#method mag

[checkthefeed]

[ FEARING BLISS | Full Movie 2023 ]

The Simpson Brothers & Method Mag present you FEARING BLISS.

This is the latest movie made by our beloved Simpson Brothers and their entourage!

BLISS: "Reaching a state of perfect happiness, oblivious of everything else." In search of bliss, we realised that we feared it. Breaking a camera, deciding not to name shots, and in general trying to "break the mould" that we had gotten ourselves into, FEARING BLISS is letting go of invisible rules whilst striving for our best.

Featuring: Jake Simpson @jake_the_snake1 Joe Simpson @brain_half_full Alex Taferner @tafernair Dusan Kriz @dusankriz Simon Pircher @simonpircher Hrund Thor @hrundur Senna Van Drunen @tweakh.art Mehdi Soltane @alpasdechiko Tom Cordier @_tomcordier Marko Malsub. @narko.nalsub Sponsored by: Drake Snowboarding @drake_snowboarding Spy Optics @spyoptic

[xxplastic-cubexx]

pov: you are charles xavier and you have been invited onto asteroid m

bonus:

[effluentstream]

MAG 76 (The Smell of Blood) is SUCH an underrated episode imo. We have SO much here:

- Expansion upon TMA-verse ghost lore

- Melanie laying out her revelation about how her former colleagues only ever investigated “safe” hauntings (and how earth-shattering that revelation was for her!)

- The absolute BANGER of a line “It was like once I had seen that there was a path to stray from, I couldn’t unsee it. And I couldn’t ignore the call from the woods all around.”

- Jon’s audibly offended “Yes, I know what a meme is”

- Melanie and Jon’s dynamic at its best (finishing each other’s sentences while talking excitedly about the paranormal)

[scxttershot]

Send “ø” for a LATE NIGHT text. catman!

Floyd - Tomcat. U up still??

[is typing...]

Floyd - I'll regret this in the morning. Drungk. Drunk. Very. Thinking about your eyes. Don't take this the sappy way or nothign. They're just s o fucjing green. Like emeralds. I can see my reflection.

[is typing...]

Floyd - How did you get all the good genes

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Till Death Do Us Part | Pt. 2

Pairing: Assassin! Choi Seungcheol x Assassin! F. Reader

Themes: Smut | Angst | (Fake) Marriage | Based on the movie 'Mr. & Mrs. Smith' | Undercover Assassins | Hidden Identities | T.W.: mentions of blood, violence, guns

Wordcount: 13.8K

Playlist: 'Control' - CHVRN | 'Keep on Breathing' - The Glitch Mob, Tula | 'Fantasies' - Llynks | 'Madness' - Ruelle | 'Gomd' - Sickick

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Oral (M. Receiving) - Slight Edging (M. Receiving) - Dominant! Reader - Dominant! Seungcheol - Rough play: titty slapping, spanking, hair pulling, biting, etc. - PIV - Unprotected intercourse

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

Previous Chapter: Till Death Do Us Part

Mingyu’s safe house—once just a sprawl of mismatched furniture and half-used equipment—is now a makeshift war room. Tables have been dragged together, boxes repurposed into makeshift desks, wires and monitors hooked into power grids and backup batteries. Satellite phones and burner lines hum quietly from one corner. The walls are lined with maps, a printed blueprint of Argos HQ taped alongside Lim’s Seoul office, red strings and pins ready to mark last known locations.

And at the heart of it all: an arsenal.

You and Seungcheol move slowly around the centrepiece—an open metal table now covered in weapons. Rifles. Semi-autos. Silencers. Flashbangs. Knives of every shape and finish. Armoured vests, gloves, scopes, smoke bombs. Clips and magazines neatly sorted by size. The smell of metal and oil clings to everything.

He holds up a new M1911 with a low whistle.

“Wonwoo really stocked you up,” you murmur, brushing your fingers across the matte finish of a karambit.

“Yeah,” Seungcheol says, inspecting the sightline. “He’s had a shopping problem ever since Rio. Said it’s cheaper than therapy.”

