Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Boys may be boys but hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Or, another Reader crash-out fic
The cake was on the floor.
You stared at it. Chocolate and cream splattered across the linoleum. Your fingers were still curled around the empty plate.
Someone was talking. You couldnât hear them. There was a ringing in your ears, high pitched and constant, like tinnitus mixed with a tea kettle mixed with the sound your sanity made as it finally, finally gave up and died.
A tear rolled down your cheek.
Then another.
The mess hall had gone quiet. You could feel eyes on you. Sergeant MacTavish was saying something; apologizing, probably. His mouth was moving. You watched it move, disconnected, like you were underwater and he was on the surface.
The men probably thought they understood. Poor thing. Sheâs crying over cake. Women and their emotions, right? It came out of nowhere. She just snapped. Over cake.
You know what they say about adrenaline? How it makes you stronger?
Your head came up slowly. The tears stopped. Something in your expression must have changed because MacTavish took a step back.
âMaâam- â he tried.
You looked at him. Really looked at him. Six feet of muscle and mohawk and nervous energy.
Then you reached out, grabbed him by the front of his tactical vest, and lifted.
MacTavish made a sound like a squeaky toy.
You were five foot seven. MacTavish was six foot two and probably weighed two twenty soaking wet.
You held him in the air with one hand.
It was never about the cake.
It started at 0530- thirty minutes before your alarm- when the fire alarm went off because Private Jenkins had tried to make toast. Toast. The most basic form of cooking known to mankind. Bread. Heat. Thatâs it. But somehow, somehow, Jenkins had managed to not only burn the toast but actually catch the toaster on fire. Youâd stood in the predawn cold in your pajamas for forty five minutes while the fire department cleared the building.
When youâd asked Jenkins, trying to understand the thought process on how heâd managed it, heâd said, âI dunno, maâam, I just pushed it down and walked away.â
Walked away.
From a toaster.
This was a man was trusted with a firearm.
By 0615, youâd discovered that no one had bothered to replace the fire extinguishers after last weekâs âincidentâ (someone had tried to deep fry something in the common room and had nearly burned down the building). The Fire Chief had shown up during the Toast Incident and had lost his absolute mind. Youâd spent forty five minutes getting screamed at- actually screamed at, with the vein in his forehead pulsing and everything- about negligence and fire code violations and âwhat kind of chickenshit operation are you running here?â
You werenât even in charge of fire safety. That was Morrisonâs job. Morrison, who was conspicuously absent. Morrison, whoâd somehow had a âdentist appointmentâ at 6 AM. But Captain Price had looked at you and said, âHandle it,â and then walked away, leaving you to take the fall for someone elseâs incompetence. Again.
The Fire Chief had threatened to report the base. Youâd had to grovel and promise it would never happen again and personally saw to it that they were all replaced.ââââââââââââââââ
0700: Someone- you has suspects but couldnât prove it- had made you the next victim in the base wide prank war that had been ongoing for weeks and replaced your shampoo with Nair. No doubt they thought they were pranking someone else and hadnât bothered to confirm they had the right locker first. Youâd caught it just in time, but only because youâd been paranoid enough to smell it first. Youâd had to use dish soap to wash your hair. Dish soap.
0730: Youâd found out that the weekly intelligence reports youâd specifically asked Corporal Davis to file were not, in fact, filed. When youâd asked why, heâd said- and you could not make this up even if you tried- âOh, I thought you said youâd do it.â Youâd literally watched him write it down in his little notebook. Youâd watched him underline it. The reports were now late. Your ass was on the line. But sure, Davis thought you were doing it.
0800 briefing: Youâd watched Lieutenant Riley drink tea through his mask. Not lift it. Not move it. Straight through the fabric like some kind of logic defying cryptid. When youâd stared at him in horrified confusion, heâd just stared back with those dead eyes. Youâd had to continue the briefing while experiencing what could only be described as a dissociative episode. No one else seemed to think this was weird. You were surrounded by lunatics.
0845: The visiting Lieutenant Colonel called you âsweetheartâ and asked if youâd âmind terriblyâ grabbing coffee for the room. You were running the briefing. You were running it. Heâd then spent the next fifteen minutes explaining your own intelligence report back to you, incorrectly, while nodding like he was doing you a favor.
0900: Youâd discovered that your meticulously prepared presentation for the brass- six hours of work- had been deleted. Just gone. Youâd asked the IT specialist what happened. Heâd said, âOh yeah, I was cleaning up the shared drive and it looked like old stuff, so I deleted it.â It was dated from yesterday. It was very clearly labeled âBRIEF FOR VISITING BRASS - DO NOT DELETE.â Heâd apparently not read that part. Youâd recreated it from memory in forty five minutes while having what you were pretty sure was an aneurysm.
1000: Sergeant Garrick had crashed a drone- your personal drone, the one youâd bought with your own money- into the side of the barracks because he âwanted to see if he could do a barrel roll.â When youâd asked him why heâd used your drone instead of one of the fifty military grade drones on base, heâd said, âYours was closer.â It was now in seven pieces. Heâd apologized with those big sincere eyes like that somehow unsmashed your $800 drone.
1030: Youâd had to break up a fight between two privates who were arguing about whether a hot dog was a sandwich. It had escalated to shoving. Grown men. Pushing each other. Over a hot dog. Youâd had to file an incident report. Youâd had to waste official military paperwork on the hot dog sandwich debate.
1100: The intelligence reports you needed for the 1300 meeting were being held up because the courier had accepted a dare to eat a carolina reaper and was now in medical âexperiencing profound regret.â Your reports were locked in his bag. In his locked office. He was too busy âcontemplating his mortalityâ to tell anyone the code. Youâd had to get maintenance to literally drill the lock off.
1200: Youâd confiscated a makeshift flamethrower that two privates had constructed from an aerosol can and a lighter because they âwanted to see if they could cook lunch faster.â There were scorch marks on the ceiling. When youâd asked them what they thought was going to happen, theyâd both shrugged. No thoughts. Heads empty. Just vibes and arson.
1300 meeting: Youâd had to present your recreated brief to the brass while the Lieutenant Colonel interrupted you every thirty seconds to add âvaluable inputâ that was just⌠wrong. Factually incorrect. But you couldnât correct him because he outranked you, despite being dumber than a bag of rocks.
1400: Youâd returned to your office to find the door locked. Your office. Locked from the inside. Youâd knocked. No answer. Youâd used your key. It didnât work- someone had engaged the interior lock. Youâd had to get maintenance. Again. When they finally opened the door, youâd found Captain Price in there with Susan from admin. Susanâs lipstick was smeared. Captain Priceâs hat was on your desk. Theyâd been using your office- your office- to fuck. On your desk. Your desk. Captain Price had the audacity to wink at you and say, âThanks for the space, love,â as he walked out, adjusting his belt.
1430: Youâd had to clean lipstick off your desk. And other things. You didnât want to think about the other things. Youâd used an entire container of disinfecting wipes. You were going to need therapy.
1445: Sergeant MacTavish had set off a smoke grenade in the womenâs bathroom. Youâd been in there. Youâd been in a stall. Heâd just opened the door, tossed it in without looking- because why would you look, apparently thatâs too much to ask- and shut the door. Youâd had to evacuate through a window. Second floor. Youâd twisted your ankle. MacTavish had found you limping across the parking lot and had the absolute balls to ask if you were okay. Youâd nearly murdered him with your bare hands.
1500: Youâd discovered that someone had used your car- your personal vehicle- to make a beer run. Your car. Theyâd taken your keys from your desk (the desk that had been defiled) while you were in the building. There was a dent in the bumper now. No one would admit to it. When youâd asked around, everyone suddenly had amnesia. Thirty grown men and not one of them saw anything.
1530: Jenkins- fucking Jenkins- had been promoted to armory supervisor. The man whoâd nearly burned down the building making toast. The man whoâd assembled a rifle backwards last month. That Jenkins. Youâd asked Captain Price if he was serious. Heâd said, âHeâs got initiative.â Initiative. Jenkins had initiative. Youâd laughed. It was not a sane laugh.
1600: Someone had started a rumor that you and Ghost were dating. Three people had congratulated you. One had asked when the wedding was. Another had asked if Ghost was âgood in bedâ because âhe seems like heâd be intense.â Youâd had to stand there and explain that you were not, in fact, romantically involved with the baseâs human shadow demon.
1630: The coffee maker in the officersâ lounge had finally, completely died. Youâd gone to use the backup coffee maker. Also broken. The vending machine? Out of order. There was no coffee anywhere on this godforsaken base except for the instant coffee in the supply closet, which tasted like it had been brewed in the fires of hell using Satanâs bathwater.
1700: Youâd found Garrick in the medical bay doing parkour. Parkour. Off the examination tables. There were muddy footprints on the ceiling. The ceiling. When youâd asked him what the hell he was doing, heâd said with a straight face âConditioning, maâam.â The medic had just shrugged like this was normal.
1745: Youâd finally made it back to your office to find Ghost sitting at your desk. In the dark. When youâd turned on the light, heâd said, âYou left these on the printer,â and held up a pack of paper like that explained any of this while you tried to make your heart rate return to a normal rate and rhythm. It did not explain why he was in the dark. It did not explain how heâd gotten into your office. It did not explain anything.
1800: Youâd made it to the mess hall. You were running on four hours of sleep, no coffee, crunchy hair, a twisted ankle, and your will to live that was hanging on by a thread made of spite and denial.
And then youâd seen it.
The last piece of chocolate lava cake.
Your light. Your beacon. Your reason for continuing to exist.
Youâd made it through the line in a daze. Mystery meat. Suspicious vegetables. Powdered mashed potatoes that had the consistency of paste.
But you had the cake.
Youâd had the cake.
Past tense.
Because MacTavish, the man whoâd already made your day a living hell, had come barreling through the mess hall like a drunk moose and knocked it out of your hands.
Youâd watched it flip through the air.
Watched it land.
Face down.
And now you were here.
âDo you know- â you snarled shaking MacTavish like a maraca, â- what kind of day Iâve had?â
The mess hall was dead silent except for your voice, which had gone somewhere between a scream and a primal roar.
âYouâre supposed to be elite. Special forces. The best of the best. Do you know what thatâs supposed to mean, MacTavish?â
MacTavishâs feet were dangling. Youâd been holding him for a full minute now. Your arm wasnât even shaking.
âItâs supposed to mean competence. Basic. Fucking. Competence.â
You shook him again.
âBut you, all of you- youâre the stupidest bastards Iâve ever worked with. And Iâve worked with Marines. Iâve worked with Rangers. Iâve worked with private security contractors who showed more common sense than this entire unit combined.â
Your voice was rising, getting more unhinged with every word.
âYou canât make toast- â you glanced at Jenkins, whoâd gone pale, â- without committing arson. You canât file a simple report. You canât read a file name that says âdo not deleteâ in clear fucking English. You canât look before you throw explosives into enclosed spaces.â
You turned your attention back to MacTavish.
âYou threw a smoke grenade into the womenâs bathroom. While I was in it. Didnât check. Didnât look. Just tossed it in like you were feeding ducks at a pond.â
âI didnae ken- â
âYou didnât think!â Your voice cracked. âNone of you think! Thatâs the problem! You just do things! Stupid, destructive, idiotic things! And then you look surprised when there are consequences!â
You started pacing, still holding MacTavish like he weighed nothing.
âI have a masterâs degree. I speak four languages. I have eight years of experience and a spotless record. And what do I do with all that training and education?â
You looked around at the crowd.
âI clean up after you. I fix your mistakes. I file your paperwork. I take the fall for your incompetence because apparently Iâm the only person on this base who can be trusted to actually do their fucking job.â
Your hands were shaking now. MacTavish had gone very still.
âPrice- â you found him in the crowd, â- you promoted Jenkins to the armory. Jenkins. The man who set a toaster on fire this morning is now in charge of weapons. Do you understand how insane that is? Do you?â
Price opened his mouth.
âThatâs rhetorical, Captain. I donât actually want to hear you try to justify it.â
Someone in the back made a nervous sound.
âAnd the rest of you- â you looked around at the crowd, â- youâre no better. You fight about whether hot dogs are sandwiches. You make flamethrowers in your spare time. You use my car without permission. You put Nair in peopleâs shampoo bottles. You act like this is summer camp instead of a military base.â
Your voice had reached a pitch that was probably only audible to dogs.
âHow- â you could feel your face getting hot, â- how do they trust you with missions? With classified intelligence? With guns? You canât even walk through a mess hall without destroying someoneâs property!â
You stopped. Looked down at MacTavish, still dangling from your hand.
âAll I wanted was one piece of cake. One. After spending the entire day keeping this operation from falling apart. After playing mother to a bunch of grown men who canât be trusted with basic tasks. After being the only competent person in a building full of idiots who are supposed to be elite soldiers.â
Your voice dropped. Went quiet. Dangerous.
âAnd you took that from me.â
The silence was deafening.
You looked around at all of them. âYou donât even understand what you do. You donât see it. You bumblefuck your way through every single day causing chaos and destruction and you think itâs fine because someone- because me- is always there to fix it. To smooth it over. To make excuses. To take the blame.â
You could feel something breaking. Some final thread of professionalism snapping.
You looked at MacTavish one more time.
Then you dropped him.
He hit the ground hard, stumbled backward, gasping.
âOutside,â you said quietly. Too quietly.
No one moved.
You looked at them. Your expression had gone completely flat. Empty.
âGet outside. By the count of zero.â
âMaâam- âPrice started, taking a step forward, hands up in that universal âletâs all calm downâ gesture. âLetâs just take a breath and- â
You started taking off your earrings.
Price stopped talking.
You placed them carefully on the nearest table. Started on your watch.
âTen,â you said calmly.
âNow hang on- â Morrison tried.
âNine.â
You unclasped your watch. Set it down next to the earrings.
âMaâam, I really think we should all just- â Garrick attempted.
âEight.â
You shrugged off your jacket. Folded it. Placed it neatly on the table.
The mess hall had gone dead silent. Everyone was watching you with increasing horror.
âSeven.â
You bent down. Slipped off one heel. Then the other. Lined them up neatly.
âListen, we can talk about this- â Price tried again, but his voice had gone uncertain.
âSix.â
You rolled up your sleeves. Methodically. First the right. Then the left.
Ghostâs hand was definitely on his sidearm now.
âPlease- â someone in the back squeaked.
âFive.â
You tied your hair back. Smooth, practiced movements.
âOkay, everyone just stay calm- â The visiting Lieutenant Colonel was backing toward the door.
âFour.â
You looked at the nearest table. Four people were sitting at it, frozen like deer in headlights.
âMaâam- â MacTavishâs voice was strangled.
âThree.â
You walked over to the table. Calmly. Slowly.
The four people scrambled away from it.
You grabbed the edge.
âWait- â Price started forward.
You ripped the table out of the floor.
The sound was catastrophic. Metal shrieking. Bolts shearing. Floor tiles cracking. The table came up like you were pulling a weed from soft earth. Several people shouted.
You held it above your head.
The mess hall had gone beyond silent into some kind of vacuum where sound didnât exist anymore. Everyone had gone pale. Actually pale. Like theyâd seen a ghost.
Someone whispered, âArenât those bolted to the ground?â
ââŚYeah,â someone else breathed.
You looked at them. Made eye contact with as many as possible while holding a table over your head.
âTwo.â
That broke the spell.
They moved.
Chairs screeched. Trays went flying. Someone definitely trampled someone else. There was shouting. Pushing. A full on stampede for the exits.
âMove move move- â
âGo go go- â
âOut of my way- â
You stood there, still holding the table, and watched them flee like rats from a sinking ship.
When the last person had scrambled out- Jenkins, naturally, bringing up the rear- you set the table down carefully.
Then you walked out after them.
They were clustered on the grounds outside, a hundred and fifty people pressed together like a herd of prey animals, all watching the door youâd just exited.
You looked at them.
They looked at you.
The evening air was cool. Quiet. Peaceful.
âRun,â you said. It came out as a growl. Something primal and furious.
Nobody moved.
âRun. Laps. Now.â
They started moving, but not fast enough.
âI said run.â
They ran.
âHow long, maâam?â someone called out.
You smiled. It was not a kind smile.
âUntil you die,â you said sweetly. âOr until I feel better. Whichever comes first.â
The Real Final Boss Was Admin
Genre: Comedy
Annoyed! Price, Post Modern Warfare! Price
You are Tilly.
Civilian admin at SAS Headquarters.
Yes, that SAS.
Your job is simple.
Stamp paperwork.
File documents.
Protect lunch break with your life.
Everything was peaceful until Captain John Price walked in.
Decorated war hero.
Silver-fox-adjacent.
Beloved by every thirsty civvy in the building.
And demanding special treatment like he was fighting a war with your time codes.
Now you are apparently the only woman in Hereford who can terrify a man who survived Makarov, Shepherd, and the entire Shadow Company.
Good luck.
You are the real final boss now.
---------
The admin office looked half-asleep.
Most of the overhead lights were off. Afternoon sun slipped through the blinds in thin stripes, dust drifting lazily in the quiet. Only two desks were occupied.
Evie was the louder of the two by presence alone. Mid twenties, brunette, fitted top that squaddies always noticed, bright red lipstick, coffee mug in hand. She sat forward on her chair the moment the door cracked open, like she had been waiting for something mildly exciting to happen.
