thing.

“It’s deliberate,” he agreed. “Someone in the castle wants you to fall. And they’ve been planning it for a long time.”

The weight of his words pressed against your ribs, heavy and suffocating.

For all his searching, for all his determination, he didn’t see it- he didn’t realize that the trap had already been set.

That it was already too late.

(Yet despite that, you know that he would not stop even if he had known. And so you left and returned, bringing back a cup of tea for him. He deserved far more- but this was all you could do.)

Another day, it was Price who came to you in the garden.

The gardens that were a graveyard of wilted roses.

Once, this place had been a sanctuary. In the warmer months, the air had been thick with the scent of fresh blooms, petals kissed by sunlight, the gentle hum of bees floating lazily between flowers. You used to come here to breathe, to exist in a world that did not demand anything from you. But now-

Now, everything was withering.

The frost had crept in, coiling its fingers around every living thing, stealing the color from the world. The roses were brittle and shriveled, their once-soft petals curling in on themselves like dying embers. When you reached out, brushing your fingers along one, it crumbled at the barest touch, disintegrating into dust, carried away by the wind.

How fitting.

Price found you there, his heavy coat drawn tightly around him, boots crunching softly against the frost-kissed ground. His presence was a steady weight in the silence, solid and unshakable, but even that couldn’t chase away the cold sinking into your bones.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

His voice was soft rumble, edged with something worn and knowing.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t lift your gaze from the dying flowers. “Does it matter?”

“It matters.”

Two words, simple and certain. Two words that made something in your chest ache.

A bitter laugh curled from your lips, barely more than a breath of sound. “I’m tired, Price.”

Not just from lack of sleep, though that, too, gnawed at you. It was deeper than that. A tiredness that sat in your marrow, that wrapped itself around your ribs and squeezed until you could barely breathe. The kind of exhaustion that came from carrying something too heavy for too long.

Price sighed, stepping closer. His coat was pulled tightly around him, his breath misting in the cold air, but the warmth of him was unmistakable. “I know,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to do this alone.”

For the first time, you turned to him.

And for the first time, you let him see.

The dark circles beneath your eyes were deep into your skin, your face drawn and hollowed out by something more than just sleepless nights. You had always been quieter than others, but now there was a distant, almost vacant look in your eyes- like you were already halfway to somewhere else, somewhere no one could follow and they couldn’t pull you back from. A ghost walking among the living.

Price’s gaze swept over you, his expression tightening. Concern. Worry. Something sharper and heavier.

“I don’t… really have a choice.”

His jaw tensed, fingers curling into fists at his sides. “There’s always a choice.”

But not for you.

Not for the girl cursed to die over and over again.

Not for the traitor they were about to name.

And still- they didn’t know.

They felt it, though. In the way your already rare laughter had faded into something thin and distant. In the way your silences stretched longer, heavier, pressing down on the spaces between conversations. In the way your shoulders had begun to bow under the weight of something unseen.

They were worried.

Gaz had been watching you with sharp, searching eyes, digging through more books and newspapers, speaking in hushed tones, chasing whispers of something that was already too close to stop. Soap had tried- tried so hard- to drag you back into the present, to make you laugh, to remind you how to live. Even Ghost, so often a shadow himself, had begun hovering a little too close, studying you with a quiet intensity that made your breath hitch.

Still, they didn’t know what was coming.

They only knew that you were slipping.

Price was still watching you, his eyes dark with something unreadable. And then-

Warmth.

He didn’t pull you in abruptly. He wasn’t forceful. He just opened his arms slightly, a silent offering. And when you stepped forward, when you let yourself fall into him, he held you.

Strong, steady arms wrapped around you, anchoring you in a world that had long since started to unravel. His coat smelled like smoke and leather, the comforting scent of something unwavering, and you couldn’t bring yourself to stop the tears that rolled down your face. He didn’t speak, didn’t tell you it would be okay- because maybe he knew.

Maybe he felt it, too.

That this moment, this warmth, this small reprieve-

-was all you would get.

And then the dreaded day came, falling like a heavy stone in a well.

The throne room was suffocating.

The air pressed down on you like a vice, thick with the sickly-sweet scent of burning candles and the cloying perfume of the nobles. Their whispers slithered through the silence, a chorus of hissing snakes, their words curling around your throat like a noose.

You knew this moment.