You smirk faintly and continue checking the gear. Methodical. Quiet. Efficient. Neither of you speaks much, but you don’t need to. There’s a rhythm to it—familiar. Rehearsed. Like slipping back into who you were long before this whole mess started.

Meanwhile, across the room, Reina is hunched over her own setup. She arrived just before sunrise, lugging in two black military-grade cases full of tech. Laptops, signal jammers, USB injectors, three satellite uplinks, and something you’re pretty sure was once a military drone antenna.

She hadn’t knocked—just used the side code to get in. You didn't bother asking her how she knew it.

Mingyu’s been following her around ever since.

“You know,” he says, peering over her shoulder as she boots up her third laptop. “I already had a full system here. Secure grid, scrambled line, full backup redundancy. You didn’t need to drag your entire tech department here.”

Reina doesn’t even look at him. “Yours were outdated.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “Outdated?!” he scoffs. “Excuse you, this setup got us through the Jakarta op.”

“Exactly.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, but a grin pulls at the edge of his mouth. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” she replies sweetly, “you still dream of me.”

He clears his throat at Reina’s comment and turns back to his cables, ears slightly turning pink.

You and Seungcheol exchange a glance. You don’t comment.

Instead, you turn toward the weaponry again.

“This is yours,” Seungcheol mutters, holding out a matte black Glock with a suppressor. “The grip should fit your hand.”

You take it and weigh it in your palm. “Perfect.”

He checks the mag, then hands you two more. “Loaded with subsonics. Just in case.”

You nod and pocket them. “You keeping the SIG?”

“Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Everything else—body armour, tactical pouches, spare knives—you both split evenly. There’s no talk of splitting up now. Only of surviving. Only of fighting.

A beep cuts through the room. Then another.

Reina taps a few keys on her main laptop. “We’re live.”

The screens fill—one by one—with pixelated faces.

The girls appear on the left monitor: Samira, Bora, Jiwoo. All in different rooms, different countries, some underground. Some clearly on the move. But they’re alive.

The boys fill the right screen: Woozi, Joshua, and Wonwoo.

Hyerim is the last to appear. She’s pale and looks like she hasn’t slept in two days. Woozi, on the screen beside her, still seems reluctant—but he’s here.

Everyone watches you.

You and Seungcheol stand in front of the cameras, side by side. Calm. Focused. The tension in the room is nearly unbearable.

Then Samira lets out a breath. “Holy shit. You’re alive.”

“I didn’t think I’d actually see your face again,” Jiwoo says, trying to smile, though her voice shakes.

“Same here,” Joshua says from the other side. “We’ve been locked down. No signals. No reassurances. Just... radio silence.”

You nod once. “We didn’t know who made it either. Not until now.”

Seungcheol steps forward. “We’re glad you’re here. All of you.”

He pauses, then continues. “Here’s what we know. Argos and Lim & Associates—”

“—have been playing us all along,” you finish. “Feeding each other contracts, setting us up to compete for bigger bounties. Splitting profits while turning us into pawns.”

A wave of muttering breaks out across the feeds.

“They tried to kill us to tie up loose ends,” Seungcheol says. “They failed.”

“But not for lack of trying,” you add grimly. “They’ll keep coming. And you know what that means.”

“It means we’re next,” Bora says softly.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Then Samira speaks. “So what do we do? We scatter? Lay low? Build new identities?”

“Start hitting back?” Woozi suggests. “They want a war; we give them one.”

“We go public,” Jiwoo says. “Leak what we know to the international market. Force their hand. They won’t survive the exposure.”

Everyone talks over each other—ideas flying in every direction, voices rising with panic or adrenaline. Reina tries to corral them. Mingyu scowls and leans toward his mic.

You hold up your hand. “Enough.” Everyone quiets.

You take a step closer to the screen, eyes scanning each and every face—some scared, some angry, some simply tired.

“I know everyone has ideas,” you say. “But we need a plan. We can’t move blindly. Because each and every one of you is now at risk. And I’m telling you right now—I’m not sacrificing a single one of you to end this. Not now. Not ever.”

Silence.

Then Bora speaks, hesitant. “Then... maybe we break up. Cut contact completely. And you two? Go separate. Give yourselves better odds.”