The other woman sat in the corner.
Tilly.
Boxy grey cardigan layered over a soft knit top. Loose pinstripe trousers. White trainers. Short dark hair tucked behind one ear. Gold sculptural earrings catching the low light. Neutral but beautifully applied makeup, the kind that only showed its precision when you stared long enough.
She ate from a small glass lunch box, composed and quiet. No interest in anything beyond her meal.
The door clicked shut behind Captain John Price.
He walked in with the confidence of someone used to being obeyed the moment he opened his mouth. Steady stride, boots heavy on tile. Even civilians straightened subconsciously in his presence.
âAfternoon,â he said. âI need the training clearance paperwork for the new rotation signed off and filed today. Command wants it by five.â
Evie perked up like she had been waiting her entire shift for this.
âOh yes, Captain Price. I can do that for you.â
She set her mug down too quickly, scrambled toward the keyboard, clearly hoping he would notice her eagerness.
Before she could type a single thing, Tilly spoke.
âIt is lunch hour.â
Evie froze.
Price turned his head slowly.
Tilly did not look up. She dabbed her fingers with a napkin, movements unhurried.
âWe process documents after one.â
Evie gave Tilly a small, panicked look. âI can still try, though.â
âYou can send him away with half processed papers if you want,â Tilly replied evenly, still not looking at either of them. âBut the system is locked during break. Nothing moves through until one.â
Price shifted, irritation rising. âI only need ten minutes. I am not asking for the world.â
Tilly finally raised her head.
Her gaze was steady, calm, unreadable. There was no apology. No defiance. Just a quiet certainty.
âYou came in at twelve forty three, Captain. Lunch continues until one. Everything queues until the hour resets.â
Evie attempted a weak compromise. âMaybe if I force the programââ
âIt will reject the entry,â Tilly said. âIt always does.â
Price exhaled sharply through his nose. It was not loud, but it had weight.
âYou are civilians, not dockworkers. Surely someone can make an exception.â
Tilly blinked at him, slow and deliberate.
âYou are in the admin building, Captain. Which means you follow admin schedules.â
Evie looked like she was watching a Michelin-star chef argue with a brick wall.
Price stared at Tilly.
Tilly stared back.
Evie coughed carefully. âTilly learned the system in a week, Captain. She is honestly the fastest one here. All the priority stuff goes to her.â
Tillyâs face did not move. Not even a twitch.
Price studied her again, irritated and begrudgingly intrigued.
âYou always this rigid?â he asked.
âYes.â
There was no hesitation. No temper. Nothing.
She closed her lunch box gently and set it aside.
âOne oâclock,â she said. âCome back then. I will handle it for you.â
Price stood still for a moment, visibly processing the fact that a civilian woman in a cardigan had just dismissed him with full professionalism and zero fear.
He left with a short grunt that might have been annoyance, or reluctant respect, or both.
The door shut behind him.
Evie immediately hissed, âTilly. You cannot talk to Captain Price like that.â
Tilly unscrewed her bottle of water, unbothered.
âI was perfectly polite.â
âYou literally told him to leave.â
âIt is lunchtime.â
Evie covered her face with both hands. âYou are unbelievable.â
Tilly resumed eating as if nothing unusual had happened.
Across camp, John Price was walking away with a frown he could not explain.
Because for the first time in a long while, someone had told him no.
And worse, he had actually listened.
----------
The moment Price disappeared down the corridor, Evie swivelled in her chair and stared at Tilly with wild, scandalised eyes.
âDo you know who that was?â
Tilly sealed her lunch box, unfazed. âA man interrupting our break.â
Evie slapped her palms on her desk. âTilly. That was Captain John Price.â
âYes. I gathered from the fact you said Captain Price five times.â Tilly reached for her water, tone dry.
Evie slapped the desk lightly. âCaptain John Price. Captain. John. Price. That man is a legend. Silver fox of the whole bloody regiment.â
Tilly looked over, unimpressed. âSilver fox? He is not that old.â
âHe is probably in his late thirties or more!!â Evie insisted, as if that proved everything. âThat is basically prime silver fox territory. And he is decorated. As in decorated. Like ribbons, medals, commendations, the whole thing. He has taken down all sorts of things and used to be out in the field constantly. Proper legend. Now, he helps train the next generation. Every civvy here has a crush on him.â
Tilly nodded once without any visible interest. âYes. That much was obvious.â
âThat is all you have to say?â Evie asked, scandalised. âHe is literally the most intimidating man on this base.â
Tilly shrugged, picking up her fork again. âHe asked for something during lunch. I told him to come back after lunch. It is not difficult.â
âI am being serious,â Evie insisted. âHalf the civilian women here have googled him at least once.â
âGood for them.â
Evie squinted at her. âYou are impossible to fluster. I hope you know that.â
Tilly set her bottle down, utterly calm. âIt is still lunch time. No one gets exceptions. Not even a decorated silver fox.â
Evie threw her hands up. âHe is going to think you are difficult.â
âHe asked for something that cannot be done at this hour,â Tilly replied. âThat is not me being difficult. That is just the system.â
âBut you know that form,â Evie said. âYou have done it a hundred times. You could have done it blindfolded.â
âExactly,â Tilly said. âWhich is why I know it is never urgent. It is always filed for end of day. He was simply being demanding.â
Evie pressed a hand to her forehead. âHe is going to march back in here at one oâclock looking like thunder.â
Tilly took one last bite of her food. âThen he can wait with everyone else.â
Evie groaned dramatically. âI cannot watch this. You are going to make a very powerful man lose his mind.â
Tilly snapped her lunch box shut. âLet him.â
Evie stared at her, mouth open.
And Tilly, serene as ever, stood to take her container to the sink, her gold earrings catching the light as if nothing remotely interesting had happened at all.
âTilly. You could lose your job.â
âFor observing lunch hours?â
âFor talking back to Captain Price.â
Tillyâs lips curved very slightly, the smallest flicker of amusement.
âI did not talk back. I stated the rules.â
âBut what if the head of HQ hears about it? What if General MacMillan himself gets told that one of his admin hires sent his prodigy away?â
Tilly gave a soft chuckle, almost soundless.
âHe can try to complain, and that would be something. Captain Price marching into his office to report I made him wait twenty minutes.â
Evie gawked. âTilly.â She stared at her a moment longer, then whispered, âHe is going to remember you.â
Tilly raised a brow. âWhy?â
Evie gestured helplessly. âBecause no one ever tells him no.â
Tilly stood, collecting her dishes. âHe will survive.â
But Evie was right.
Across the courtyard, Captain John Price was still walking with that faint scowl, replaying the moment he had been told to wait.
By a civilian.
----------
The Hour Turns â 1:00 PM
Price walked back into the admin office at exactly one oâclock.
Exactly one.
Not early.
Not late.
On the dot.
Which meant yes, he was annoyed, but also oddly determined to show he could follow rules when he wanted to.
Evie sat up straighter.
Tilly was already at her computer, cardigan sleeves pushed up, fingers poised to work. Her expression was completely neutral.
Price approached her desk.
âTilly, is it?â he asked, tone clipped.
âYes,â she said without looking at him. âYou will get your paperwork when it is ready.â
Price blinked. âRight. Good. How long will that take?â
Tilly scrolled through her queue. âThere is a backlog from before lunch. Three documents. You are fourth. Come back in thirty minutes.â
Priceâs jaw tightened. âCan you not process mine first? It is for training rotation.â
âNo,â Tilly said simply. âThe system timestamps entries. Jumping the queue may cause an error.â
âIt is one document.â
âAnd they also needed only one document,â she replied. âYou are not the only person here with work to do, Captain.â
There was something about the calmness in her voice.
Soft.
Almost kind.
Which somehow made the sting worse.
Price drew a slow breath, steadying himself. âYou are telling me to wait half an hour.â
âI am,â she said.
She looked up.
Not intimidated.
Not hostile.
Just⌠clear.
âYou may return at one thirty.â
Price stared at her as if she had materialised from another planet.
Tilly said nothing.
Only waited.
And for a moment Price considered arguing.
But something in her expression told him she would not budge.
So he gave a short, resigned sound that might have been a grunt or a suppressed curse.
âFine,â he said. âOne thirty.â
âYes,â Tilly replied, already typing. âI will have it ready by then.â
He left with the posture of a man who could not decide whether he was furious, impressed, or just a little bit curious.
----------
The Final Boss was Admin.
The admin lobby had come alive after lunch, a small crowd of young officers and new squaddies sitting in chairs lined against the wall. Most were holding plastic queue tabs, staring at the digital display above the reception desk like they were waiting for divine intervention.
Price walked in with the confidence of a man who had commanded task forces, survived explosions, and once jumped out of a helicopter into enemy fire. He strode straight to Tillyâs desk.
She was already working, cardigan sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows, gold earrings glinting as she typed.
âRight,â he said. âI am here for the paperwork.â
Tilly glanced up, expression completely neutral.
âQueue number, please.â
Price blinked. âWhat?â
âQueue number,â she repeated. âWe opened the afternoon counter at one. You need a number. The machine is there.â
Tilly pointed calmly at a small plastic machine on a side table. The kind usually found in clinics and post offices. It chirped softly every time a number was printed.
âTilly. The paperwork is done. And you told me to come back here at 13:30 PM.â
âYes,â she said pleasantly. âAnd you will collect it when your number is called.â
Price closed his eyes for a slow second.
âYou are enjoying this,â he said.
âI am simply following procedure,â she replied.
âYou know I am here for one document.â
âAnd everyone else is here for one document,â Tilly replied. âQueue numbers, Captain. Take one.â
Evie was biting her lip, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
She held out her hand toward the machine without looking away from her screen.
âNumber, Captain.â
The entire row of squaddies watched with wide, horrified eyes.
Price finally walked to the machine.
He reached in.
He pulled out a slip.
He stared at the number printed on it.
Seventeen.
âSeventeen,â he said flatly.
âYes,â she replied. âWe are on twelve. Please have a seat. I will call when it is your turn.â
Price opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
There were five squaddies and two junior officers seated in the waiting chairs. All with printed slips in hand.
They looked terrified.
âTilly⌠maybe⌠you know⌠maybe let Captain Price just get his paper first?â a young Lieutenant reasons.
One of them whispered, âSir, you can go first. Honestly. Take my number. Please.â
Another one practically shoved his slip into Priceâs palm. âSir, take mine. I am not in a rush. You go.â
A private held his up like an offering to a Roman emperor. âSir, take mine. I do not need it. I do not even know why I am here, sir.â
âNo,â Tilly said. âWe follow order of arrival.â
Every squaddie flinched.
Price rubbed his face hard, trying not to lose it and rubbed a hand over his beard, muttering very quietly, âThis is worse than dealing with bloody Makarov.â
Tilly blinked at him. âPardon?â
âNothing.â
The squaddies held their breath.
And then Price said, voice flat, âBrilliant.â
He took a seat between two terrified privates who immediately straightened up like they were in inspection.
Tilly clicked her mouse, expression perfectly neutral.
âNumber thirteen.â
The poor lad holding thirteen bolted to the desk like he had been shot out of a cannon.
Price folded his arms.
Jaw tight.
Eyes narrowed.
The picture of a man being spiritually tested.
Every squaddie in the room was silently praying for their lives.
Captain Price sat with his arms crossed, looking like a man who had finally discovered his true mortal enemy.
Admin.
A/N: I might write another part, might! Once I get another idea how to continually terrorize the Captain, or you can come and write suggestions at the comments! LOL!!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Another piece of Ghost, hope I did him justice. Would really like to see more art of him with his canon hair color, so I guess I'll make it myself lol.
Has anybody seen this majestic work of art yet???!!! omg!!! SIMOOONNNN!!! â¤ď¸â¤ď¸â¤ď¸â¤ď¸â¤ď¸â¤ď¸đĽđĽđĽđĽđĽđĽđĽđĽ°đĽ°đĽ°đĽ°đĽ°đĽ°
Catfish! Reader, Depressed! Reader, Dead Inside! Reader, Maladaptive Day Dreamer! Reader, Sad! Reader, Unemployed! Reader, Shy! Reader, Morally Grey! Reader, Yandere! Price, Yandere! John Price, Obsessive, Price, Obsessive! John Price,
A/N: Iâve seen a lot of morally grey Y/N OCs out there, and I thought, why not take it further? Letâs push the limits. Letâs get into the darker side, where the lines blur and nothingâs ever as simple as it seems.
----------
Your life feels like itâs at a standstillâunemployed, or simply watching opportunities slip through your fingers, to depress, too weak, to down to go for it. Every day blurs into the next, doom-scrolling through social media, drowning in the curated lives of others, trying to ignore the quiet ache of dissatisfaction.
Books are your escape. A mix of romance and dark, Machiavellian stories fills your time, each one offering a temporary reprieve from the monotony and gloom. Instagram reels and TikToks flood your feed, booktok recommendations mixing with relationship advice, until one thought lingersâwhy not try a dating app? Not for love. Not even for a real date. Just for something. Attention, validationâsome small proof that you still exist.
Dating isnât new to you, nor are dating apps. But right now, you donât have the energy to take a new picture, to present yourself in the best possible way. Instead, you pick an older photoâone with just the right lighting, the right angle, something that has an air of mystery. With a few subtle editsâsmoother skin, slightly sharpened featuresâit becomes something almost... unreal. Perfect in a way you arenât. Unrecognisable enough to be safe.
You swipe. Browse. And thenâyou see him.
John Price.
Something about him makes you pause. Maybe itâs the rough-edged charm, the mix of gruff and steady. On impulse, you swipe right. When itâs a match, you hesitate before messaging firstâbut when you do, the conversation flows effortlessly. You pretend to be someone else, someone confident, intriguing. And for the first time in a long time, you feel that way too.
Days turn into weeks. Weeks into months. You talk every night, each message pulling you deeper into something you canât control. You never planned for it to last this long. Never expected to enjoy it. And then he asksâLetâs take this off the app. Letâs talk properly.
Panic coils in your chest. Giving him your number is out of the questionâit would expose too much, make you traceable. Instead, you suggest a messaging app that keeps your identity hidden. He agrees. The illusion remains intact.
And still, it grows. Youâre not just talking anymore. Youâre something. His words make your heart race. His voice, the rare times he sends recordings, leaves you breathless. Itâs intoxicating. Dangerous. Because eventually, he asks the one thing you canât give.
Letâs meet.
Excuses become your shield. Youâre busy. Traveling. Something came up. You deflect, redirect, anything to avoid the inevitable. But you canât do this forever. And deep down, you know it.
So you end it.
A long, heartfelt messageâapologies wrapped in regret, a quiet confession that you just canât. That it was never meant to go this far. That he deserves better. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you block him. On the dating app. On the messenger. Everywhere.
Your heart aches. Not just because you liked him, but because youâll never know what could have been. Because you destroyed something that wasnât even real in the first place.
But what you donât knowâwhat you canât knowâis that John Price isnât the kind of man who lets things go.
----------
What you didnât knowâwhat you couldnât have knownâwas that John Price wasnât just some âgovernment employee.â
He didnât put specifics on his profile. No mention of his career. You assumed, based on his dry responses and the absence of bragging, that he was just another pencil-pusher, a bureaucrat with a good-looking face, one who maybe dealt with spreadsheets and red tape. Easy to dismiss. He didnât seem like someone who could leave an impact.
But you were wrong.
John Price is SAS. Trained to track. To hunt. His mind, to never let go.
The moment you broke things off, he didnât disappear. He didnât move on. He didnât even give you the satisfaction of feeling like you were in control of the situation.
Johnâs mind doesnât work like yours. He doesnât take ânoâ for an answer.
You thought heâd accept the closure. That youâd get away clean, hidden behind the veil of your catfishing persona. But for him, thatâs just the beginning.
In your mind, you justified it all. Surely, you werenât the only one in line. After all, heâs good-looking, charming, and probably has a queue of women eager to talk to him. Heâs the type of man who can have his pickâyouâre just a small fry in the grand scheme of things. You told yourself heâd forget about you, move on to someone more real, someone better. This was just a pseudo-relationship, something that never had the chance to be anything more. So why wouldnât you end it before it got any deeper? Before you could get attached, before he could hurt you with his inevitable disinterest?
It was easier this way, right? Heâd find someone else, someone who wasnât hiding behind a heavily modified pictureâunrecognizable, almost perfectâand a name no one would ever associate with the real you. You, the woman who couldnât even look herself in the mirror anymore without feeling shame. And youâyou would never have to face the sting of rejection, the disgust in his eyes, the cold way he would scold you for deceiving him.
You convinced yourself it was the safest route, the only way to keep your heart intact.
But in the back of your mind, there was always the nagging thought: What if he doesnât forget about you?
You laugh at the thought, shaking your head as if itâs some absurd notion. As if? You mutter to yourself before closing the app, tossing your phone onto the bed. It bounces once, twice, before settling. You let out a long sigh, then close your eyes, willing yourself to relax. A nap sounds nice, maybe just for a few hoursâlong enough to shake off the weight of the situation.
----------
When he doesnât hear back from you, when he notices the blocks on the dating app and the messaging app, something in him shifts. He becomes methodical, patientâlike a predator picking up a fresh trail.
And he knows how to find you.