You had lived it before, a thousand times over, the script written in blood and fate. You had stood here before- countless times, in countless lives, wearing different faces, speaking different words. But it always ended the same. But knowing did not make it easier. Knowing did not stop the cold, skeletal hand of terror from clawing up your spine, did not stop your breath from shattering into uneven fragments in your chest.

The king sat upon his throne, a figure carved from cold authority. His gaze, never once kind, now bore into you with something so unbelievably cruel. And then-

“You stand accused of treason.”

The words struck like a blade, slicing through flesh, through bone, through soul.

A violent shudder wracked through you. The world tipped, spun- became too loud and too quiet all at once.

“No-“

Your voice barely made it past your lips, hoarse and broken, a dying thing gasping for air. Your vision blurred, the candlelight smearing into gold and red, into something awful and wrong.

This couldn’t be happening.

Not again.

(Please.)

You staggered back a step, heart hammering against your ribs like a caged animal, panic flooding your veins like poison. Every breath burned, sharp and ragged, too shallow, too fast, as if your lungs had forgotten how to work. You knew it would come and yet-

Please, no-

They were there, as well.

Price stood frozen, his broad frame locked in rigid tension, eyes dark as storm-tossed seas. His jaw clenched so tightly you swore you heard his teeth grind, his hands curling into fists so tight they trembled.

Soap was shaking his head, disbelief flashing across his face, lips parting like he wanted to speak, to demand an explanation, to fix this-

Beside him, Gaz’s brows had furrowed, horror flickering over his features before morphing into something darker. His gaze darted around the room, searching for the why, searching for the who, searching for the lie. Searching for the moment where everything had gone wrong, where he could still undo it.

And Ghost had gone still.

Not just physically, but something deeper- something inside him had frozen over, locked tight behind the bone-white mask. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers twitching, as if fighting the urge to grab a weapon, to intervene.

But they couldn’t.

No one could.

The horror clawed at your chest, cold and unrelenting. Your stomach lurched, bile rising in your throat. Your legs wanted to give out beneath you, but you forced yourself to stand.

“Please.” You whispered, but you didn’t even know who you were begging.

But before you could get more than that single word out, the guards stepped forward and cold, unyielding hands seized your arms. Chains closed around your wrists, and metal bit into your skin, heavy and final.

“No-“

Something inside you broke anew.

The breath fled from your lungs in a shattered, strangled sob. The weight of it- the steel, the accusation, the fate you could never outrun- crushed you, suffocating, drowning.

You thrashed before you could stop yourself, instinct taking over, panic overriding thought. Your body moved on its own, jerking, twisting, trying to escape, but the hands held firm.

“Don’t do this- please-“

The fear in your voice was raw, desperate, but the words fell on deaf ears.

No one spoke, and no one moved.

You turned, wild-eyed, to your mercenaries- please, please, please-

But the realization was already sinking in, slow and heavy as death itself.

There was nothing they could do.

Your knees buckled, but the guards held you up and began dragging you forward.

You gasped, sucking in a breath that never quite reached your lungs. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms as your body trembled violently, the panic like hands around your tender throat.

You knew what would come next.

You knew the pain, the blood-

You knew the ending. And still-

“I don’t want to die.”

The words escaped in a whisper, barely more than a breath, a fragile, broken thing lost in the vast, unfeeling void of the throne room.

No one answered.

The chains pulled you forward.

And in that moment, as the weight of a thousand past lives bore down upon you, as your mercenaries looked on in disbelief and fury-

You knew.

It was already too late.

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bi-writes · 1 year ago

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simon "ghost" riley ⏤ b's masterlist

MASTERLIST KEY

strikethrough ⏤ work in progress ⭐️ ⏤ personal favorite

ONE-SHOTS

The Lamb Experiment ⏤ undercover!reader (ao3)

mercenary!reader x ex-husband!simon

slasher!ghost

Attached ⏤ zombie apocalypse au (ao3)

One and the Same ⏤ slasher?reader (ao3)

LIMITED SERIES

Anatomy of Us ⏤ alpha!ghost x omega!reader (ao3) PART 1 ⏤ PART 2 ⏤ PART 3 ⏤ PART 4

The Arrangement ⏤ arranged-husband!dark!ghost (ao3) ⭐️ PART 1 ⏤ PART 2 ⏤ PART 3

A Hand for a Hand ⏤ knight!arranged-husband!ghost (ao3) A Hand for a Hand ⏤ An Eye for an Eye

Johnny's a Package Deal ⏤ ghoap x reader PART 1 ⏤ PART 2

COLLECTIONS

bestfriend!roommate!simon (hiatus)

mercenary!ghost (ao3) ⭐️

the time rot collection (ao3)

simon's mail-order bride ⏤ arranged-wife!reader (ao3)

DRABBLES + PROMPTS

simon thoughts collection

IMPORTANT NOTES

All works are considered to be 18+, and most of my works are dark.