Seungcheol answers before you can. “Mingyu already said the same thing.” He glances at you, then looks directly at the screen. “But it’s not happening.”

You step in, firm. “We’re not running.”

A long silence.

Then Hyerim’s voice cuts through it like a match-striking flame.

“Then let’s figure out a way to end this.”

The war room comes alive.

Monitors hum. Fingers fly across keyboards. Maps are spread across the walls with satellite feeds casting flickering lights over weapons and half-drunk coffee mugs. Mingyu and Reina hover on opposite ends of the room, syncing laptops, pinning strings between photos, placing red dots on global maps, and drawing lines connecting targets, histories, and lies.

It’s like HQ—only grittier.

Samira calls out coordinates from her safehouse in Morocco, eyes glued to her private satellite feed. “Director Oh just pinged in Bucharest. He’s changed IDs three times since the system crash but the credit trail doesn’t lie.”

Joshua’s already working on the second. “Mr. Kwon used one of his shell companies to rent a private jet from Rome three hours ago. Flight plan had a false lead to London but I think he diverted.” His screen blinks. “He’s in Dubai.”

“That’s two,” Seungcheol mutters beside you. He’s standing with his arms folded over his chest, tension in every line of his body. “What about Lim? Or my boss?”

You shake your head, eyes moving across the chaotic network of images and data Reina has laid out. “Too clean. Nothing in her old aliases. Nothing recent.”

“Same for Director Kang,” Woozi chimes in reluctantly. “If he’s off-grid, he’s really off-grid. No comms. No cards. He vanished.”

“They’re ghosts,” Hyerim says, frowning into her screen. “Exactly like they trained us to be.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose. “Then we think like ghosts.”

You push away from the table and begin pacing.

“Madame Lim always had a thing for private residencies in Luxembourg. Kwon once mentioned her ties to an old estate there. Untraceable ownership but still under her maiden alias. She called it her ‘shadow base’.”

“Wait—” Jiwoo perks up from behind her camera. “You mean the one with the mirrored façade?”

You nod slowly. “That’s the one.”

“Kang has that obsession with old nuclear command bunkers,” Seungcheol murmurs beside you. “Always said he’d retire into one. He’s got property in the rural mountains between China and Laos.”

Wonwoo immediately types. “I’ve got a heat signal matching that description. Subterranean. Shielded comms. I’d bet on it.”

“Add it to the board,” you say.

One by one, the map fills in.

Red string now links Director Oh to Bucharest. Kwon to a luxury Dubai apartment. Madame Lim to Luxembourg. Director Kang to a mountain facility on the China-Laos border. Four red Xs appear in real time.

It’s already dark outside. You can see your reflection in the glass. Exhaustion pulls at your features, but no one slows down.

Then Woozi finally says what everyone’s thinking.

“So now what? We found them. What do we do next?”

Seungcheol’s voice is calm. Final.

“We kill them. All of them.”

You look at him, but don’t stop him. You feel the same.

But Hyerim shakes her head. “Killing them is one thing,” she says. “But it doesn’t erase the bounties. What are you gonna do, kill every mercenary that comes after you, too?”

A tense silence. You feel the weight of it settle in your chest.

Then Joshua jumps in. “Can’t we just remove the bounties once they’re dead? Wipe the system?”

Reina cuts him off. “Not that simple. They were posted through a specialised encrypted program. Those bounties require live biometric confirmation from the original posters to cancel.”

“So you’re saying we need to access that program,” Wonwoo says, leaning forward.

Reina nods once. “Not just access. We need them alive, long enough to scan in and delete the data.”

Mingyu groans, tossing a stress ball up and catching it again. “Damn. Who the hell built something like that?”

Silence.

Then Reina mutters quietly, “I did.” All heads turn.

You sigh, rubbing your eyes. “Of course you did.”

Seungcheol laughs under his breath. Just once.

You straighten, moving closer to the table. “Reina—can you track the origin posts? Figure out who initiated the bounties?”

She nods, fingers flying across her keyboard. “Give me a second...”

Everyone waits, watching the screen update line by line.

“Got it.” Her voice sharpens. “Your bounty, Gwisin—was posted by Madame Lim. S.Coups’? Director Kang.”