He starts with the smallest things. The little details in your conversationsâthe places you mentioned, the books you read, the music you listened to. Heâs tracking. Not just your words, but your habits. Your likes. Your interests. Each clue that could lead him to you, like a breadcrumb trail you unknowingly left behind.
Heâs not in a rush. This isnât a chase; itâs a hunt.
The longer he watches, the clearer it becomes: Youâre not just a fleeting encounter. Youâre the one. The puzzle he must solve. He knows he has to get close, to get past the walls youâve built.
And heâs willing to do whatever it takes.
----------
John began his hunt, a quiet, patient pursuit that would leave no stone unturned.
The nickname you had chosen for the dating appâso unique, so personalâwas the first clue. It wasnât just something random, he realized. It was a key to something deeper, something hidden just beneath the surface.
He traced it. The path it led him on was winding, but it was clear and deliberate. Your image, that photo youâd used, caught his eye next. He zoomed in, examining every detail. The way the light hit your face, the angle, the soft texture of the background. It wasnât just a casual snapshot. It was deliberate, curated. There was something about it that felt... polished.
Then, his eyes locked onto it.
The Royal College of Music. The concert hall.
It was a place he recognised immediately, and for a split second, he allowed himself a small, knowing smirk. You had been there, seated in that hall. The way you looked, so poised, so perfect, in the middle of that sea of sound, it was no accident. Your friend mustâve taken the picture. But even in that moment, you seemed so out of reach, so untouchable.
But that wouldnât stop him.
He pushed forward, searching for more. Minutes later, his screen lit up with a new discoveryâa Spotify playlist. The name was the same as your nickname, and when he clicked on it, the songs flooded in. The same songs youâd mentioned in passing. Those little details youâd carelessly slipped into conversation, thinking they were nothing.
It wasnât coincidence.
John leaned back, his pulse steady, as he took it all in. It was a breadcrumb trail, and you had unwittingly left the map for him to follow.
And then, something clicked.
The playlist. The songs. The name.
He typed it into his search bar, just to see. Just to see what else would come up.
Your LinkedIn.
His heart skipped a beat. This was it. The final piece.
John leaned forward, fingers moving rapidly as he clicked through. There you were, full name now revealed, a neat professional profile staring back at him. Every detail lined upâyour job, your education, even your location.
You were closer than he thought.
He smiled to himself, leaning back in his chair, the thrill of the chase finally rushing through him.
You were no longer hiding. No longer just a name behind a pretty picture. You were real.
And now, he knew exactly who you were.
This wasn't over. Far from it.
It was just the beginning.
----------
You almost didnât go out tonight.
It had been so easy to just sink into routineâdoom-scrolling through your phone, putting off responsibilities, ignoring the world beyond your bedroom. But your friends had insisted. An orchestra performance. You always loved instrumental music. It was one of the few things that could lift your mood, transport you somewhere else.
So, you dragged yourself up and went through the long, tedious process of making yourself presentableâno, more than presentable. Polished. Together. A mask, really, but one you were good at wearing.
The skincare routine, the precise trim of your brows, the careful shaving. Contouring, blending, soft touches of highlight and color to shape the face you wanted the world to see. It was muscle memory now, an exhausting ritual that took time, patience, and just the right amount of self-delusion.
When you finally looked in the mirror, the transformation was complete.
You almost looked like herâthe woman in the picture you had used on the app. The confident, successful version of yourself. Not the girl stuck in limbo, unemployed, wasting time. No one would know the difference.
And for tonight, you could pretend, too.
----------
The pub near the concert hall was quiet, barely a handful of patrons scattered across the space. You were early, too early, and your friends hadnât arrived yet. No sense in standing outside in the cold, so you slipped inside, ordered a pint, and made your way to one of the empty booths near the back.
The first sip was soothing, grounding. You exhaled, letting yourself settle into the moment, allowing the warm buzz of the pub to wrap around you.
And thenâ
A shadow passed over your table.
Someone slid into the seat across from you, smooth, unhurried. Not a stranger looking for an empty spot. No, this was deliberate.
You barely had time to react before a deep, familiar voice cut through the space between you.
"Hello, Birdie."
Your blood ran cold.
John Price.
He was sitting right there, across from you, arms resting casually on the table, watching you like he had all the time in the world.
Your stomach flipped, your throat tightening. A slow, creeping dread spread through your limbs, pinning you to your seat. This couldnât be happening. It wasnât possible.
He shouldnât be here. He shouldnât know who you are.
But he did.
And from the way his lips curled into something almostâpleasedâas if he had been waiting for this moment.
For you.
A/N:
Wooo!! Maybe Iâll write the next part when the inspiration hits? Iâd love to hear what you guys think though! If you have any suggestions, feel free to shareâIâm open to ideas! đ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
A/N:
This story features the same Y/N (thatâs YOU!!) from How I met your Mother, Midnight Snack Mystery, The Mystery of Who Dressed the LT Like That?, and The Mystery of Ghost's Better Half. And is the sequel to 'The Petite Mystery'.
Genre: Comedy / Fluff
Summary: Johnny and Roachâs nosy curiosity lands them in hot water when they discover that their LTâs "Sweet little birdâ is neither as sweet nor as little as they assumed. What starts as a simple interrogation spirals into chaos when Captain Price tries to step in, only to become another âguestâ in her workshop. With everyone questioning how their LT ended up with someone so terrifyingly competent, the day quickly devolves into a mix of panic, laughs, and begrudging admiration. Chaos indeed ensues.
Warning: This is a long, funny, hostage, situation. Also, do not read when hungry
----------
Johnny and Roach woke hours later, groggy and blinking against the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. Their heads throbbed as they took in their surroundings: a workshop-like room filled with tools, jars of strange substances, and shelves that looked more suited to a mad scientist than a cozy home.
Both men were tied to metal chairs, hands bound behind their backs and legs secured to the base. Roach gave an experimental tug at his bindings, while Johnny just groaned, squinting at the faint outline of someone standing across the room.
"Well, well, well," came a voice, smooth but sharp, with an authority that made both men freeze. "Look whoâs awake."
Johnny blinked hard, trying to focus on the figure. It was herâthe woman theyâd been tailing. She leaned casually against the workbench, arms crossed, her face partially hidden behind a mask. Her posture was relaxed, but there was something unnervingly deliberate about her presence.
"Donât bother trying to wriggle free," she said, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. "Even if you did, youâd still be stuck in my house, and trust meâyouâre not getting out until weâve had a nice little chat."
Johnny groaned again, his accent thick as his temper flared. âWhaâs this? Who the hell are ye? Anâ whatâwhat in the bloody hellâs goinâ on?â His words were slurred, and he blinked owlishly, as though his brain was still buffering.
She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Who I am isnât really the issue here. You, on the other hand, have a lot of explaining to do."
Johnnyâs mind was still catching up, but his temperâhis Scottish temperâwas coming through loud and clear. He clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling up as he took stock of the situation. âAye, well, yeâve got a real bloody charming way of treatinâ guests, lass,â he snapped, his accent cutting sharper with each word. âYe donât think yer messinâ with the wrong two folk, do ye? This some kind of joke? What the hellâs yer game here? 'Cause I donât ken what ye think youâreââ
She cut him off with a low, humorless laugh, stepping closer, her movements smooth and calculated. "Game?" she echoed, her words now rolling in a thick Scottish brogue that stopped him mid-rant. She leaned in just enough to make him feel the weight of her presence, even through the mask. âYe think this is a game, laddie? Ach, ye dinnae ken a bloody thing. Yer tied tae a chair in my house, so maybe keep yer yap shut till Iâm done askinâ questions, aye?â
Johnny blinked, her shift in accent throwing him completely off guard. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His brain was trying to piece things together, but her sudden shift was like a punch to the gut.
Her piercing gaze flicked between the two of them, unimpressed. âNow then,â she said, stepping back and crossing her arms as she studied them both. âLetâs hear it. What are ye two doinâ, pokinâ yer noses where they donât belong? Or dâye need me tae loosen yer tongues fer ye?â
Johnnyâs jaw dropped, and for a moment, he could only stare at her. Then, the words tumbled out before he could stop them: âWait... yeâre Scottish?â
Her expression didnât change, but her eyes narrowed slightly. "Aye,â she said flatly, her tone daring him to say more. âAnâ?â
Johnny blinked again, scrambling to find the right words. âYer... Scottish?â he repeated, still trying to process.
âAye,â she said again, her patience clearly wearing thin. âWhat of it, lad?â
Johnny gawked, his mind spinning. Finally, he managed, âYer accentâitâs... ach, I dunnoâyeâre justââ
âJust what?â she cut in sharply, the edge in her voice making him shrink back in his seat. âGo on, laddie. Say it. Finish yer thought.â
He clamped his mouth shut, swallowing hard as her glare bore into him. âNothinâ,â he muttered, his eyes darting nervously to Roach, who was still too dazed to bail him out.
âGood,â she said, her tone curt as she crouched to his eye level, her voice dropping lower. âNow, since ye seem tae have plenty tae say, hereâs whatâs gonna happen. Yeâre gonna tell me why yeâve been sneakinâ aboot, or Iâll make ye talk. And trust me, Johnny boy,â she added, her brogue thick and sharp as a blade, âye really dinnae want me tae make ye talk.â
Johnny swallowed again, his Adamâs apple bobbing. Roach, still bleary, muttered under his breath, âWeâre so dead.â
Her lips curled into a wry smile. "Dead?" she echoed, her voice light but carrying an unmistakable weight. âAch, if I wanted ye dead, yeâd already be six feet under. Now then,â she straightened, her hands resting on her hips. âAre ye gonna talk, or do I need tae get creative?â
Johnny looked helplessly at Roach, then back at her. For the first time in his life, Johnny was well and truly at a loss for words.
---------
Interogation Begins
----------
Not THE MOHAWK!!
The air in the room felt tense as Johnny and Roach sat back-to-back, bound to their chairs. Y/N circled them slowly, the hum of a buzzing clipper in her hand making Johnnyâs neck prickle with dread.
âRight, lads,â she began, her voice silky but sharp, her Scottish lilt thickening with every word. âYe dinnae want tae cooperate? Fine. Letâs see how brave ye are when yer precious mohawk gets a wee trim.â
Johnnyâs eyes widened. âNaw, naw, ye wouldnât dare! The hawkâs sacred!â He tried to twist his head around but couldnât see her. Roach craned his neck, trying to get a look too, but all he could see was Johnnyâs panicked face.
The clipper buzzed louder as Y/N leaned in, her breath just behind Johnnyâs ear. âSacred, ye say? Letâs make a wee offering tae the gods, then.â She let the clipper glide gently over his head, careful not to touch, and tilted her phone discreetly to emit the buzzing sound.
Johnny froze as he heard the distinct zzzzrrrt of hair being shaved off. He squeezed his eyes shut, his voice cracking. âPlease, lass! No! Anything but the hawk! Itâs me identity!â
âOh, aye,â Y/N said with mock sympathy, holding up a small clump of fur sheâd smuggled in from the nature reserve earlier. With a theatrical flourish, she let it flutter past Johnnyâs eyes.
Johnny let out a wail. âMy hair! Roach, do somethinâ!â
Roach, already sweating, stammered, his voice sharp with panic. âMate, I⌠I think weâre buggered! Sheâs mad, proper mad!â
âAye, I am mad,â Y/N said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. âAnâ if ye think Iâll stop at the hawk, yeâve got another thing cominâ. Next, Iâll be carving little hearts into yer mateâs eyebrows.â
âNo! Not the brows!â Roach yelped.
Johnny whimpered, gripping the edges of his chair. âFine! Fine, Iâll talk! Just stop, for the love ofâstop!â
Y/N tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. âTalk, then. Whatâs yer name?â
Johnny gulped, his pride warring with his terror. âItâs Johnny. Johnny Macââ He hesitated.
The clipper buzzed closer to his temple, and another tuft of fur fell into view. âMac what?â Y/N pressed, her tone as sharp as the blade she wasnât actually using.
âMactavish!â Johnny finally blurted out, his voice cracking. âJohn âSoapâ Mactavish! There! Ye happy now, ye devil woman?â
Y/N straightened up, letting out a low, satisfied hum as she clicked off her phone. âSoap, eh? Funny. Yeâre more like a wee bairn covered in bubbles the way yeâre greetinâ.â
Roach let out a shaky laugh, but it quickly died as Y/N turned her gaze to him, her tone suddenly cool and clipped. âAnâ you, laddie,â she said, her smile sly. âFeelinâ brave, or shall I see how much hair yeâve got tae spare?â
Johnny groaned, his head sagging forward. âSheâs a bloody menace,â he muttered, glaring at the clumps of what he thought was his hair on the ground.
Y/N smirked, leaning in to pat Johnnyâs shoulder. âA menace? Aye. But at least Iâm a thorough one.â
----------
Not THE EYEBROWS!!
Y/N shifted her attention to Roach, who sat frozen, his face pale and slick with sweat. She leaned in close, waving the buzzing clippers ominously near his face. âYer turn, laddie ,â she said. âTell me what I want tae know, or these pretty brows of yours are getting a wee makeover.â
Roach flinched, instinctively trying to lean back, but the bindings held him firm. âEyebrows? Youâyou wouldnât dare!â he stammered, his voice quaking. âThatâs bloody barbaric!â
âBarbaric?â Y/N repeated, tilting her head with a mock pout. âBarbaricâs dragging me intae this mess in the first place, innit? So, aye, I think barbarismâs fair game.â She casually clicked the clippers on again, the hum sending a jolt straight to Roachâs nerves.
âWait, wait!â Roach panicked, words spilling from his mouth. âGary! Gary Sanderson! Call signâs Roach! There, I said it! No need for funny business with my eyebrows!â
Y/N grinned, her tone light and satisfied. âGary âRoachâ Sanderson, eh? Lovely name.â She stepped back, setting the clippers aside with a theatrical flourish. âSee? That wasnât so hard, was it?â
Johnny groaned, his head still hung low. âRoach, ye coward! I held out longer!â
âHeld out longer?â Roach shot back indignantly. âMate, you folded like a lawn chair at the first buzz!â
Before their bickering could escalate, Y/N pulled a compact mirror out of her pocket, flicked it open with a little flair, and held it up in front of Johnny. His reflection stared back at him, his mohawk completely intact and untouched. She tilted the mirror just enough to angle it toward Roach as well.
Johnny blinked, his hand instinctively jerking toward his head before realizing he couldnât move. âWait⌠itâs still there? My hawkâs safe?â His voice cracked with emotion, his lip wobbling slightly.
Roach let out a long sigh of relief, his whole body relaxing. âBloody hell, thank God.â
âSafe, aye,â Y/N said, her voice syrupy sweet. âFor now.â
Johnny narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. âThen whose hair is that on the floor, eh?â
Y/Nâs smile turned cold, her tone dropping to something darker, more menacing. She held up her phone and flicked to a pictureâa tuft of fur strewn over leaves, unmistakably from something once alive. âOh, that? Just a wee bit of fur from a creature I culled meself. Needed to make space in its den.â
The room fell silent.
Johnnyâs jaw dropped, his face draining of color. âA⌠creature?â
Roach visibly shuddered, his eyes darting toward the tufts of fur scattered on the floor. âWhat kind of creature?â
Y/Nâs grin widened, and she leaned in just enough for her shadow to loom over them both. âThe kind that doesnât like uninvited guests sniffinâ around its territory. Yeâd best keep that in mind.â
The two men exchanged a look, both visibly rattled. Johnny swallowed hard. âRoach, mate, weâre proper buggered, arenât we?â
âCompletely,â Roach muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
---------
The Bagpipe Barrage
Y/N leaned against the wall, her phone in hand, scrolling with a thoughtful expression. âRight then, lads,â she said, her voice deceptively calm, âwhere ye from? Who sent ye?â
Johnny and Roach exchanged wary glances, the air thick with tension. Neither man spoke, both visibly uncomfortable under her penetrating gaze.
Without missing a beat, Y/N connected her phone to the small Bluetooth speaker on the nearby table. âWell, if yer noâ going to talk, I suppose Iâll have to make things a little more... persuasive.â She tapped a few keys on her phone, and within moments, the first few notes of an off-tune bagpipe rendition of Scotland the Brave hit the airâdiscordant, grating, and completely out of time. It sounded like the bagpipes were being played by someone wildly panicked, possibly being chased by a herd of cows.
Johnny recoiled, his face twisted in horror. âWhat the bloody hell is that?! Thatâs nae musicâthatâs pure torture!â
Y/N raised the volume slightly, her smile widening as the screeching pipes blared louder. âOh, yeâll come to love it, Johnny. Trust me, itâs very⌠authentic.â
Roachâs face drained of color as he frantically pulled at the ropes binding his wrists. âMake it stop! Iâve heard cats fighting in the alley sound better than this!â
Y/N glanced over at him with an almost fond expression. âAye, well, if you think thatâs bad, yeâre in for a real treat, lad.â She leaned in, her tone dripping with amusement. âNow, letâs try this again. Where are ye from? Who sent ye?â
Johnny clenched his jaw, refusing to budge, though his eyes betrayed the panic beginning to set in.
Roach was visibly breaking. âY/N, please, please turn it off! I cannae take it!â His voice cracked, the sound mixing with the relentless drone of the bagpipes.