Not all of my works have every content warning or tag. Read at your own discretion.

You do not have my permission to repost these works or use them elsewhere (ai included).

You can receive notifications when I post something new at @bi-has-written.

Most of these works will be or are cross-posted over on my AO3.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut

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all-purpose-dish-soap · 11 months ago

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28 / 1.7k / soap soulmate au, part 5

...

Soap stares at his name where it's inked across your skin. You should be his enemy. He's sitting across from you, your interrogator in this dimly lit weapons closet. You refuse to look at him. But his gaze bores into you anyway, intense on your eyes, your lips, the cuts and bruises on your face. He wants you. But he can only have you once you've given him the information Captain Price needs.

"Tell me where Alejandro is," he says. "That's all you need to do."

A muscle in your jaw twitches when he mentions Graves' name, but you bite your tongue. You won't let him shake your resolve like he did in Las Almas. You should've killed him on sight.

"What Graves is doing to Alejandro--you know it's wrong." Soap’s gaze is steady. You're so close. He wants you so badly it hurts. "He's not a good man.”

"You have no idea what kind of man he is," you say.

"I know exactly the kind of man he is," he growls. "I saw what he did to the people in Las Almas. He called them dirty cops and had them executed when they said they didn't know anything. Innocent people. In front of their families. Their children." Soap's hands curl into fists on the table between you. "He's not the kind of man who deserves your loyalty."

Your cuffs clink as your arms flex against the chair. "You wouldn't understand."

"You're right. I wouldn't." Soap's knuckles pop, his voice low and dark. All his life he's waited for you. Now Graves--fucking Graves, who betrayed Soap and his team and tried to murder them all--is somehow the one keeping you from him. "I don't understand what you see in that bastard."

You say nothing, eyes trained on the far wall.

Soap's shoulders tighten. "You're just a tool to him."

"I’m a soldier. I choose to follow orders. So do you.”

"You're following his orders. You think that makes you a soldier, being a weapon? No. Makes you a damn dog."

You say nothing.

Soap grips the table until it creaks. "You think he cares about you.”

"It doesn't matter if he does or not."

"It does so bloody matter. You’re no’ some pawn he can just throw away." God damn you. He wants to grab you with both hands and shake you. To hell with this interrogation--he's got half a mind to lock you down somewhere padded until you get it through your skull that you're not worthless. He scowls at you. "You're better than this. You have to be."

Cold irritation seeps through your mask. "Am I?" Soulmate or not, he doesn’t know you.

At the look on your face, Soap's scowl deepens. He's going to kill that bastard, and he's going to do it slowly. "What about Graves is more important to you than the innocent lives he took? Does that mean nothing to you?”

"Orders are orders."

Soap's voice drops to a dangerous pitch. "Look me in the eye and say that.”

You don’t. You tell yourself it’s because he has no power over you. He can’t tell you what to do.

Soap crosses his arms. "'S what I thought. You're bluffing."

"I'm not."

"Bullshit. Graves is nothing but Shepherd's lapdog. Gettin’ paid to commit goddamn war crimes.”

"Shut your mouth," you snap. "You have no idea what happened--"

You stumble on the next syllable and go silent, realizing suddenly that you're looking him in the eye.

Johnny's a man of impulse, and it takes all the self-control he has to keep himself in place the moment you lock eyes. The pull he feels to you right now is overwhelming. You're in reach. He leans forward. Those brilliant blue eyes of his see all the way down into your soul. They’re just the same as you remember--eerily vivid, pupils blown, with his jaw set hard.

"What happened to what, darlin'?"

You shift, skin prickling. You want to cross your arms over yourself and clap your hand over the soulmark on your neck. "You don't know what happened in Al Mazrah."

"You were ambushed."

You nod, remembering that night of the mission. You've seen your squadmates die before. It's a hazard of the job, part of being a mercenary. But that night--seeing so many Shadows gunned down before they could so much as draw their weapons--it still haunts you.

"Shepard didn't know. It wasn't like we-- it was supposed to be a simple transport mission."

"It was a black bag op."