Seungcheol lets out a breath through his teeth. “Then we kill Oh and Kwon first. Quietly. Cut their links. Secure the network. Then we go for the real kill.”

“We have to be fast,” you add. “Coordinated. No screw-ups. The moment one of them gets wind, they’ll vanish for good or trigger dead-man protocols.”

The team nods.

Then Jiwoo’s voice cuts through the line—softer, but clear.

“Yeah... but even if you manage to find them, somehow disable the bounties and kill them...You two can’t take on every gun in the field already on the way to you. Not alone.”

You glance at Seungcheol, jaw tight. He’s thinking it too.

The silence stretches.

Then Samira speaks.

“What if we give the mercs something else to chase?”

Everyone turns to her.

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Samira leans in closer to her camera. “I’ve been tracking Jackal on the side. He’s still alive. Ricardo has him in one of his desert compounds. Hidden, but not unreachable.”

You freeze. Your mind starts spinning.

“Wait,” you say. “Reina, Mingyu—can you check if the original Jackal bounty is still live? The twelve million one?”

They’re already typing.

Mingyu shakes his head. “It’s dormant. Was put on hold after you both missed the retrieval.”

Seungcheol speaks then. “Can you reactivate it?”

Reina nods. “That bounty wasn’t encrypted. Global market. I can make it live again.”

Your voice is calm. Calculated. “Then do it. That should drag most mercenaries away from us. Especially if we leak intel about his location.”

Everyone falls silent again.

Then Seungcheol looks up. His voice is low.

“Let’s go to work.”

Bucharest is colder than expected.

You ride in on a black motorcycle, wind snapping at your borrowed jacket, face tucked beneath the visor of a matte helmet. The sun is just beginning to dip past the skyline, turning the haze of the city into a sheet of golden shadow. You keep to the alleys. Avoid open roads. Your fake ID has already been scanned twice, and thanks to Mingyu’s surprisingly competent alias work, no alarms were triggered.

You’ll file that under surprising things you’re not commenting on.

Much like the fact that Reina never left his safe house.

She’s now patching in from his personal terminal.

Jiwoo, however, is in Athens, and operating her own satellite rig.

“Gwisin, target is stationary,” Reina’s voice says in your comms, sharp as ever. “Upper floor of the building at coordinates 46.7691, 23.5899. Minimal guards. Two confirmed exits.”

“Copy that,” you whisper, crouched behind the gun.

You’ve scoped this place earlier—ten hours ago, to be exact. Found your perch on the fifth floor, shattered window perfectly angled toward the balcony where Oh takes his evening smoke. You’ve lined your sniper rifle up and calibrated for wind, trajectory, and velocity.

Now all you need is the target.

“Any movement yet?” you murmur.

Jiwoo responds. “Nothing yet. He’s still inside.”

You wait.

Time passes slowly in moments like these. The only rhythm is your breath, the slow clench and flex of your fingers around the rifle, and the occasional murmured updates from the girls. You watch out for Oh through your scope—his reflection in the window. Reading. Moving papers.

Then—footsteps.

You freeze.

Your breath stills, and your hands lift off the rifle slowly.

The building is supposed to be empty. You were thorough.

You immediately abandon your post, sliding silently back into the darkness behind you. You blend into it, breath stilling, spine flush to the wall.

Jiwoo’s voice crackles in your ear.

“He’s heading to the door. Looks like he’s prepping to move. You’ll have a clear—”

“I’ve got company,” you whisper, tight and low. “Hold your positions. Do not lose track of Oh.”

There’s a pause.

Then Reina says, “Copy. We’re holding.”

You draw your karambit.

Light floods faintly from beneath the hallway door.

Three shadows. Boots. You clock their cadence, their height, their coordination.

The Vasile triplets.

Mercenaries-for-hire. Romanian. Silent hitters. Raised together. Kill together. And now, they think they’re here to kill you.

The first one enters, rifle low. His head turns. That’s all the opening you need. You move like the wind, slicing your karambit clean across his throat. He drops without a sound.