Y/N clicked the volume up again, letting the off-key melody blast through the room. âNo can do, lads. Not until ye answer me. Who sent ye, and who do ye work for?â
Johnny bit his lip, eyes welling up with frustration. âIâIâm nae tellinâ ye anything! No matter what this is, Iâm not breakinâ!â
Roach, now teary-eyed, started to mumble under his breath. âI canât⌠itâs too much⌠please make it stopâŚ!"
Johnnyâs face twisted with anger and defeat, but the sheer force of the bagpipes was getting to him. Finally, with a ragged breath, he snapped, âFine! Iâll tell ye! Just turn off the bloody music!â
Y/N grinned, lowering the volume slightly, giving them a sliver of hope. âThere we go, Johnny. Was that so hard?â
Johnny gritted his teeth, his resolve crumbling. âIâno, I wonât say! I wonât betray my team!â
Y/N raised an eyebrow, the volume cranking up again. âFair enough. Letâs see how long yer will lasts, then.â
Johnnyâs eyes were wild with panic now, and Roach was visibly sweating, his breathing shallow. âBloody hell, make it stop! Please, I canât take it anymore!â
The music looped again, each rendition of the bagpipes scraping more against their nerves than before. Johnny and Roach were shaking, eyes pleading for mercy.
Y/N waited. Silent. Watching.
When their cries became unbearable, she cut the volume down just enough to let them catch their breath. âSo, who sent ye?â she asked again, her voice casual, almost bored.
Johnny looked at Roach, both of them defeated. âI⌠I canâtâŚâ
Y/N raised an eyebrow, the volume edging slightly higher.
Roach let out a strangled sob. âJohnny, just bloody talk already! I canât take it anymore! Please, lady, have mercy!â
She smirked, lowering the volume just enough for them to catch their breaths. âMercyâs earned, Roach. Now, spill it.â
But they both clamped up again, realizing their mistake, and the bagpipes blared back to full strength.
The room descended into chaosâJohnny trying to hum over the noise, Roach muttering a string of British curses under his breath, and Y/N standing serenely, watching them squirm with the patience of a saint.
Her voice cut through the cacophony once more, calm but firm. âWeâve got all day, lads. Itâs yer eardrums, not mine.â
Johnny whimpered, his voice barely audible over the screeching bagpipes. âRoach⌠mate⌠weâre not gettinâ out oâ this, are we?â
The silence in the room stretched out, the bagpipes still blaring, filling the space with a relentless screech. Johnny and Roach were both trembling now, caught between fear and exhaustion. Y/N, having momentarily paused her torment, watched them with a mixture of amusement and patience. She was prepared to wait them out.
Then, a sudden sound broke through the chaosâa phone vibrating against the floor. Y/N raised an eyebrow and walked over to Johnny, who froze as she reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. She glanced at the caller ID. ââCoin,â and a bag of money emoji?â Y/N chuckled darkly. âThatâs how yer boss is listed? Cunning, Iâll give him that.â She tapped the screen, setting the phone to speaker mode.
Johnnyâs eyes widened in horror, and Roachâs breath caught in his throat.
âWhere the hell are you two?â the gruff voice on the other end demanded. âAnd can you pick up something for me before you head back to base?â
Johnny and Roach both screamed, their voices desperate and panicked. âCaptain! HELP! Theyâve got us! Theyâveââ
âHold up.â The voice on the phone cut through the room, and Y/N held up a finger, silencing the two men before they could speak more.
Y/N's smirk never wavered as she turned to face Johnny and Roach. The phone still on speaker, she made her voice as cold and threatening as possible.
"Listen here, Captain," she began, her tone casual yet lethal. "Iâve got your men in my custody. And if you're not willing to cooperate, they'll stay here, and weâll have plenty of time to get to know each other... in ways I'm sure you won't enjoy."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, but then Price's voice cracked through, sharp and unwavering. "Who the hell are you? What have you done to my men?"
Y/N's grin widened, as she leaned back, enjoying every second of this power play. "I'm the one asking questions here, Captain," she said, her tone taking on a mocking edge. "So how about you start answering, or I'll just keep your lads here a little longer. Letâs see how long their loyalty lasts, shall we?"
There was a growl of frustration from the other end, and then a deep, threatening voice responded, each word laced with menace. âYou have no idea who you're dealing with. Release my men now, or Iâll come for you. And when I do, youâll regret every second of this.â
Y/N chuckled darkly, her voice dripping with taunting amusement. âOh, Iâll be waiting for you, Captain. Donât keep me waiting too long.â
She ended the call with a swipe of her finger and turned slowly to face Johnny and Roach. Their faces were pale, eyes wide with fear, as they sat frozen in their chairs, the tension in the room thick and suffocating.
Johnny's eyes darted from the phone to her, his voice hoarse with disbelief. âWho the bloody hell are you to threaten our Captain?â
Roach swallowed hard, his hands still bound, his breath shallow. "You're... you're playing with fire, lass." His voice trembled, and it was clear his fear was genuine.
Y/N tilted her head slightly, a cruel smile curling at the corner of her lips. "That was just a warning, lads," she said, stepping closer, her voice lowering to a cold whisper. "But trust me, itâs not over yet."
The room fell silent, both men exchanging a look that spoke volumesâresignation, fear, and the dawning realization that they were in way over their heads.
----------
Their Roommate
Y/N stood, her hands resting casually on her hips as she surveyed Johnny and Roach, still tied to their chairs, their faces pale and anxious. "While we wait for yer Captain to come find ye," she said, her voice light, "I thought Iâd introduce ye to yer new roommate."
Johnny looked at her, his brow furrowed. âWhat the hell are ye talking about now?â
With a smirk, Y/N walked over to a nearby table, lifting a large, glass terrarium and placing it gently on the surface in front of them. Inside, a massive stag beetle crawled lazily across the rocks, its dark wings shimmering under the light.
âMeet yer new roommate,â Y/N announced, her eyes glinting with amusement. "This here is... well, I havenât named her yet, but weâll get to that. Sheâs lovely, and sheâs going to be living with ye for a while. Unless ye talk, of course. Then ye might be free."
Roachâs eyes immediately widened, and he recoiled in his chair as though the beetle could leap straight out at him. âWhat the hell is that for?â he demanded, his voice high-pitched with panic.
Y/N tilted her head innocently, reaching into the terrarium with care and picking up the beetle by hand. She held it in front of them, her expression almost maternal. âYeâre Roach, aye? Thought yeâd feel at home wi' yer wee cousin here.â
Roach shook his head vigorously, his eyes never leaving the beetle. âThat thingâs not my cousin!â
Y/N raised an eyebrow, her smile growing wicked. âMaybe nae, but imagine this sittin' on yer knee if ye dinnae start talkinâ.â She held the beetle just inches from Roachâs knee, her gaze unwavering.
With that, she turned to Johnny. âNow, Johnny, meet yer new roommate.â
Johnny's eyes followed the beetle, his face draining of color. He stared at the dark, glossy creature in Y/Nâs hand, his throat tightening. âBloody hell!â he shouted, his face twisted in pure horror.
Roach pulled his chair back, wide-eyed and pale. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Y/N chuckled, thoroughly enjoying their reactions. "Now, now, lads. Be polite to yer new roommate." She raised the beetle and hovered it near Johnnyâs shoulder. âWouldnât want to be rude now, would we?â
Johnny let out a high-pitched whine, squirming in his chair. "Get that bloody thing away from me!"
Y/N smirked, lowering it just enough to brush the beetleâs legs against his arm. Johnny recoiled, eyes wide, and she saw a tear escape down his cheek.
âOh, look at ye, Johnny. Big tough soldier, crying over a little bug,â she teased, before turning her attention to Roach. âRoach, ye sure yer nae related to this fine specimen here? Yeâre acting like yeâve never met family before.â
Roach clenched his jaw, his face white as a sheet. âThatâs not my cousin, lass. And if ye donât take that bloody thing away from me, Iâllââ
Before he could finish, Y/N, with a calm and almost affectionate expression, placed the beetle gently on his leg. His entire body froze, and his voice caught in his throat.
"Get it off! GET IT OFF!" Roach yelled, his entire body trembling as he tried to shake it off without success.
Johnnyâs cries grew more frantic as he watched. "Oh, gosh, I canât handle this! I cannae deal with this bloody thing!"
Y/N scolded them both, but it was playful, almost like she was talking to children. "Honestly, ye two, the way yeâre carrying on, itâs like yeâve never had a wee beetle on yer leg before. Sheâs just sayinâ hello. Show a bit of respect."
She lifted the beetle off Roachâs leg and placed it carefully back into the terrarium, watching as both men finally relaxedâthough their faces were still riddled with fear and disgust.
âYou two really need to be nicer to her,â she said, putting a hand on the terrarium lid as if it was her own child. âSheâs got feelings, ye know. Canât just treat her like that.â
As the beetle was carefully placed back into the terrarium, Johnny and Roach were both trembling, their faces a mixture of fear and embarrassment. Roachâs hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his body stiff with the lingering dread of having the beetle on his leg. Johnny, on the other hand, was trying to save face but failing miserably as a tear rolled down his cheek.
Y/N couldnât help but let out a little chuckle at the sight of the two grown men, both reduced to blubbering wrecks over a harmless beetle.
âWell, well,â Y/N said, her voice firm, though she tried to hide her amusement. âIâve seen tough soldiers face down enemies, endure harsh conditions, and survive bloody battles, but a tiny beetle on your leg? Thatâs what breaks you?â She shook her head, her eyes narrowing playfully. âAnd here I thought you two were men of honor.â
She crossed her arms and gave them a mock disapproving look. âNow, Iâm not one to condone bullying, but that was downright cruel. Do you have any idea how it feels to be ridiculed by a couple of grown men, just because Iâve got a harmless little tenant?â She motioned to the beetle with a dramatic flourish. âYou should be ashamed, both of you. Apologize to her.â
Johnny and Roach exchanged confused glances, unsure if she was serious or not.
"Bloody hell," Johnny mumbled, still shaken but now confused.
Roach hesitated, then awkwardly muttered, âSorry⌠to the beetle?â
Johnny sniffed, still visibly shaken. "Youâre bloody insane, lass. That thingâs not natural.â
Roach nodded, still pale. âIâm going to have nightmares about that thing crawlinâ on me forever.â
Y/N sighed dramatically, pretending to consider their plight for a moment. âAye, well, thatâs a shame. But if yeâll behave, Iâll let ye off the hook... for now.â She glanced at the clock on the wall, her eyes widening in realization. "Speaking of hooks... itâs lunch time. Iâve got a few things to prepare for my little friend here," she gestured to the beetle with a nod.
Johnny and Roach blinked in confusion, their hunger starting to make itself known. âLunch?â Johnny asked, his stomach growling loudly in protest.
"Aye," Y/N said, "For the beetle, obviously. Sheâll need her greens." She gave the beetle a wink. âAnd for you two as well," she added, her voice softening just enough to let them know she wasnât entirely without mercy. "Even captives need to eat."
Roach shot Johnny a look, his face a picture of disbelief. âSheâs actually cookinâ for the beetle?â
Johnny shrugged, his stomach growling again. âIâm just really hoping thereâs somethinâ in it for us too, yeah?â
Y/N smiled sweetly, a touch of mock sincerity in her voice. "Of course, lads. Iâll whip up somethin' nice for ye too. Canât have my lovely guests starvin', can I?"
With that, she turned and headed for the door. âIâll be back soon,â she called over her shoulder. âDonât worry, the beetleâs a sociable creature, sheâll keep ye company.â
Johnny and Roach looked at each other, their stomachs growling in unison as they both realized just how hungry they were. âDo you think sheâs actually going to feed us?â Roach asked, his voice laced with desperation.
âI dunno,â Johnny muttered, rubbing his stomach. âBut I bloody hope so.â
As the door clicked shut behind her, the two men slumped in their chairs, the silence of the room only interrupted by the occasional sound of the beetle skittering around in its terrarium. The tension had eased, but their rumbling stomachs reminded them that their fate still rested in Y/Nâs handsâalong with their new roommateâs.
----------
Lunchbreak
When Y/N finally returned with their lunch, Johnny and Roach eyed their plates warily. The smell was pleasant enoughâhearty stew with fresh breadâbut their eyes flicked back to the beetle's terrarium, as if expecting some hidden, sinister ingredient.
Y/N set the plates down in front of them with a casual smile. âEat up, lads. No beetles in the stew, I promise.â
Johnny frowned, eyeing the food like it might jump out and bite him. âRight. No beetles, but... what else is in here?â
Roach followed his gaze, clearly trying to find some hidden clue in the stew. âAye, somethinâ smells off, donât it?â
Y/N rolled her eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. âAre you both really that paranoid? Iâm not playinâ with your food.â She scolded them with a raised finger. âI donât mess around with meals. If I wanted to torture you, Iâd make you eat your words instead.â
Johnny and Roach exchanged uneasy glances, clearly unconvinced but too hungry to argue. Y/N stood over them, hands on her hips, watching as they hesitantly began to pick at their food.
She wasnât about to let them off the hook so easily. With a sharp, âAye, enough of this,â she knelt down and began untying their feet from the chair before moving to loosen the knot on their hands.
âOi,â Roach said cautiously, shifting in his seat. âWhatâre ye doing now?â
Y/N shot him a stern look, her patience wearing thin. âBehave,â she warned, her tone sharp. âIâve been kind enough to loosen the knot on your hands, but let me make one thing clearâif either of you tries anything, Iâll tie you up so tight youâll never get out. And trust me, it wonât be pretty.â
Johnny swallowed nervously, his mouth still tingling from the spices in the food. âWeâre just... just eatinâ. No funny business, promise.â
With practiced efficiency, Y/N retied the rope around their feet in a more complicated knot, one that allowed just enough movement for them to sit comfortably but would take forever to undo. Then she tied their hands behind their backs in an intricate knot, loosening it just enough so they could maneuver their forks but not enough to free themselves.
She stood back, smirking at her handiwork. âThere. Now you can eat properly, but donât even think about trying to escape. If you do, Iâll make sure itâs the last time you think you can get one over on me.â
Johnny and Roach exchanged uneasy glances before turning their attention to their plates, shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. Though reluctant at first, hunger eventually won out. They dug into the food cautiously, glancing at her every so often, as if expecting some hidden trick.
Y/N, arms crossed, watched them with mild amusement. âThatâs better,â she muttered.
Y/N dusted off her hands and headed for the door, muttering as she left, âNeed to get that broth right... been boiling for an hour already. Canât let it overdo itself now, can we?â She paused at the doorway, turning back to Johnny and Roach with a pointed look. âBehave. Iâll be right back. If I hear even a peep out of either of you, youâll regret it.â
With that, she disappeared down the hallway, her faint muttering about the seafood boil trailing after her. âOnions, garlic, bay leaves... aye, needs a bit more kick. Maybe some lemon...â
Johnny and Roach stayed quiet for a moment, their gazes flicking toward the doorway to make sure she was truly gone. Finally, after a few more cautious bites of the meal in front of him, Roach glanced at Johnny and broke the silence.
âI mean... itâs actually not bad. This is... pretty good, actually,â he admitted, though his voice was low as if he feared she might still overhear.
Johnny, mid-chew, gave a reluctant nod. âAye... not bad at all,â he mumbled, though his pride made him hesitate to sound too impressed. He swallowed and leaned back slightly, his gaze thoughtful. âI can see why the Lt. eats like a bloody king. Lucky bastard.â
Roach snorted softly, shaking his head. âNo wonder heâs so smug all the time. Homemade food like this on deployment? Meanwhile, weâre stuck choking down MREs that taste like cardboard.â
Johnny smirked, raising an eyebrow. âWhatâs this? Jealous, are ye? Wantinâ a lady to whip up gourmet meals for ye?â
Roach shrugged with a lopsided grin. âCan you blame me? Food like this... I wouldnât say no.â
Johnny chuckled and leaned in slightly, his grin turning mischievous. âAye, careful what you wish for, mate. You sure youâd want a woman like her? Sheâs got our Lt. whipped, guaranteed.â
Roach blinked, his grin faltering as he considered that. âWhipped? You serious?â
Before Johnny could respond, a shadow fell over the doorway. They both froze mid-bite as Y/N reappeared, her expression unreadable and her hands occupied with a bright red crawfish, dangling by its tail.
âWhose whipped?â she asked, her tone deceptively sweet as her sharp eyes flicked between the two of them.
Johnny and Roach immediately stiffened, their forks hovering mid-air. They exchanged a panicked glance, but neither dared to speak.
Y/N cocked an eyebrow and let the crawfish dangle ominously close to Johnnyâs face. âWell? Cat got your tongue?â
Johnny gulped audibly. âEr... no oneâs whipped. N-not a soul. Isnât that right, Roach?â
âUh, aye!â Roach blurted, nodding far too enthusiastically. âNot a word about anyone being whipped. Just... uh... appreciating your... culinary expertise.â
Y/N hummed in mock agreement, lowering the crawfish. âGood. Because if the idea of being âwhippedâ scares you so much, maybe itâs time you learned how to cook for yourselves.â She shot them a pointed look before walking over to a nearby drawer, opening it with a sharp clink.
The sound of her pulling out a large Serbian chef knife drew their eyes immediately. The blade was thick, gleaming under the light with a menacing edge that seemed sharp enough to cleave through anything in its path.