"That's what Shadows do. We take missions people don't like. Someone has to step in where you military dogs won't."

"Where was Shepherd when it went tits up, hm?" Soap's lip curls. "No air support on an illegal op. He left you to be killed. And now he needs someone to blame. It's not gonna be him taking that bullet. It's gonna be you."

"Captain Graves can handle it."

Soap lets out a rough sigh. Your insistence on Graves is rubbing him raw. You could have died on that op two months ago. And then what? He'd have never met you, only found your name later in stone on some memorial somewhere. The thought makes his chest go cold and his blood run hot. It could still happen. If he can't tear you away from this bloody mercenary work, you'll never be his. Christ. He can't let that happen. He won't. You're not going back to the Shadow Company. He'll tear Graves into pieces before he lets that happen.

He fixates on your soulmark again. Why can't he focus on getting the information Price needs? All he can think about right now is the scab on your lip, the way your pupils dilate when you look at him. Your body wants his even as you're spitting venom. The fire in you matches his own, and he wants more.

"Graves isn't here," Soap tells you. "And I'm not takin’ chances. You’re not going back to Shepherd, and you’re sure as hell not going back to Graves. You're mine."

You pull on your cuffs, hating the way the possessive note in his voice makes your stomach flip. "You don't get to decide that."

"Neither do you.”

"Isn't a matter of choice. It's a matter of what you’re gonnae do about it."

You swallow and watch his gaze track down your throat. He's close. When did he lean in? Why aren't you pulling back?

No, you tell yourself, you’re not scared. You’re in control. You lean a millimeter closer. "You can't keep me here."

His eyes brighten, gaze so intense it warms your skin. "Careful, darlin'. You don't want to throw down that gauntlet."

"And you expect me to tell you whatever you want to know? Fuck my career, fuck my squadmates?"

"If you weren't so damn dense, I'd--" He mutters another string of curses in that thick Scottish accent, standing from his chair and pacing the tight room. "You don't understand what I'm offerin’. You don't need them. You have me an' mine."

He circles around to your side of the interrogation table and kneels next to you, his expression an open plea for you to listen. You stare down at him with your heart suddenly in your throat. You can't backpedal. You can't look away.

He searches your face. Even roughed up, even pissing him off, you're beautiful. Damn it, he's going to do something stupid if he doesn't control himself.

He keeps his voice low and even. "You were expendable to them. You're expendable to Graves. You're no' expendable to me." He reaches up to you, and you go still. His hand is hot on your skin. His grip is surely strong enough to break bone. But only his thumb drags along your lip. His eyes follow the motion. "Your loyalty should be for people who care about you. I'm on your side, ya wee shite. Just tell me how to get to Alejandro and I'll get you out of here. I'll make sure you're safe. That's all I need to know."

You stare down at him. Your heart beats in your ears, and his pulse hammers with yours. You can feel it through his thumb against the sensitive skin on your lower lip.

Johnny wants you so badly you almost give in. He thinks he's telling the truth--that he'll protect you. But he doesn't know any better. You're not who he wants you to be. You're not soft. You're not good. Why does he act like he can see something redeemable in you?

Being his soulmate doesn't guarantee you a goddamn thing. Promises don't afford you any more protection than you've already given yourself. You know that very well. People aren't reliable. Soulmarks don’t fix everything. They’re just ink.

Whatever he sees when he looks up at you makes something cold and sharp settle in his chest. His throat constricts. He's pushing, he knows he is, and it's the wrong move with you. He's never been this desperate for anyone.

"Darlin'. Don't do that. Don't shut me out." His voice wavers just like his resolve. He'd protect you to his last. You refuse to see that, and he can't make you.

You look away, pulling away from his hand. "I don't trust you."

Johnny's stomach drops, and he digs his fingers into the metal chair to stop himself from digging them into you.

You want him. He can see it in the set of your shoulders, how tight you hold yourself when he's close to you. You want him despite yourself, and you still refuse. It doesn't matter how rational a decision it should be to accept his help. There's something else happening in your head that's keeping your walls up, and he's starting to realize it's not just Graves. It can't be.

He watches you for a long moment. He doesn't want you to hurt, but he's not stupid enough to believe you'll soften up and come around with time. You're a soldier.

Finally, Soap stands. If you don’t tell him what he needs to know, you’ll remain a hostage, and won’t be able to have you. He won’t accept that.

"Fine," he says, pushing his way out the door. "We’ll do this the hard way."

...

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