The second shouts, raising his gun, but you’re already behind the nearest wall. You draw the silenced pistol at your hip and shoot once—chest shot. He stumbles, gasps, drops.

The third one charges you—clever, hand-to-hand. You duck his swing and slam your elbow into his ribcage. He knees you in the thigh. Pain pulses through your leg, but you keep your balance. You twist around him and slam your boot into his kneecap. He falls. You follow him to the floor and drive your blade through his neck, slicing upwards.

Silence falls again.

Blood pools quietly between broken cracks of flooring.

Then—

“Gwisin,” Jiwoo’s voice crackles, “Oh’s outside. He’s walking.”

You groan under your breath. “Of course he is.”

You sprint for the window. Your rifle is abandoned. So are the bodies.

You swing your leg out onto the fire escape and slide down the cold metal, the sound of your boots thudding against the wall as you descend. At the base, you toss the ladder down and emerge into an alley, breathing hard.

Your hand slips into your side pocket. A small black GPS device flashes with Oh’s blinking signal.

You speak into the comms. “Jiwoo, Reina—I need a city redirect. Get him into the northeast corner. I’ll meet him there.”

Reina clicks into action. “Hacking local lights now. You’ve got two minutes before I trigger.”

“Give me three,” you respond.

You’re walking fast now, weaving through market streets and narrow alleys, always a shadow. You guide Reina through every junction.

Traffic halts suddenly at your command. Oh is forced off his original path.

He walks. Alone. No security. You smile.

“He’s close,” you murmur. “Jiwoo, clear?”

“Clear,” she answers. “No cameras. No civilians. You’re good.”

You double back through a quieter route, entering the side street from the far end. Oh is still walking, checking his phone; his pace is fast, but he looks distracted.

You drop your eyes, tuck your blade into your sleeve, and walk straight toward him. Thirty steps. Twenty. Ten.

He passes you.

You spin, arm over his shoulder, blade slicing deep and fast across his throat in one clean arc.

His blood sprays silently across the brick walls. He collapses without a sound.

You wipe the blade on your pants, spin it once on your finger, and slip it into your jacket.

“It’s done,” you whisper into your comm.

“Confirmed,” Jiwoo replies after a beat, voice hushed.

Reina exhales. “One down, three to go.”

You walk away without looking back.

The first head has rolled.

Dubai is a city that refuses to sleep.

Glass towers claw at the sky, each one gleaming with its own brand of opulence. Gold trims, velvet ropes, and secrets buried under mirrored floors. For a man who wants to disappear, it’s a living nightmare.

Which is, of course, why Mr. Kwon chose it.

Seungcheol adjusts the cuff of his suit as he walks through the private entrance of Elara, one of Dubai’s most exclusive high-end clubs, his steps confident and deliberate. A different kind of camouflage. He’s not invisible here—not in this white-pressed designer shirt and sleek black jacket. He doesn’t blend in. He owns the room.

“Mingyu?” he murmurs, the comm in his ear catching his voice beneath the music.

“You’re clear. VIP is in the left wing. Same booth as his last visit. And yeah, Kwon’s already six drinks in,” Mingyu answers from the other end, back at their makeshift satellite station in his safe house.

“Woozi?”

“Confirming no other threats have pinged in your area. You’re solo,” comes the clipped reply. Good.

Seungcheol adjusts his stance slightly as he moves toward the main floor. The lights pulse golden. Music throbs under his shoes like a second heartbeat. The crowd is decadent—diamonds and champagne, cleavage and cologne. And in the centre of it all sits Mr. Kwon.

VIP booth. Surrounded by women.

Seungcheol signals a passing waiter and flashes a smile. “Your finest bottle of Boërl & Kroff. Send it to the gentleman in the booth. No note.”

The waiter nods, takes the cash, and slips away. Seconds later, Kwon is laughing and downing champagne straight from the bottle, frothy and bubbling down his chin. The women cheer; one of them straddles his thigh. Seungcheol watches it all unfold from across the room, a quiet predator sipping a scotch he’ll never finish.

You cross his mind unbidden. The rifle in your hands. The quiet precision of your kills. He wonders—Have you done it yet? Are you safe?

He shakes the thought away.