She inspected the blade casually, her back turned to them, as if she hadnât just sent a shiver down their spines. âNow, if youâll excuse me,â she said, her voice light but her movements deliberate, âIâve got some prep work to finish.â
Johnny and Roach sat frozen, exchanging wide-eyed glances as she walked out, the knife in one hand and the crawfish in the other. The door swung shut behind her, leaving them in tense silence.
After a long pause, Johnny let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair. âWeâre still alive, aye?â he muttered, as if needing confirmation.
Roach nodded hesitantly, swallowing hard. âAye... but I think Iâd rather face the Lt. in a mood than her in the kitchen.â
Johnny chuckled weakly, glancing toward the doorway. âSame here, mate. Same here.â
----------
Next on the menu?
Y/N returned, this time wearing gloves smeared with faint traces of whatever sheâd been chopping. Her steps were calm and unhurried, but there was something unnerving about the way her gloved fingers curled around the edge of the plates. Without a word, she collected their dishes, her movements efficient and eerily precise. A stray crawfish claw dangled from the edge of one plate, the hard shell glinting like some sort of ominous trophy.
Johnny and Roach stared at it, swallowing hard.
âIâll be back in a bit,â she said casually, her tone at odds with the unsettling imagery. She turned on her heel, heading for the door. âThe stock needs attention. It wonât cook itself.â
The door creaked shut behind her, leaving the two men in an uneasy silence once more.
Roach broke the quiet first, his voice hushed but edged with genuine concern. âWhy does it feel like sheâs cooking us next?â
Johnny shifted uncomfortably in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. âMate, donât even joke about that.â He gestured toward the doorway with a flick of his head. âYou saw how she handled that crawfish. Do you really want to find out what she could do to us? Just... donât mention anything thatâll get her attention. Please. I like beinâ out of the pot, aye?â
Roach nodded quickly, his eyes darting to the doorway, half-expecting her to reappear. âRight. Good point.â
They both sat stiffly in their chairs, trying not to make a sound, hearts pounding with the irrational but persistent thought that they were dangerously close to becoming part of the menu. The lingering smell of the food reminded them just how grateful they were that it hadnât been them in the potâor at least, not yet. Hopefully, never!
----------
Captain Price to the Rescue?
After lunch, Y/N strode back into the âinterrogationâ room, her movements calm but purposeful, and sat down across from Johnny and Roach, resuming where sheâd left off.
Her voice cut through the tension like a blade. âWhy the hell were you even following me?â
Johnny and Roach exchanged nervous glances, their faces pale. They couldnât admit the truthânot that they were their Lt.âs men, her partnerâs men, and had just been nosy and curious. It was too embarrassing. So, they said nothing.
Y/N narrowed her eyes, clearly unimpressed by their silence. Before she could press them again, there was a sudden, deafening crash.
The front door of the cottage exploded inward, splinters flying in every direction.
Y/Nâs eyes snapped to the sound, just in time to hear an enraged bellow.
âJOHNNY! ROACH! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!â
Johnny and Roach jerked in their seats like startled rabbits.
âOh, bloody hell!â Johnny screeched, his eyes wide with panic. âITâS HIM!â
Roach was no better, his voice climbing an octave. âHELP! CAPTAIN! CAPTAIN PRICE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HELP!â
Y/N leaned back in her chair, smirking. âOh, look at that. Your boss actually came looking for you. Iâm touched.â
From the front of the house, Priceâs voice boomed again, shaking the walls. âWhere are you two? Iâll bloody find you!â
The sound of heavy boots hitting the floorboards echoed ominously as Price stormed through the house.
Johnny and Roach, already panicked, began shouting in unison.
âCAPTAIN, HELP! ITâS A TRAP! BE CAREFUL! SHEâS LOST IT!â
Priceâs voice rumbled closer. âWhat the bloody hell are you two on about?!â
Roach whimpered. âSheâs gonna cook us next!â
Johnny, still screaming, added, âWEâRE TIED UP LIKE BLOODY PUDDINGS!â
Priceâs footsteps grew louder, and his grumbling was now accompanied by muttered curses. âBloody pudding? Whatâs wrong with you two? Can hear you from the front door!â
Finally, Price kicked open the door to the room, his sharp blue eyes taking in the bizarre sight before him: Johnny and Roach tied to chairs, squirming like worms, and Y/N sitting in the corner, arms crossed, an infuriating smirk plastered on her face.
Price blinked, his voice flat with disbelief. âWhat in the actual hell is this?â He gestured vaguely at the scene. âYou two... let her do this to you?â
Before they could explain, Johnny and Roach screamed again.
âDONâT COME ANY CLOSER! SHEâS GOT SPRAY!â
Price frowned, confused. âSpray?â
âTHE SAME BLOODY SPRAY SHE USED TO KNOCK US OUT!â Roach added, his voice cracking.
Price paused, staring at Y/N, who raised an eyebrow and leaned forward slightly, clearly enjoying herself.
Price crossed his arms. âYou two seriously think Iâm gonna fall for that?â
Y/Nâs smirk widened. âOh, I figured you wouldnât. Thatâs why Iâve got something better.â
She reached behind her chair, her movements swift and deliberate, and grabbed a rifle dart gun. Before Price could react, she fired.
The dart hit his knee with a thunk.
âBloodyââ Price growled, yanking the dart out and glaring at her.
She fired again, this time hitting his neck.
âOH, BLOODY HELL!â Johnny and Roach screamed in unison, wriggling in their chairs as if they could escape whatever fate awaited their captain.
Price ripped the second dart out, snarling. âWoman, what the hell are youââ
He stopped mid-sentence, swaying unsteadily. The room tilted, his balance suddenly off. Gritting his teeth, Price dropped to one knee, staring up at her with fire in his eyes.
âWhat did you do to me, woman?!â he growled, his voice thick with anger and something elseâdrowsiness.
Y/N walked toward him slowly, the dart gun still in her hand, her expression eerily calm. âOh, donât worry, Captain,â she said, her voice light and almost cheerful. âItâs just a tranquilizer. I use it on wild boars.â
Her smile turned sinister as Priceâs vision blurred. That was the last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him whole.
----------
A New Hostage!
Y/N grunted as she dragged Captain Priceâs unconscious form across the room, muttering to herself. âBloody hell, youâre heavy! What do they feed you soldiers? Bricks?!â She propped him up on a chair with a huff, shaking her head. âThis is ridiculous. I should be done prepping food by now!â
Johnny and Roach sat stiffly in their chairs, wide-eyed and helpless as they watched her wrestle the Captainâs limp form like a sack of potatoes.
Roach leaned toward Johnny and whispered, his voice trembling, âWho the hell is this woman?â
Johnny didnât take his eyes off her. âI donât know, mate, but sheâs mental. Proper mental.â
Roach gulped. âHow did we end up here? Sheâs got Price, for goodnessâs sake. Price!â
Johnny shook his head slowly. âSimonâs birdie, huh? I thought sheâd be a sweet lass. You know, one of those quiet types. Maybe she bakes.â
Roachâs eyes darted nervously to the dart gun still slung over her shoulder. âBakes?! Johnny, she tranquilized the Captain. With wild boar darts! Bakes?! Are you daft?â
Johnny shrugged, his voice quiet. âI donât know what I thought. But it sure as hell wasnât this.â
They both fell silent as Y/N crouched in front of Price, adjusting the ropes with practiced ease. She tied a firm knot, tugged on it to test its strength, and then stood back to admire her work.
âAlright,â she said cheerfully, dusting off her hands. âThatâll hold him until he wakes up.â She turned to Johnny and Roach, her tone casual, as if she hadnât just restrained their Captain like a Christmas ham. âI need to get back to my food prep. Iâll check on you lot later.â
Johnnyâs panic finally broke through. âWhat the hell did you do to our Captain?!â
Y/N waved a dismissive hand, already halfway to the door. âOh, nothing. Heâs fine! Heâll be awake in an hour. Or so. Probably.â
âProbably?!â Roach squeaked, his voice rising in pitch.
Y/N turned to them with an exasperated sigh. âI said heâs fine. Itâs just a tranquilizer, not poison. Relax, will you?â
With that, she exited the room, leaving the two soldiers to stew in their rising panic.
Johnny leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. âMate,â he said, his voice hollow. âWeâve messed with the wrong woman.â
Roach nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the door sheâd just walked through. âYeah. And now weâre in her house. Tied to chairs. Watching her hold the Captain hostage. What the hell do we do now?â
Johnny let out a shaky breath. âPray, mate. Just pray.â
----------
The Morrigan
Captain Price groaned, blinking groggily as he came to his senses. His head throbbed, and his arms were firmly tied to the chair, rendering him utterly immobile. The familiar smell of seafood chowder and garlic bread wafted through the room, and his stomach gave a loud, rumbling protest.
Johnny and Roach were sitting across from him, completely unfazed, digging into their bowls with gusto as though they werenât in the middle of being held hostage.
Price scowled at them. âHow the hell are you two still eating like that? All three of us are bloody hostages, and youâre sitting there like itâs a bloody picnic!â
Johnny, not missing a beat, took another bite of his chowder. âShe gets offended if we donât eat, Cap.â
Roach nodded, chewing thoughtfully. âYeah, mate. She insists on it. Said itâs bad manners not to finish whatâs on your plate.â
Price stared at them in disbelief, then rolled his eyes. âYou two are unbelievable. Getting bribed with food. Bloody greedy gluttons.â
Johnny shot him a look, eyebrows raised. âOh, come on, Cap. Youâre the same! Remember when you demanded a fruit from the fruit baskets that Ghost and Gaz brought home after that last deployment? Oh, and the chocolate. Donât forget the chocolate.â
Priceâs face reddened, and he opened his mouth to retort, but before he could get a word out, the door swung open. Y/N walked in, holding a steaming bowl of seafood chowder and a freshly baked garlic bread loaf in one hand, her smile as unsettling as ever.
âDinner time, Captain,â she chirped, her smile practically stretching ear to ear. âHope youâre hungry!â
She put the bowl down next to Johnny and Roach and then stopped in front of Price. She stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment, her eyes gleaming with something not quite right.
Price, feeling the heat of her gaze, grunted. âWhat?â
âWell,â she began slowly, âI donât trust you, Captain. Iâm not sure I should let you eat.â
Priceâs jaw dropped. âOi! Woman! Why do Johnny and Roach get to eat then?â
Y/N shrugged, her creepy smile not faltering. âWell, Iâm afraid the moment I loosen your binds, youâll try to fight me. And, Iâm just a small, poor, âharmlessâ woman. I canât risk that.â
At the word âharmless,â Price, Johnny, and Roach all rolled their eyes in unison. Price opened his mouth to protest.
âHarmless? After what you did? You call yourself that?!â Price barked, incredulous.
Y/N chuckled darkly. She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a syringe with a sinister smile plastered on her face. âWell, Captain, since I donât trust you, I thought about cutting the veins in your ankles to stop you from walking. But I donât like making a mess, so I figured Iâd just inject you with this. Numbs your legs for a couple of hours. Maybe.â
At the sight of the syringe, Johnny and Roach went pale, their eyes darting nervously between Y/N and each other.
Before anyone could say another word, the front door swung open, and Simon's deep, raspy voice called out from the living room. âBirdie!! I got the salmon you wanted! And the veggies!!â
Simon entered the kitchen, slipping off his boots and replacing them with his indoor slippers. He carried a wrapped salmon and vegetables, exactly as Y/N had instructed.
âOh!! And I ran into Kyle!! Since you're making seafood boil, I figured the whole pot is a lot, so I invited him to join!â Simon added casually, with Kyle nervously trailing behind, holding a case of beer.
âBirdie? Where are you, love?â Simon called out, clearly not expecting the scene unfolding before him.
âGHOST!!! HELP!!!! SHE'S MENTAL!!! MENTAL, I TELL YOU!!!â Roach screamed, his voice pitched higher than usual.
Johnny joined in, his voice almost breaking. âLT!!! HEEELLLPPP!!!â
Simonâs brows furrowed at the chaos, and he looked at Kyle, who was now standing awkwardly by the door, trying to understand what was happening. Simon sighed deeply.
Kyle, for his part, was unsure whether to be concerned or amused. He took a step into the kitchen, then another, eyeing the situation with mounting confusion. âUh... I brought beer?â he offered weakly, looking between the trio of tied-up soldiers and Simon, who seemed less concerned than he should be.
Simon looked at the scene for a few beats, then glanced at Y/N. âBirdie? What the hell is going on here?â
Y/N just smiled, her hands on her hips. âOh, you know, just a little dinner prep. They were helping me out. Tied up, of course.â
âHelping?!â Johnny gasped, his face turning pale. âYouâve lost it, woman!â
âOh, donât be dramatic,â Y/N said sweetly, âYouâre just getting a bit of âquiet time.ââ
Simonâs eyes darted between his tied-up squad and his âbirdie,â clearly confused by the bizarre situation. After a few moments of stunned silence, he rubbed his temples. âRight. What exactly is going on here?â
Johnny, Roach, and Price all looked at each other, then in unison, shouted, âSheâs mental!â
Simon grinned widely, his eyes glinting with a mischievous spark. âWell, thatâs one of her attractive traits, mate!â he said, pointing a thumb at Y/N.
The three tied-up soldiers groaned in unison, rolling their eyes. Price, trying to avoid a full-blown headache, muttered under his breath, âSimon, youâre in too deep, mate.â
Simon chuckled heartily, unaffected by the collective groans of his squad. âNah, mate. You just wait until you get to know her better. Sheâs bloody great fun!â He turned back to Y/N, clearly ready for an explanation. âBut seriously, birdie, what happened here?â
Y/N flashed a sweet smile, completely unfazed by the chaos. âWell,â she began, clearly enjoying herself, âit all started when Johnny and Roach followed me around the market, sneaking around like suspicious men. I thought they were enemies trying to spy on me, they followed me into my vehicle!! I was going to interrogate them about who sent them and what they were after.â
She pointed at Price, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. âAnd then, I caught their boss. The big guy. This Captain Price!â
Simon blinked, his face turning a little confused. âWait, what? You think my squad was spying on you?â
Y/N nodded, her expression serious. âI had to make sure they werenât after me. You can never be too careful, right?â
Johnny, Roach, and Price all exchanged weary looks. Johnny shrugged. âSheâs got a point. We did follow her into the car...â
Roach groaned. âYeah, we were just out looking for a pint and lunch, and then we saw Simonâs birdie. Next thing we know, weâre being accused of being bloody spies!" He sighed dramatically. "Alright, fine, we were being nosy!!â he admits begrudgingly
Simon raised an eyebrow, gesturing toward the tied-up trio. âRight, so these are my teammates. Johnny and Roach, theyâre just nosy as hell, always sticking their noses where they shouldnât be. And Captain Price here? Well, he just got caught up in all this mess. Heâs innocent.â
Y/N wasnât having it. She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly. âAre you sure about that? They could be spies or double agents! You never know.â
Simon snorted. âSpies? Double agents? Goodness, birdie, theyâre just bloody nosy!â
Y/N pouted, pointing her finger at Price. âBut heâs the boss! He could be involved in something shady! You never know, Simon. Just look at what happened with your previous team before.â She lowered her voice dramatically, adding, âYou canât be too careful.â
Kyle, who had been standing in the doorway this whole time, chimed in with a grin. âCaptain Price is a good man. As for Johnny and Roach, theyâre... well, theyâre okay. Just a bit nosy, thatâs all.â
Y/N blinked, her face going from suspicion to shock as she processed what Kyle had said. She slowly turned to Johnny and Roach, her eyes widening with realization. âOh my gosh, Iâm so sorry! I had no idea!â
Johnny and Roach stared back, their faces as deadpan as ever. âYouâre sorry now?â Roach muttered dryly.
Johnny crossed his arms. âWell, thanks for the hospitality.â
Y/N, now flustered and horrified by her own actions, started to apologize profusely. âI didnât mean toâoh gosh, Iâm so sorry! Iâm not usually like this! I swear! I thought you were bad guys!â
Price, still tied up, finally cracked a grin. âWell, now you know, love. Weâre just a bunch of idiots who canât even follow a simple market trip.â
Y/N started babbling, her face turning a deep shade of red. âI promise, Iâm not like this! I just... I wanted to protect myself! I didnât want to end up likeââ She froze, catching herself awkwardly.
âLike what?â Simon asked, raising an eyebrow.
âLike... like... them...â she trailed off, her eyes shifting nervously. The awkwardness hung in the air like a fog, and the tension was palpable.
Y/N let out a small, frustrated sigh before continuing, her voice a little quieter. âAnd... I wanted to protect you, Simon. I thought... after interrogating them, Iâd eliminate them, and then... their boss.â She gave an awkward, forced laugh, trying to shake off the gravity of her words.
Captain Price, still tied up and listening intently, interrupted with a deadpan expression. âOi, Iâm just right here, woman!â
Everyone paused, staring at him. Y/N blinked, her face turning an even deeper shade of red as she fumbled for words.
âIâuh, I didnât mean you, Captain! Youâre... you're fine!â she stammered, trying to backtrack.
Simon sighed, his expression softening slightly. Captain Price and Kyle exchanged looks, both of them quickly catching on to what Y/N was implying.
The squad, in unison, all said, âOhhhh...â in realization.