Focus.

Time ticks forward slowly. Kwon grows drunker, heavier-lidded. Then, finally, he rises—stumbling slightly, laughing, waving the women off.

Bathroom break.

Seungcheol downs his drink and follows.

The hallway is dimly lit. Long. Opulent in design but silent. The door to the bathroom swings open, and Seungcheol slips in a few moments later.

Inside, Kwon is already at the sink. Washing his hands like he’s preparing for a goddamn sermon. He’s humming.

When he looks up, he catches Seungcheol’s reflection in the mirror.

The moment of recognition is quick. Seungcheol is quicker.

His arm wraps around Kwon’s neck, cutting off the air, holding tight. Kwon thrashes once, twice, tries to claw at him, tries to scream—but it’s too late. His body slumps, and Seungcheol lowers him to the tile.

“Goodnight,” he mutters coldly.

The second the body hits the floor, Seungcheol straightens his suit, slicks his hair back with one sweep, and checks his reflection in the mirror. His muscles strain again. It’s almost poetic now.

He turns toward the exit. Left leads back to the party. Right leads out.

He turns right.

He only makes it ten feet before a gold chain lashes around his ankle like a striking snake. He hits the floor hard, forearms slamming into tile, the wind knocked from his chest.

The chain yanks.

He rolls—just in time.

A figure charges at him with the elegance of a dancer and the savagery of a cobra. Full force, she lands on top of him.

They wrestle—hands, knees, elbows. She’s fast. Precise. Smiling.

“Hello, darling,” she purrs, her accent unmistakable. “Still breaking hearts?”

“Varsha,” he growls. “Didn’t expect you to come crawling back.”

She slams her fist into his ribs.

He kicks upward, rolling her off. They separate, both springing to their feet at once—Seungcheol doing a clean kick-up, landing squarely in a fighter’s stance.

She twirls the chain in one hand. Her snake bracelet, coiled and ready.

“Heard you were married now,” she says, circling. “Shame.”

“Shame you don’t know when to quit,” he mutters.

They lunge at the same time.

She swings the chain—he ducks, grabs the end mid-air, and yanks.

She flies forward, caught off guard, and he spins her into the wall. Her head cracks against a mirror.

She recovers. Slashes at his face. He blocks with his forearm, the chain cutting into his skin. He counters.

A blade slides from the inside of his sleeve—his last resort.

He plunges it deep into her gut before she can wrench away. Her breath hitches. Blood trickles out of her mouth.

He leans in, twisting the knife once before pulling it out and stabbing it in again.

“Should’ve stayed a one-night stand.” She collapses.

The comms buzz in his ear, and Seungcheol finally registers the noise.

“Hyung—what the hell was that noise?” Woozi demands.

Seungcheol breathes hard, blood dripping from his hand. He wipes the blade on his pants.

“Target’s down,” he says. “And so is the unexpected company.”

“Tell me that wasn’t Varsha?” Mingyu asks, incredulous.

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

Seungcheol crouches beside the body for one second, then stands.

His suit is wrinkled, blood-streaked. His forearm stings. But the mission’s done.

The second head has rolled.

“Director Kwon is confirmed dead,” Reina says, her voice in your earpiece over the static of the line.

You’re crouched on the edge of a building rooftop in Bucharest, the skyline painted grey behind you, your breath cooling in the early evening air.

“Seungcheol did it in a club bathroom—clean choke. No witnesses, no trail,” she continues.

You exhale, tension loosening from your shoulders, the adrenaline of your own mission slowly bleeding out of your system.

“Good,” you reply, voice soft.

“I’ve just updated your travel packet. New alias, new flight plan. Small private jet’s waiting for you twenty clicks out of town. That should land you in Luang Namtha before midnight. From there, quad into the jungle—Seungcheol’s safehouse is mapped.”

“That where we regroup?”

“Yeah. Wonwoo’s sending another weapons crate to the site tomorrow. You’ll need it before you move on Kang.”

“Copy that,” you murmur. “I’ll move soon.”

You’re about to kill the comm when you hear it.

A low voice in the background—Mingyu’s, unmistakably.

“I can’t believe Varsha, of all people, showed up.”

You freeze, head tilting slightly.

“Kind of crazy that she’s still breathing after all these years. Woozi, remember her? That whole mess in Tangier? And now she tried to choke Seungcheol in a Dubai nightclub? Crazy bitch.”

A pause.

Then Mingyu again, voice casual, joking—too joking.

“Guess some flings really don’t take rejection well. But at least Cheol’s still got it, huh?”

Your blood runs cold. Then hot.

Varsha.

You’ve heard the name before. Not often, not clearly—It’s been passed around the underground like an urban legend: exotic, lethal, likes to strangle her targets with some kind of metal chain disguised as jewellery. A merc. A black widow.

And apparently, your husband’s slept with her.

Your jaw clenches.

You hang up the call with Reina before she can hear your tone shift.

It takes hours to get through immigration, over the Laos border, and deeper into the jungle. Your boots are caked in water and mud by the time you reach the last marker—an overgrown path with an old iron sign buried beneath moss and vines. The GPS flashes green in your hand.

Safehouse reached.

Your heartbeat picks up as you walk forward past the thick of the trees. You push through the foliage, parting vines and leaves until you finally see it—an old concrete structure, half-buried in the landscape but clearly maintained.

And standing in front of it, looking far too calm and far too attractive in a grey tactical shirt and jungle-worn cargo pants—Seungcheol.

His eyes light up the second he sees you.

He takes a step forward, and you feel your chest tighten, all that tension from the last few days crumbling in an instant.

God, he’s alive.

He walks right up to you, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you—hard.

It’s frantic, hungry, grateful. All heat and breath and want. You melt into it for a second, eyes fluttering shut, fingers curling into his shirt.

And then—

The name echoes again.

Varsha.

You snap out of it, pushing him back with one hand to his chest.

And then you slap him. Hard.

“Ow—!” he groans, jerking his head. “What the hell was that for?”

You don’t even let him recover.

You shove him again, your words tumbling out like bullets. “Who is Varsha, huh? And how long have you been sleeping with her?”

He blinks. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Choi—” You hit his chest. “Who is she? When did you sleep with her? Was it before the wedding or after? The last time you were in Dubai? How long has this been going on?!”

“Okay, wow—” he starts, reaching for you.

You slap his hands away.

“You smug, lying, arrogant—God, you’re unbelievable. You brag to your friends like some frat boy, and then just... what? Hide it from me? Your wife?”

“Babe—”

“No!” You push him again. “Don’t you ‘babe’ me. And don’t touch me. Not after this. I’ll find that bitch and kill her myself. Right after I kill you.”

He tries again, grabbing for your arms.

You swat at him like a feral cat.

“Jesus, okay, stop—” he groans, catching your wrists and holding them in place. “Stop—just—stop hitting me for one second—”

“Why? You can’t take it? Was she better? Did she use the—”

He lets out a laugh then, loud and full-bodied.

And then he pulls you flush against him, hands still locked around your waist, gripping you tight enough you can’t wriggle free.

“You don't have to kill her,” he says, voice rough with amusement. “I already did.”

You freeze.

“...what?”

His mouth quirks. “She came at me in the club. Chained my ankle. Thought she could collect my bounty. I stabbed her. Right through the gut. She’s dead.”

You stare at him, blinking.

He raises an eyebrow. “What? You didn’t think I was out there making out with her, did you?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Look away, completely mortified.

He smirks.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze. “I’m such an idiot.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just tilts your chin up with one hand, waiting until your eyes meet his again.

And instead of teasing you further, he leans down—close enough that his breath ghosts against your lips.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” he murmurs.

You scoff. “I’m not jealous.”

“You literally said you’d kill her.”

“That’s not the same thing—”

He laughs again.

You roll your eyes but don’t move away. Not even when he leans in, brushing his lips over yours with a feather-light touch. Not even when he whispers against your mouth.

“Trust me, baby, you’re the only one I want.”

You sigh, letting your forehead press to his.

“Good,” you whisper back.

And then he kisses you again.