Y/Nâs face flushed with embarrassment as she quickly tried to change the subject. âAnyway, Iâm sure weâve had enough of my crazy ideas for one day!â she said, her hands flailing around in panic.
Captain Price, still tied to the chair, growled from his seat. âOi, what about me, then? Johnny and Roach get food, but Iâm stuck here like some bloody hostage? Whereâs my dinner?â
Price just sighs and muttered, âBloody hell, Iâm was about to get murdered by a mental woman and I havenât even had dinner yet...â
Y/N facepalmed, her apology now morphing into full-blown panic. âI swear, this never happens to me! Iâm usually really good at this... well, not this, but you knowâbeing careful and suspicious!â She started to untie Price, clearly flustered.
Captain Price was not having it, though. âAnd I want that syringe you were planning on stabbing me with, and your bloody hunting rifle!â he demanded, his voice loud with mock indignation.
Y/N, clearly rattled, nervously dug around in her apron pocket and handed over the syringe, though she nearly jabbed him with it in the process. âItâs just... a little something to numb your legs, I swear itâs safe!â she said quickly, voice wavering.
Price's eyes widened, and he flinched as the syringe came dangerously close to his face. âBloody hell, that thing almost stabbed me! And give me the rifle!â
Y/N froze, looking incredibly guilty. âI... I canât give you the rifle,â she said, voice dropping to a whisper. âItâs, uh... property of my workplace.â
Captain Price narrowed his eyes. âYouâve got to be kidding me. You, a small, "harmless woman", did all this? With that rifle and... and this?â He gestured to the entire situation, still trying to process how he ended up tied up in a chair with a syringe so close to his throat.
Y/N blinked, tears welling up in her eyes as her guilty face contorted into an apologetic expression. âIâm so sorry!â She sniffled, throwing herself into Simonâs arms, clearly distressed. âI didnât mean for it to go this far, I swear!â
Simon, unbothered as always, playfully scolded Price. âOi, Captain! Youâre being harsh on my birdie,â he said, ruffling Y/Nâs hair affectionately, who clung to him like a lifeline.
Kyle, whoâd been quietly observing the whole mess, smiled and sighed. âCaptain Price, be nice.â
âWhat?! I have the right to know what kind of mental person Iâm dealing with here!â Price fired back, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
âWell, the only thing I can tell you, Captain, is that she was my previous Case Officer,â Kyle said, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. âAnd I think youâve heard of the The Morrigan of MI5, right?â
Priceâs eyes narrowed. âYes, Iâve heard of them. All I know is that they retired. No longer in active duty.â
Kyle gave a short nod in Y/N's direction. âWell, Captain, meet 'The Morrigan'.â
Captain Priceâs eyes widened, and his jaw dropped in complete realization. âNo bloody way.â
Y/N gave him an awkward, apologetic look, her face turning crimson. âUhhmmm⌠helloâŚâ she offered with a nervous little wave.
Price just sat there, utterly dumbfounded, blinking as he processed the bombshell revelation. The room went silent for a beatâuntil Simon burst into laughter.
âSee? Told you my birdieâs got a bit of bite!â Simon teased, squeezing Y/Nâs shoulder with a proud grin, while she covered her face with her hands, groaning in embarrassment.
Kyle looked at Price, his grin barely hidden. âGuess you didnât expect that, did you, Cap?â
Price leaned back in the chair, running a hand through his hair, horrified. âBloody hell,â he muttered, staring at Y/N like she was a wild animal that had somehow escaped its cage. âIâve had a run-in with The Morrigan of MI5... and I was about to get murdered by her if you two hadnât shown up on time.â He paused, shaking his head. âFuuuucckkk.â
Johnny and Roach, standing to the side and clearly confused, looked at each other before turning to Price.
âWhat happened now, Captain?â Johnny asked.
Price glanced at them, his face pale. âYou ate the meal she made, didnât you?â His voice was dripping with dread. âI think I need to send you both to the hospital.â
Johnny frowned, confused. âHospital? Why?â
âOh no, Captain,â Roach chimed in. âShe doesnât mess with food.â
âAye, sheâs been feeding us since lunch!â Johnny added. âWeâre still alive, nothingâs happened to us!"
Y/N threw her hands up, clearly exasperated. âExactly! I donât mess with food! If I wanted to harm you, Iâd have done it directlyâlike I said, Iâd inject you with syringes or something.â
Price groaned, rubbing his temples. âLads, you donât get it. This is The Morrigan of MI5. Right in front of you. Sheâs a bloody poisoner!â His voice rose slightly with every word, his face showing equal parts horror and disbelief.
Johnny and Roach froze, their eyes darting toward Y/N.
âOhhh...â they said in unison, realization dawning on their faces as everything clicked into placeâthe spray, the syringe, the fact theyâd both been knocked out cold earlier.
âYeah,â Roach muttered, his face pale. âMakes sense now. She did knock us out with that spray.â
Johnny nodded slowly. âAye, and the syringe...â He shuddered slightly, giving Y/N a wary glance.
Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. âFor the last time, I donât mess with food!â
Simon, thoroughly amused, chuckled as he leaned back against the counter. âDonât worry, lads. If my birdie wanted to kill you, youâd already be six feet under. Trust me, she doesnât miss.â
âNot helping, Simon!â Y/N snapped, glaring at him as Johnny and Roach edged slightly farther away from her, their paranoia clearly growing.
Price slumped in his chair, muttering under his breath. âI just wanted dinner, not a bloody heart attack...â
----------
A Hearty Meal
To Kyleâs absolute amusement, dinner was in full swing. Simon and Y/N worked in tandem, pouring the contents of the enormous seafood boil pot directly onto the middle of the table. The colorful mountain of food spilled out like a culinary treasure chest: large, bright red crawfish, plump prawns, glistening salmon chunks, tender clams, juicy slices of chopped sausage, perfectly cooked potatoes, and sweet, caramelized carrotsâall steaming and coated in a fragrant garlic butter sauce that filled the air.
âBloody hell,â Johnny muttered, his eyes wide as he ogled the spread like it was some rare artifact. âThatâs a feast fit for a King... or a hungry Scotsman.â
Price, seated at the head of the table like some weary monarch after battle, raised an unimpressed eyebrow. âMore like a last meal, knowing what I just found out,â he grumbled, casting a wary glance at Y/N.
âOi!â Y/N snapped, brandishing the garlic butter brush like a weapon. âFor the last time, I donât mess with food! You lot are exhausting!â
âSure, lass,â Johnny chimed in with a mischievous grin. âBut just in case, Iâll have Roach take the first bite.â He shoved a spoon into Roachâs hand, earning an indignant glare from his teammate.
âOh, for goodness sake,â Kyle muttered, rolling his eyes. He leaned forward, grabbed a crawfish, and expertly cracked it open, popping the meat into his mouth. âSee? Perfectly fine. Bloody delicious, actually.â
Johnny and Roach exchanged a look, then immediately started piling their plates with prawns, crawfish, and sausage, following Kyleâs lead.
Meanwhile, Captain Price sat frozen, still staring at Y/N in disbelief.
âYou all right there, Cap?â Kyle asked, grinning as he grabbed a prawn. âYouâre looking a bit peaky.â
Price blinked, snapping out of his daze. âJust... processing, thatâs all,â he muttered.
Kyle laughed, shaking his head. âYouâve got nothing to process, sir. Youâre overthinking it. You know, this reminds me of my station in the Middle East. Remember that big leak at MI5 and MI6? The one that almost cost us a dozen agents and operatives?â
Price frowned, his fork hovering midair. âYeah, I remember. That was chaos. Took weeks to get everything back under control.â
Kyle nodded, cracking another crawfish shell with practiced ease. âWell, sheâs the reason it didnât get worse. The Morrigan of MI5? She personally coordinated the operation that saved everyoneâand even prevented it from leaking to the media. Couldâve been an international disaster if she hadnât stepped in.â He popped a piece of sausage into his mouth and gestured toward Y/N.
Priceâs eyes widened, his fork frozen mid-air. âI still canât believe it,â he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. âThis unassuming womanâyouâis The Morrigan. And MacMillan trusted you enough to follow your lead? My mentor, the man who doesnât trust anyone?â
Y/N arched an eyebrow at him, narrowing her eyes as she spread butter on the next batch of garlic bread. âSorry I donât look like James Bond material, Captain,â she said dryly, sliding the tray into the oven. âBut we all know operations arenât glamorous like those bloody James Bond films. No fancy tuxedos, no martinis shaken or stirredâjust sweat, dirt, and a lot of paperwork afterward.â
Simon let out a low chuckle, leaning back in his chair. âSheâs got a point, Cap. Canât exactly look dashing in a firefight, can you?â
Price sighed, rubbing his temple as the corner of his mouth twitched. âStill doesnât change the fact that MacMillan trusted her. I just... canât wrap my head around it. I mean, look at herâsheâs so unassuming. Petite, even. And then thereâs us lotâgiants by comparison.â He gestured vaguely at himself, Simon, and the rest of the team.
Y/N snorted, setting a pitcher of iced tea on the counter with a cheeky grin. âAye, I might be small, Captain, but letâs not forgetâyou, Johnny, and Roach still ended up as my hostages.â
Simon and Kyle burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the room. Kyle nearly choked on his drink, and Simon grinned, ruffling Y/Nâs hair fondly. âThatâs my birdie,â he said with a chuckle.
Y/N shot a playful look at Captain Price. âCaptain, instead of still trying to figure out who I am, why donât you just eat? You were complaining to me earlier about why I didnât feed you, but only fed Johnny and Roach.â
Price huffed, clearly still trying to process everything. âJust having trouble wrapping my head around the fact that the woman who nearly gave me a heart attack earlier is the same one MacMillan trusted with his operations.â He sighed dramatically. âFine, Iâll eat! Iâll just eat,â he muttered, digging into the seafood boil with surprising enthusiasm, the flavors catching him off guard. Before long, he was enjoying it more than he thought he would.
âCap,â Johnny said through a mouthful of crawfish, âif she wanted us dead, she wouldnât bother with poison. Sheâd just snap her fingers and make it happen. Or, yâknow, spray us again.â
Roach laughed, reaching for another piece of bread. âAye, and this garlic breadâs worth trusting her, if you ask me.â
Kyle grinned as he cracked another crawfish shell. âAnd Cap, if she really wanted to get rid of us, Simonâd be out cold alreadyâheâs been sneaking bites of her cooking since we sat down.â
Simon smiled, clearly unbothered as he continued eating with satisfaction.
Price groaned, leaning his head back against the chair. âBloody hell. I need a drink.â
----------
The Takeaways
Y/N felt a pang of guilt as she packed takeaway boxes, filling them with the leftovers: seafood chowder, shortbread sheâd baked earlier, slices of pie, and more of the seafood boil. She tucked in an extra serving for Kyle as well, her own small way of making up for the earlier mess. Once everything was packed and the food was neatly stacked into bags, she carried them outside, walking with the group to the vehicle.
Captain Price, Johnny, and Roach were ready to leave, their heads still spinning from the earlier revelations. Price had driven himself here, and now, as he climbed into the driverâs seat of his truck, Y/N felt a sudden rush of guilt again. She paused, a strange look crossing her face, before she moved towards him.
With a gentle but firm hand, she pulled Captain Price out of the driverâs seat, despite her small frame. He shot her a puzzled glance, but before he could say anything, she reached up to the dashboard and yanked the liquid air freshener attached to the aircon.
âSorry, Captain,â she said sheepishly, âitâs actually poison. I placed this earlier when I thought you were still my enemy. After I planned to let you go, this wouldâve done its job.â
Johnny and Roach froze, their eyes wide, sweat trickling down their foreheads as they suddenly realized what had almost happened. Captain Priceâs mouth hung agape, his face frozen in a mixture of shock and fear.
Kyle let out a hearty laugh. âDo you still doubt that sheâs The Morrigan, Captain?!â
Simon burst into uncontrollable laughter, unable to stop himself, clutching his stomach in amusement.
Price sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead. âUnbelievableâŚâ His voice was a mix of disbelief and exhaustion, still processing the fact that this small, unassuming womanâwho had just made them all dinnerâwas none other than The Morrigan. A woman feared and respected across MI5, MI6, and Special Opsâthe entire intelligence and special operations community. He could hardly wrap his head around it, his mind still struggling to connect the dots. There was little known about her beyond her callsign, and most of what was, had been redacted. All he knew was that she was a ghost, a shadow in the field, and now, she was standing right in front of him.
Y/N, a little embarrassed by the whole situation, scratched the back of her neck. âDonât worry, Captain! The food I packed for you isnât poisoned! I hope you enjoy it!!â
Simon continued laughing in the background, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.
As Price shook his head in disbelief, his 4x4 rumbled to life, and Gaz, Johnny and Roach climbed inside, still processing everything. The vehicle pulled out of Simonâs cottage compound, disappearing down the road.
----------
His Goddess
As Captain Price drove them back to the base, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, Kyle couldn't help but notice the still-shocked expression on the Captain's face. The earlier revelation had clearly rattled him.
"Alright, Cap?" Kyle said, glancing over with a smirk.
Captain Price navigated the winding road back to the base, Kyle couldnât help but notice that the Captain was still in a state of shock. Priceâs mind clearly hadnât settled on everything that had just happened. After a few moments of silence, the Captain spoke, his voice still tinged with disbelief.
âAlright, Kyle⌠how did you know who 'The Morrigan' was? Her face, for Christâs sake. That was blacked outâredacted from every file.â
Kyle leaned back in his seat, taking a deep breath as he glanced out the window, the dimming light casting shadows across his face. âIt was when she came to rescue us. We were in a tight spot, surrounded. The cover story she came up with? One of the most ridiculous plans Iâd ever heard, but effective as hell. It worked, especially given the circumstances. She radioed in to confirm the extraction, and thatâs when she said her nameâ'This is The Morrigan.' Thatâs when it all clicked.â He paused, reflecting. âSheâs known for planning ops like nobody elseâstrategic, methodical. A real grandmaster at it.â Kyle gave a small smirk. âNot many know her face.â
Price nodded, absorbing the information. He gripped the wheel a little tighter, still processing. âI see,â he muttered, his eyes on the road. âI just didnât expect her to look like that. Petite... like she couldnât harm a fly.â His voice was almost incredulous.
Johnny, from the backseat, couldnât resist. âWell, Captain, guess weâve learned today that size and looks donât mean a damn thing when it comes to being dangerous.â
Roach snickered, adding, âAye, she might be small, but sheâs got a bite thatâll make you wish you were never born.â
Kyle raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. âDonât you think theyâre a good match?â
Price chuckled, his eyes glinting with a knowing look. âAye, I can see it now. Quite fitting, actually. I get why Simon loves her. It makes sense.â
Kyleâs grin deepened, his voice taking on a more thoughtful, almost poetic quality.
âYeah, if Ghost is the Grim Reaper, then sheâs The Morriganâhis Goddess.â
Price glanced at him, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. âHell, youâre not wrong. They make one hell of a pair.â
Johnny leaned forward from the backseat, nodding in agreement. âAye, Death and His Goddess, now thatâs a match made in... well, whateverâs beyond.â
Roach chuckled, adding his own twist. âCouldnât put it better. The Goddess of Death and Death her Reaper. Perfect balance of chaos and control.â
Price let out a low laugh, shaking his head. âBloody hell... they really do.â
-----------
An Investigation
By the time Captain Price reached the base, the drive had given him plenty of time to process everything. He was still reeling from what he'd learned, but that wasnât going to stop him from getting answers. His mind still on the tiny, dangerous woman heâd just encountered.
After everyone got out of the 4x4 and decided to retreat to their own quarters, there was a collective yawn from Johnny, Roach, and Gaz, as they all called it a night. It had been a long, exhausting, and somewhat terrifying day. Captain Price waved them off, his own mind still turning over the events.
Once inside his quarters, he glanced at the clock, realizing it was still a little early in Washington, D.C. A quick thought crossed his mindâif anyone knew anything about "The Morrigan," it would be Laswell.
He grabbed his comms and dialed in. It rang once, twice, before the line clicked on.
âHi, good evening, Laswell,â Price said, his voice a little more cautious than usual. âDo you know anything about âThe Morriganâ?â
A/N: About YOU!! (Y/N) being Ghostâs Goddess, sounds nice, doesnât it? Youâre the Goddess âThe Morrigan,â and SimonâDeath, the Reaper. Such a perfect match!!! I hope you all enjoyed the chaos and comedy in this one! Apologies for the late updateâI had to do a bit of research and juggle some work,Thanks for your patience and for reading! đâ¨
P.S. I might write another one, who knows? A little short continuity here and there once I get the right idea, but for now, nothing planned. Iâll post if I do though!
Whatever size/colour/ethnicity you are, you are hot in Johnny's Eyes! Reader, Soap is smitten with you! Reader, Agent! Reader, Reboot! Johnny, Reboot! Soap, but he is Captain! Soap (Now!!), Captain! Johnny, Captain! Soap, Fuckboi! Soap, Manwhore! Soap, Judgemental! Johnny, Judgemental! Soap, Shameless! Soap, Cocky! Soap, Bastard! Soap
Soap x Reader , Soap x Y/N ,
Click here for Part 1 | This is Part 2 | Part 3 ( In Progress)
NSFW
Genre: Drama/Comedy/ with some Smut MDNI
Summary:
After you disappeared on Johnny following that passionate night, you quickly realized you had forgotten your bracelet at his place. A few hours later, you called him to retrieve it, but Johnny had other plans. He playfully suggested that he would hold onto the bracelet until you met him again, turning the situation into a flirtatious game.
Despite your initial resistance, you found yourself falling back into his arms. What started as a simple arrangement to get your bracelet back evolved into a weekend ritual where you and Johnny would meet, the passion between you undeniable. However, as the weeks turned into months, the relationship became more complicated. Pregnancy scares and arguments began to surface, and you realized that you wanted more than just a physical connection.
You found yourself falling in love with Johnny, but you knew he wouldn't take you seriously. The emotional turmoil and the realization that you deserved more led you to decide to move on. Unfortunately, Johnny refused to let you go, his obsession growing more intense with each passing day. Good luck escaping him, Birdieâbecause he wonât let you slip away so easily! In fact, he won't let you escape at all.
A/N:
This is the continuation of Trouble, featuring our sunshine Captain Johnny Soap MacTavishâwho just so happens to be a little obsessed with you! Buckle up for the whirlwind, the chaos, and the sizzling tension. Enjoy! đ
----------
Johnny's lounging at home, the bracelet dangling from his fingers, when his phone rings. The caller ID shows an unknown number, piquing his curiosity. He answers, his voice casual but guarded.
"Hello?"
It's youâyour voice cool and businesslike, but he can sense the underlying tension.
"Hey, itâs me. I need my bracelet back."
Johnny's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He smirks, leaning back in his chair, the realization dawning on him that it's you on the other end of the line. "Oh, now you remember me, Birdie. Thought youâd flown off for good."
You sigh softly, trying to keep your composure. "Look, I spent a lot on that bracelet. Itâs not sentimentalâitâs expensive. Just... I need it back."
Johnny's grin widens, a mix of amusement and satisfaction playing on his lips. "Expensive, eh? Then I reckon Iâm holdinâ onto it âtil you meet me again. Fair trade, donât you think?"
There's a pause as you bite your lip, trying to think of a way out. "Canât you just mail it to me? Or drop it off somewhere neutral?"
Johnny's tone turns playful but firm, hinting at his hurt pride. "You disappeared on me, lass. Think Iâm lettinâ you off that easy? Not a chance. You want it, you come get it."
----------
Reluctantly, you agree to meet at a quiet cafĂŠ. As you walk in, Johnny's cheeky grin throws you off. He's leaning back in his chair, the bracelet dangling teasingly from his fingers.
"Thereâs my runaway Birdie. Fancy seeinâ you again."
You roll your eyes, trying to keep your cool. "Iâm just here for the bracelet, MacTavish."
Johnny's grin widens. "And here I thought you missed me."
The banter escalates, the chemistry sparking just as strong as before. You reach for the bracelet, but Johnny pulls it back, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Not so fast," he says, his voice low and commanding. Before you can react, he grabs your wrist and pulls you onto his lap, his strong arms wrapping around you. You can feel the heat of his body, the firmness of his muscles, and the unmistakable bulge pressing against you. "You canât just waltz back in, get what you want, and leave. Whatâs the rush, eh? Sit with me a while."
Your breath hitches as you feel his breath on your neck, his lips brushing against your ear. The sensation sends shivers down your spine, and you can't help but melt into his embrace. The chemistry between you is undeniable, and you know you're in for more than just a simple meeting.
Reluctantly, you agree to stay. The conversation flows, and before you know it, you're back at Johnny's place. The passion reignites, and this time, Johnny is determined not to let you slip away.
----------
"You think you can keep runninâ, but Iâve got news for you, Birdie. Youâre not just walkinâ out on me this time."
The air between you is electric as Johnny's words hang heavy with promise. His eyes lock onto yours, a mix of determination and desire burning in their depths. You can feel the tug of his strong arms, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, and the unmistakable connection that pulls you closer.
As you find yourselves back at Johnny's place, the tension that had been building all day finally snaps. His hands roam over your body, both gentle and demanding, exploring every curve and contour. You can feel his breath hot on your skin, his lips trailing kisses that leave you breathless and wanting more.
"You drive me crazy, Birdie," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "I can't get enough of you."
You smile, your fingers tracing the muscles of his chest. "You're not so bad yourself, MacTavish."
His eyes darken with desire as he begins to undress you, his touch deliberate and teasing. You help him, your hands trembling with anticipation. His shirt comes off next, revealing his sculpted body, and you can't help but admire how sexy he looks.
"Like what you see?" he asks, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Very much," you reply, your voice barely a whisper.
With a swift movement, Johnny scoops you up, swinging you effortlessly onto his broad shoulders. You let out a surprised laugh as he carries you to the bedroom, his strong arms holding you securely. He throws you onto the bed, and before you can react, he's on top of you, using his strength and weight to pin you down.
"You're not going anywhere, Birdie," he growls, his voice thick with desire. "Not this time."
Your breath hitches as you feel his body press against yours, the heat between you intensifying. His lips find yours in a passionate kiss, and you lose yourself in the sensation, the world outside fading away. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word feels like a claim, a promise that this time, things will be different.
The passion between you is intense, a dance of give and take, of pleasure and need. His hands explore your body, his touch both gentle and demanding, driving you wild with desire. You arch against him, your body responding to his every touch, your moans filling the room.
Afterward, as you lie tangled together, Johnny reaches for the bracelet. His fingers brush against your skin as he carefully places it back on your wrist. The gesture feels intimate, almost like a claim, solidifying your connection even if neither of you admits it yet.
"There you go, Bonnie," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "This belongs on you. Just like you belong here with me."
You tease him about finally giving it back, but the smile on his lips and the warmth in his eyes tell a different story. "You just can't resist keeping me close, can you?" you whisper, your voice soft with contentment.
Johnny's grin widens, and he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly. "Never, Bonnie. You're mine now."
And as you drift off to sleep in his arms, a mix of emotions swirls within you. You feel safe, protected by his strong embrace, yet there's a lingering uncertainty. You wonder if Johnny will take you seriously, if this connection is more than just physical. His presence is comforting, his touch electrifying, but the future feels uncertain, leaving you with a sense of both belonging and fear.
----------
The Weekend 'Tradition'
From that night on, you both fell into an unspoken routine. Youâd show up at his place on Fridays, and by Saturday morning, Johnny would be in the kitchen cooking breakfast with a self-satisfied smirk.
Your weekends were a heady mix of passion and playful arguments. Heâd tease you about your high-maintenance tastes, calling you âPrincessâ just to watch you scowl, while you rolled your eyes at his cocky charm.
âYou think youâre Godâs gift, donât you?â you muttered one morning, pulling the sheet up around your bare chest.
Johnny, still shirtless and looking entirely too smug, leaned back against the headboard. âAye. And judging by last night, Iâd say Iâm right.â
You threw a pillow at him, which he caught effortlessly, laughing.
But it wasnât just the physical chemistry that kept you coming back to each other. You texted during the weekâplayful, flirty exchanges that Johnny looked forward to more than he cared to admit. Sometimes, youâd send him a picture of your lunch, and heâd reply with something ridiculous like, âYe know thatâs not real food, right? Come over, and Iâll make you a proper meal.â
It was easy, fun, and thrillingly uncomplicated. At least, thatâs what Johnny thought.
----------
The Pregnancy Scare
One weekend, you didnât show up on time. Johnny waited, pacing his flat, his phone clutched in his hand as he debated whether to call you.
When you finally texted, it wasnât your usual sarcastic remark or teasing quip. It was a simple, cryptic message: We need to talk.
Johnnyâs heart sank. Never good, that.
When you arrived, you looked unusually tense, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself. Johnny greeted you with his usual cheeky grin, but it faltered when you didnât immediately snap back at him.
âAlright, Birdie?â he asked, his tone softening.
You hesitated, then blurted it out: âI might be pregnant.â
Johnny froze. For a moment, the words didnât register. Then his brain caught up, and he blinked at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
âYou... what?â
âIâm late,â you said quickly, your voice uncharacteristically quiet. âItâs probably nothing, but I thought you should know.â
Johnny stared at you, his mind racing. Then, to your utter shock, he grinned. âWell, I guess Iâd better brush up on my lullabies.â
You gawked at him. âJohnny, this isnât a jokeââ
âIâm not jokinâ,â he interrupted, his tone sincere. He reached out, taking your hand in his. âBirdie, whatever happens, Iâve got you, alright? Weâll figure it out.â
For once, you didnât have a snarky response. You just stared at him, a mix of disbelief and something softer in your eyes.
----------
Making Johnny Jealous
Johnny lay sprawled on the bed, his chest rising and falling with slow breaths, a lazy grin on his face. The sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting soft golden streaks across his skin. He watched you from where he lay, his head propped up on one arm.
You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your dressâsimple, elegant, and far too classy for someone who had just spent the night tangled in his sheets. You smoothed your hair, adding a touch of lipstick to your already swollen lips.
Johnny smirked, his voice rough with the remnants of sleep. âWhatâs the rush, Birdie? Cannae stay for breakfast? I make a mean fry-up.â
You didnât even glance at him, focused on slipping your earrings in. âTempting, but Iâve got somewhere to be.â
Johnnyâs grin faltered, a faint furrow forming between his brows. âSomewhere more important than me?â
Finally, you turned to look at him, your tone casualâtoo casual. âIâve got a date. Donât want to be late.â
For a moment, Johnny froze. His brain scrambled to process your words, replaying them like a scratched record. âA... a date?â His voice cracked slightly at the word.
You nodded, your expression calm, like you hadnât just dropped a bombshell on him. âYeah, you know, dinner, conversation, maybe something long-term if it works out. People do that, Johnny.â
Johnny sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist, his hands bracing on the mattress as if to steady himself. âWait a minute. Youâre tellinâ me youâre goinâ on a bloody date right after... afterââ He gestured wildly to the bed, his face a mix of disbelief and irritation.
You shrugged, picking up your clutch. âWeâre not in a relationship. You said it yourselfâweâre just having fun, right? No strings.â
Johnnyâs jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with possessiveness. âAye, I said no strings, but that was before I claimed you as mine. You think you can just walk away from that? From us?â
Your brow arched, defiant. âJohnny, this isnât about ownership. Iâm looking for stability, for something serious. Youâre... well...â You gestured to himâshirtless, rumpled, and indignant in his bed. âYouâre great in bed, but this? This isnât long-term material.â
Johnny let out a sharp laugh, though it lacked any humor. âSo what? Youâre just gonna find some rich tosser to settle down with? Thatâs your plan?â
You crossed your arms, your tone firm. âIf heâs stable and can offer me the kind of life I want, then yes. Thatâs the plan.â
Johnny swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing in one fluid motion. His broad frame towered over you, his frustration palpable. âStable? Birdie, you think I cannae give you that? What, you think Iâm just some daft squaddie who canât keep up with you?â
You tilted your chin up, meeting his fiery gaze with your own. âJohnny, I donât even know what you do. You disappear for weeks without a word, you show up out of nowhere, and you expect me to believe you can offer stability?â
His lips twitched into a smirk, despite the tension. âMaybe I like keepinâ you on your toes. Keeps things excitinâ, eh? But that doesnât mean you can just go shagginâ whoever you want. We had an arrangement, Birdie. Youâre mine, and that means something.â
You rolled your eyes, brushing past him to grab your coat. âThis is exactly what I mean. Youâre not serious, Johnny. And I donât have time to wait for you to figure out what you want. You canât have it both waysâclaiming me as yours and then acting like Iâm just some casual fling.â
As you headed for the door, Johnny caught your wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. His voice softened, the anger giving way to something more vulnerable. âBirdie... you cannae just leave. Not like this. Not after...â He trailed off, searching your face for any sign of hesitation.
You looked at him, your resolve unwavering. âIâm not leaving, Johnny. Iâm just... moving on.â
As much as you hated to admit it, the date was actually just with your girl friends. You were spending time with them, and you were pissed with Johnny and the way he treats you sometimesâclaiming and being possessive, but acting casual with your relationship. You just wanted to piss him off, to make him feel a fraction of the frustration you felt. You think of this as you walk out of his house, your heels clicking sharply on the pavement, your mind a whirlwind of anger and determination.
He let you go, watching as you walked out the door, the sound of your heels echoing down the hall. For a moment, he stood there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Then, with a determined glint in his eye, he muttered to himself, âWeâll see about that, Birdie. You can run, but Iâm not lettinâ you go that easy.â
----------
An Unexpected Return
It was a Saturday morning, and Johnny was sprawled on the bed, a cocky grin plastered across his face as you slipped into your jeans. The sheets were tangled around his waist, and he looked entirely too pleased with himself, his bare chest rising and falling lazily.
Much to Johnny's delight, you had come back after your last heated exchange. Despite your initial anger and frustration, you found yourself drawn back to him, unable to resist the magnetic pull between you. You had resumed your weekend sex sessions, each encounter more intense and passionate than the last.
âSo, Birdie,â he drawled, propping himself up on an elbow, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief. âHowâd that wee date of yours go, then? Hope the poor lad didnât bore you to death.â
You shot him a sharp look over your shoulder as you zipped up your jeans. âNone of your business.â
âAw, câmon,â he teased, his grin widening. âYouâre not gonna tell me he didnât measure up, are you? Not everyone can, yâknow.â His voice dropped an octave, dripping with smug confidence.
Your lips curled into a smirk as you sauntered back toward the bed, leaning down just enough to grab your shirt from the floor. âLetâs just say,â you murmured, your tone sweet as honey, âyouâre a lot better at talking than you are at listening, Johnny.â
Before he could fire back, you tugged your shirt over your head and turned to leave. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head, entirely unaware of the storm brewing inside you.
----------
A Dance of Tension
The weekends continued as usual, your "situationship" a tangled web of passion and unspoken tension. Every time Johnny teased you about your "dates," you put him firmly back in his placeâoften quite literally. The truth was, it wasn't a real date; it was just a simple outing with friends, meant to make Johnny jealous. And while it had worked, his teasing only increased, fueling the fire between you.
Despite your search for a man who could offer stability, you found yourself continually drawn back to Johnny. The magnetic pull between you was undeniable, and the passion you shared was intoxicating.
âTell me, Birdie,â Johnny groaned one night, his hands gripping your hips as you rode him with deliberate, punishing control. âDid he kiss you like this?â
You rolled your eyes, smirking as you leaned forward, your hands splayed against his chest. âNo,â you whispered against his ear, your voice laced with mockery. âHe was a gentleman. Something youâll never be.â
âGood,â Johnny rasped, his grip tightening. ââCause Iâd hate to have to ruin him for you.â
You laughed, low and wicked, but your heart wasnât in it. âDonât worry, Johnny. Once I find the right guy, someone stable who can give me the life I want, Iâll stop coming back to you.â
Johnny's eyes flashed with anger, and he gripped your waist tighter, pistoning his pelvis up roughly. âYou think you can just walk away from this?â he growled, his voice thick with desire and frustration. âYou think any other man can make you feel like this?â
You laughed again, your head tilted back as you reveled in the sensation. âMaybe not,â you admitted, your voice breathy. âBut I need more than just passion, Johnny. I need stability.â
Johnny's grip on your waist became almost bruising, his movements more urgent. âYouâre mine, Bonnie,â he rasped, his voice dark and possessive. âNo other man is going to have you. Youâll always come back to me, no matter how hard you try to fight it.â
The intensity of his words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of fear and exhilaration. The line between passion and pain was blurring, and you weren't sure how much longer you could keep up the facade. You were falling for him, and it terrified you.
----------
End of the Line
One night, it all comes to a head.
Your chest aches as you watch Johnny stride out of the bathroom, his damp hair sticking to his forehead and a towel slung low on his hips. It's impossible not to take in the sight of him, all taut muscle and raw masculinity, the very image of temptation. For a split second, you waver, your mind screaming at you to rethink everything.
You're sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. Johnny, fresh out of the shower, runs a towel through his damp hair as he walks into the room. He frowns when he sees your expression.
âBirdie?â he asks, his voice softer than usual. âWhatâs wrong?â
You take a deep breath, refusing to meet his eyes. âI canât do this anymore, Johnny.â
His grin falters. He steps further into the room, water still glistening on his skin. âWhat are you on about, lass? Weâre fine. You were just in my bed an hour ago, screaming my name, far as I recall.â
Heat rises to your cheeks, but you donât back down. âThis isnât fine. Itâs messy and complicated, and itâs not going anywhere.â
Johnny frowns, his hands resting on his hips. The towel shifts slightly, which isnât helping your focus. âWhatâs brought this on, then? Thought you were happy.â
You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. âHappy? Johnny, Iâm not even sure what this is. Weâre not in a relationship, but weâre not just hooking up either. And the pregnancy scareââ
âThat turned out to be nothing,â he interrupts quickly, though his tone is softer now, almost pleading.
âIt wasnât ânothingâ to me,â you snap, your voice rising. âIt made me realize how dangerous this is. I canât keep doing this with you.â
You steel yourself, gripping the strap of your purse tightly. You arenât going to let him or your feelings pull you back in. Not this time.
Johnnyâs piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, his brows furrowing in anger and confusion. âSo thatâs it, then?â His voice is sharp, almost accusing. âYouâre just walking away like none of this meant anything to you?â
Your heart clenches painfully, but you refuse to show it. âDonât you dare,â you shoot back, your voice low and trembling. âDonât you turn this on me. This isnât about what it meant to me, Johnny. Itâs about what it doesnât mean to you.â
He scoffs, running a hand through his wet hair in frustration. âWhat the hell are you on about? We were fine, Birdie. You were happy, werenât you? I mean, we had a good thing going.â
âGood thing?â you echo, your voice breaking with bitter incredulity. âJohnny, thisââ you gesture between the two of you, your hand trembling, ââthis was never about me. It was about convenience. A convenient warm body on the weekends, someone to text when you were bored. But you donât know me, not really. And thatâs not enough for me. Not anymore.â
He takes a step closer, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. âThatâs bullshit. You knew what this was, and now youâre acting like Iâm some kind of villain for it?â
âNo, youâre not a villain,â you say, your voice softening for a brief moment before hardening again. âBut youâre not what I need, either. I want stability. Someone who knows me beyond the bedroom, who loves me for more than just... this.â You motion vaguely toward yourself, your voice faltering. âAnd thatâs not you.â
âWhy not?â he asks, his voice rising again. âYou want stability? Fine. Iâll give you that. Whatever you need, Iâll give it to you. Be my girlfriend.â
You shake your head, your eyes glistening now. âItâs not that simple. You donât know anything about me beyond what youâve made up in your head. I canât live like thisâweekend after weekend, never knowing where you stand, what youâre thinking, or even what you do for a living half the time.â
âAnd whose fault is that?â he shoots back. âYouâve been keeping me at armâs length since the start. What the hell am I supposed to think?â
He scoffs, his pride prickling. âYouâre one to talk. I donât even know what you do. You flit about in your fancy clothes, disappearing whenever it suits you, acting like a bloody princess orââ
âOr what?â you cut in, your eyes narrowing.
He hesitates, but his temper gets the better of him. âOr like some high-end escort.â
Your lips curl into a wicked smirk, though your heart clenches at the insult. âYou really think Iâm a princess and an escort? Sounds like Iâm doing pretty well for myself, then.â
âDonât start,â he warns, his tone low and tight.
âWhy not?â you shoot back, tilting your head defiantly. âDoes it bother you, Johnny? That I might have standards? That I like nice things? God forbid a woman treats herself without a man assuming the worst.â
âThatâs not what Iââ
âOh, save it,â you interrupt, holding up a hand. âI know what you think of me, and Iâve let you think it because it doesnât matter. But now youâre using it against me? Classy, Johnny. Really classy.â
âThink whatever you want,â you say, your voice hardening again. âIt doesnât matter. Iâm done, Johnny.â
Johnnyâs jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing. âSo thatâs what this is about? Youâve got some other bloke lined up, some stable life you thinkâs gonna make you happy?â
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral, already tired of this. âItâs not about someone else. Itâs about me. I wonât be your convenient distraction forever, Johnny. I canât.â
His laugh is harsh, bitter. âAye, sure. Youâre so bloody noble, arenât you? Princess, or whatever you are. Or maybe youâre just a high-end escort who thinks sheâs too good for me now, huh?â His words are cutting, his tone venomous. âWho the hellâs gonna love a materialistic, spoiled brat like you? Or aââ he bit back the rest of the sentence, but the damage was already done.
Your chest constricts at his words, the sting of them worse than you had expected. You inhale sharply, trying to hold back tears as you force yourself to look at him. âThank you,â you say quietly, your voice trembling but steady enough to convey the weight of your decision. âThank you for helping me solidify my decision, Johnny.â
You grab your purse, pausing only for a moment before shaking your head. âAnd donât worry,â you add, your tone soft but firm. âI wonât come crying to you. Iâll be happy somewhere with someone whoâll actually love me.â
Your words hit him like a punch to the gut, but you donât wait for his response. You turn on your heel, walking out of his flat with your head held high, even as your heart feels like itâs shattering with every step.
Johnny stands there in stunned silence, the tension in the air suffocating. The door clicks shut behind you, leaving him alone in the quiet chaos of his living room. For the first time, he feels the true weight of your absence, and it burns in a way he canât ignore.
----------
Johnnyâs Obsession
Johnny had never felt so restless in his life. Heâd called you first, dozens of times, but all he got was the droning, detached tone of your voicemail. He messaged you after that, small apologies mixed with clumsy, rambling texts about how you should talk things through. But all you did was leave him on read. No replies. No acknowledgment. Just silence.
Then one day, when he tried calling you again, the line didnât even ring. Instead, he was met with a sharp, cold message: The number you have dialed has been blocked or is no longer in service.
âBlocked?â Johnny muttered, staring at his phone in disbelief. His blood boiled, and his chest ached.
Fine. If you didnât want to talk, heâd find you another way.
----------
Johnny Tracks You
Using what little intel he had, Johnny began digging. He didnât need muchâa phone number, a sliver of information, and the skills drilled into him from his time in the SAS were enough to get him started. But the deeper he went, the more roadblocks he hit. Your number led him nowhereâit was registered under a nondescript corporate account with no personal ties. No home address. No employment history.
It didnât make sense.
âWho the hell are you?â he muttered, staring at the screen. His instincts buzzed, a gut feeling that there was more to you than you let on.
Before he could dig deeper, his team was called up for deployment. A quick, high-priority mission that demanded all his focus. But even in the thick of the action, during quiet moments between the chaos, his thoughts drifted back to you. To the way you smirked at him. The way you felt in his arms. The way you walked out of his life.
When Johnny finally returned, worn but eager to resume his search, he tried everythingânew tactics, calling in favorsâbut came up empty again. It was as if your entire life had been scrubbed clean.
And that only made him more suspicious.
----------
The Briefing Begins
Roachâs palms were sweaty as he glanced around the room, double-checking every detail of the briefing materials. He straightened the projector slide one last time before glancing nervously at the glass window of the door.
âRelax, mate,â one of his teammates chuckled. âYou look like youâve seen a ghost.â
If only, Roach thought bitterly. He wasnât worried about a ghostâhe was worried about Johnny.
The undercover agent, the one briefing the team today, was none other than Johnnyâs âbirdie.â Or, ex-birdie, technically. Roach had heard all about your situationshipâthe whirlwind sex, the late-night phone calls, and then the crash-and-burn breakup. Johnny had been moody ever since, which was saying something for the usually upbeat captain.
Now you were here, standing at the front of the room in a smart casual suit that hugged your figure in all the right places. You exuded confidence, your sharp eyes scanning the room as you prepared to deliver your findings. Roach could barely look at you without cringing.
âLetâs just get through this without any incidents,â Roach muttered under his breath.
It didnât help that their Lieutenant Colonel, Ghost, had mentioned General MacMillan was visiting today. The brass was here, watching their every move, which meant the team had to be on their best behavior. And if Johnny showed up and saw you? Roach didnât even want to imagine the chaos that would ensue.
----------
Tension in the Room
The briefing began without a hitch, much to Roachâs relief. Johnny was nowhere to be seen, and you were professional, concise, and sharp as ever. Still, Roach couldnât help sneaking glances at the door every few minutes, half-expecting Johnny to burst in.
But the door stayed shut.
After the briefing, Roach offered to walk you to your car, hoping to usher you out before Johnny caught wind of your presence. You smiled, grateful for the gesture, and began packing up your things.
Thatâs when the door creaked open.
Roach froze, his stomach sinking as Johnny leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed and his blue eyes locked on you like a hawk spotting prey. He wore his casual gear, a simple black t-shirt clinging to his chest, his dog tags glinting faintly under the harsh lighting.
âWell, well,â Johnny drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. âWhatâve we got here, Roach? Thought I wasnât needed for this one.â
Your hands froze mid-motion, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. Slowly, you turned to face him, your expression a mix of shock and wariness.
âJohnny?,â you said, your voice steady despite the tension crackling in the room.
âBirdie,â Johnny shot back, the nickname a loaded reminder of what you once had.
Roach gulped, glancing between the two of you like a trapped animal. âUh, I was justââ
âLeavinâ,â Johnny cut in, his gaze never leaving yours.
Roach hesitated, but the intensity in Johnnyâs eyes made it clear that sticking around wasnât an option. With a sheepish nod, he mumbled something about catching up later and bolted for the door.
Now it was just the two of you.
âDidnât think Iâd see you here,â Johnny said, his tone casual, but his eyes betrayed him. There was a storm brewing behind them, a mix of hurt, anger, and something deeper he wasnât ready to name.
âI could say the same,â you replied, squaring your shoulders. You refused to let him intimidate you, even as your heart pounded in your chest.
Johnny stepped closer, the space between you shrinking. âYouâve been busy, havenât you? Blocking me. Wiping your tracks clean. Youâre real good at disappearing, Iâll give you that.â
Your jaw tightened, but you kept your voice calm. âYou donât know what youâre talking about.â
âDonât I?â he challenged, his voice dropping lower, almost a growl. âYou think you can just walk out of my life and act like none of it mattered? Like I donât matter?â
âItâs not about that,â you said, your voice soft but firm. âThis is my job, Johnny. My life. And you donât get to interfere with it.â
âYour job,â he repeated bitterly. âAnd what job is that exactly? Playing dress-up? Whispering secrets to the lads? Or are you still trying to convince me youâre just some posh bird who likes slumming it with soldiers?â
Your eyes flashed with anger, but you bit back your retort, unwilling to let him bait you.
âI donât owe you an explanation,â you said quietly, brushing past him toward the door.
But before you could leave, his hand shot out, grabbing your wristânot forcefully, but enough to stop you in your tracks. The air between you was electric, charged with unspoken words and unresolved emotions.
âYou think you can just walk away from this?â he asked, his voice rough with emotion.
You looked up at him, your gaze steady despite the tears threatening to form. âI already did.â
The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife as Johnnyâs hand tightened on your wrist, pulling you back just enough to stop you from leaving. You froze, your lips pressed into a thin line as you turned to face him again.
âJohnny,â you warned, your voice low.
But he didnât back down. His blue eyes were blazing, frustration and hurt pouring out of him in waves. âYouâre not just walking out of here. Not like this.â
âOh, like you get a say in it now?â you shot back, your tone sharp. You tried to pull your wrist free, but he held firmânot hurting you, just making it clear he wasnât letting go.
âYou didnât even tell me, did you?â Johnny said, his voice rising slightly. âWhat you do. What you really are.â
Your jaw clenched, and you rolled your eyes, letting out an incredulous laugh. âOh, now you care? It didnât matter before, did it? Whether I was some spoiled brat, a high-end escort, or just your convenient shag. You never took me seriously anyway.â
âThatâs not true,â he snapped, his Scottish accent thick with emotion. âDonât twist this, Birdie. It does matterâbecause itâs you.â
You laughed again, bitter and humorless, and reached for your bag. âWell, congratulations, Johnny. Now you know Iâm not some high-end prostitute. Feel better about yourself? Good. Now I have to go.â
But before you could take a step, Johnny grabbed your other arm, holding you in place. âYouâre not walking out on me again!â
âOi, mateâdonât!â Roachâs voice broke through the tension as he stepped forward, hands raised cautiously. âSheâs a bloody agent, Johnny. You canât just grab her like that.â
Johnny shot him a glare that could have turned stone to dust. âStay out of it, Roach.â
Roach hesitated, his eyes darting between the two of you and the door. His heart was racing. If anyone elseâespecially Ghost or General MacMillanâwalked in now, you were all screwed.
âIâm just saying, maybe donât manhandle the lady in front of the brass!â Roach pleaded.
You looked between Johnny and Roach, your expression one of equal parts disbelief and fury. âLet me go, Johnny,â you said firmly, your voice quieter but no less intense.
He didnât let go. âNot until we sort this.â
âSort what?â you hissed, your voice rising now. âThereâs nothing to sort, Johnny. I told you what I wanted. Stability. A partner. Someone who could love me for who I amânot just what I can give them. And youâyou made it bloody clear that you werenât that man!â
Johnnyâs face twisted, his grip loosening just slightly. âThatâs not fair.â
âOh, itâs not fair?â you spat, your eyes flashing with anger. âYou called me a materialistic brat! A spoiled princess! You assumed the worst of me at every turn. And now, what? Now itâs not fair because youâre realizing you might have been wrong? Too little, too late, Johnny!â
His voice dropped, quieter but no less intense. âYou donât get it. Itâs you. None of that other crap mattersâitâs just you.â
You stared at him, your chest heaving, your own emotions threatening to spill over. For a moment, it looked like you might say something, but then you shook your head, pulling your arms free.
âNo,â you said, your voice trembling but steady. âYou donât get to do this. You donât get to chase me now that Iâm gone. You had your chance, Johnny. And you blew it.â
You turned to leave, but Johnnyâs voice stopped you in your tracks.
âYou think I donât care?â he called after you. âYou think I donât bloody care about you? Youâre in my head, Birdie. Every damn day. Every damn night. Youâve been there since the moment I met you, and youâre still there now, even when I try to bloody forget you.â
You froze, your back still to him, your fingers clutching the strap of your bag tightly.
âI donât know what to do with this,â Johnny admitted, his voice breaking slightly. âWith you. With how I feel. But donât you dare tell me I donât care.â
For a moment, the room was completely silent. Even the lads watching from a distanceâwide-eyed and barely breathingâdidnât dare move. Roach was sweating bullets, praying to every deity he could think of that Ghost and General MacMillan wouldnât come around the corner.
Finally, you turned to face him, your expression unreadable. âYou need to figure out what you want, Johnny,â you said softly. âBut donât do it for me. Do it for yourself.â
And with that, you walked past him, your heels clicking against the floor, leaving Johnny standing there, staring after you like a man whoâd just lost the only thing that mattered.
You barely made it two steps before Johnny grabbed your arm again, this time more firmly, spinning you back toward him. His grip wasnât rough, but it was resolute, his determination blazing in those blue eyes of his.
âNo, youâre not walking away from me again,â he said, his voice low but sharp with emotion. âWeâre not done.â
Your chest heaved as you stared at him, your lips parting in shock and frustration. âJohnny, let go of me,â you said, your tone icy.
âNot until we talk about this,â he shot back, his accent thick with frustration. âYou donât get to just walk out and decide what this is without giving me a bloody say!â
âThis?â You laughed bitterly, throwing your free hand toward him in a dramatic gesture. âYou didnât care about âthisâ when you were calling me names! When you assumed the worst of me, when you made me feel like I was nothing more than a warm body to keep your bed warm!â
âI never thought that!â he snapped, stepping closer, his grip still firm on your arm. âAnd I never said you were nothinâ, Birdie. I never meantââ
âOh, donât you dare backtrack now!â you interrupted, your voice rising. âYou made it clear what you thought of me. Some spoiled princess, some materialistic brat, some⌠high-end escort, as you so eloquently put it!â Your words dripped with venom, and Johnny winced as if each one was a physical blow.
âI was angry!â he said, his voice louder now. âI said shite I didnât mean, alright? But youââ He stopped, running a hand through his hair in frustration. âYou drive me mad! You make me feel things I canât bloody make sense of, and I donât know how to handle it!â
You yanked your arm free, glaring at him, your chest rising and falling as your emotions boiled over. âSo you insult me instead? You reduce me to a caricature of everything Iâm not because you canât figure out your own damn feelings?â
His hands balled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening. âBecause I didnât think youâd bloody stay!â
That stopped you. You blinked, your brows furrowing as his words hung in the air between you.
Your lips parted, but no words came out. You looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw the vulnerability in his eyes, the cracks in his armor that he was finally letting you see.
âBut you stayed,â he continued, his voice almost a whisper. âAnd I didnât know what to do with that. I didnât know how to keep you, so I unknowingly pushed you away.â
Your throat tightened, and you had to fight back the sting of tears. âJohnnyâŚâ
âIâm sorry,â he said, his voice breaking. âIâm sorry for every bloody thing I said, for every way I hurt you. But donât walk away from me now. Donât leave me like this, Birdie. Please.â
For a moment, you faltered. The sincerity in his voice, the raw emotion in his eyesâit was everything youâd wanted from him, everything youâd begged for silently in your head.
But before you could respond, there was a loud ahem behind you.
Both of you froze, slowly turning your heads toward the sound. Standing just a few feet away, with arms crossed and brows raised, was Ghost. Beside him stood General MacMillan, looking equally bewildered. And flanking them? Ghostâs two teenage daughters, Tommy and Bubby.
The room fell utterly silent except for the muffled sound of someone snickering in the background.
Roach, standing off to the side, looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. His face was pale, beads of sweat forming on his temple as he glanced nervously between Ghost and the arguing pair.
âOh no,â Roach mumbled under his breath.
Ghost cleared his throat again, slower this time. âI think,â he said, his tone clipped but calm, âyou two need to get a room.â
A/N: Well, folks, it seems Johnny and his Birdie (You, Y/N) turned their lives into Soapâs very own 'soap opera' (PUN INTENDED!!)âand they performed it live for the brass, Ghostâs teenage daughters (one of whom now has the receipts), and a very flustered Roach, who looked like he might just melt into a puddle of secondhand embarrassment. General MacMillan? He was just trying to enjoy the drama without choking on the tension.
Stay tuned for Part 3, where weâll see if Johnny can salvage his soap opera debut⌠or if Ghost locks him in a cupboard to rethink all his life choices. đ