The second Seungcheol’s mouth slants over yours again, something raw and almost reckless rises between you. Whatever apology you didn’t say for your blow-up burns off your tongue as your teeth sink into his lower lip instead. His hissed inhale at the sting makes something low in your stomach coil and thrum.

He pulls you closer like he’s starved. But you’re the one who can’t get enough.

The world narrows to your tongues fighting for dominance, teeth clashing and mouths bruising. You don’t even register the door closing behind you, or your boots tracking mud into the safe house. Seungcheol blindly stumbles back into the small main room, dragging you with him, hands gripping your hips like he needs the grounding.

You hit a wall. A stack of crates topples. Neither of you flinch.

He chuckles against your mouth when it crashes to the floor.

“Careful,” he murmurs, breathless. “You’re gonna wreck the place.”

You bite his bottom lip again. “I don’t care.”

Another kiss. Another half-step, and suddenly, he falls into a chair, dragging you with him.

You straddle his lap without hesitation, your thighs bracketing his hips, and your clothed core presses against the thick, growing bulge in his pants. His hands slide up your sides beneath your shirt, rough and warm, and you grind down on him with purpose. He groans into your mouth at the friction—one hand tightening on your waist while the other fists the hem of your shirt and yanks it up and over your head.

You break the kiss just long enough to let it go, arms flying overhead, before your lips crash back to his. Your hands are already at his belt, clumsily undoing the clasp, fingers fumbling with impatience as his hands work to undo your bra.

His mouth trails from your lips down your neck. “Jesus. You’re—”

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

You finally get his belt open, unzipping his pants while he kisses along the curve of your jaw and down your collarbone as he pushes your bra straps down. His hips buck slightly when your hand slides inside the waistband of his boxers, brushing against his hard length. You lean back, just enough to push his chest down into the chair.

“Don’t move,” you mutter, fingers splayed on his sternum. “And don’t touch.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow at your warning but obliges. You slide off his lap, dropping to your knees between his legs. His eyes darken instantly.

“Baby, what—”

“Shut. Up.”

You slap his hands away when he tries to touch you, and he groans, watching as you reach for his waistband and tug everything down and off—pants, underwear, all at once. His cock springs free, flushed and thick and already hard, bobbing slightly against his abdomen.

You don’t tease. Not yet.

You lean in and envelop him in your mouth.

His strangled groan echoes around the room as your mouth closes over the head of his cock, wet and hot and needy. You drag your tongue slowly along the underside of his shaft, taking your time, then hollow your cheeks and suck him deeper, feeling the stretch in your jaw and the way his body tenses instantly.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, hands fisting the edge of the chair. “Holy shit.”

You bob your head, tongue swirling, alternating suction with slow drags, and soon he’s groaning again, hips jerking subtly up into your mouth before he forces himself to still.

You take your time—too much time.

Your hand joins your ministrations, wrapping around the base of his cock, pumping slowly while your mouth works the head. You stroke in rhythm with your lips, twisting, flicking your tongue, pulling back to suck hard at the tip before going deep again.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, one hand falling into your hair despite your warning.

You let him tug, guide, just enough to make your scalp sting.

He starts panting, the tension in his thighs ratcheting up.

“Baby—shit—I’m close—”

You immediately pull off. He gasps at the sudden loss of contact, body twitching at the near-orgasm, hands still in your hair.

You look at him as you start stroking him again—slow, deliberate, not letting him tip over.

His head thunks back against the chair. “You’re fucking evil.”

You smirk. “And yet, you married me.”

He groans, head turning to the side like he’s trying to focus on anything else. But it doesn’t help. Your hand never stops. But it’s not enough. Not fast enough, not tight enough. Minutes tick by. You go down again.

He jerks up so fast you nearly choke. Your lips wrap around his tip again, and you find a new rhythm—suck, stroke, lick, repeat.

He’s shaking when he groans, “Gonna come—fuck—”

You stop. Again.

“Fucking hell!” he barks, hands flying to the armrests.

You glance up with innocent eyes. “Something wrong, baby?”

“Don’t make me—” He grits his teeth, cheeks flushed and body glistening with sweat. “Do not make me beg.”

You smirk, pumping him once—twice—slowly. He groans, head falling forward. “You’re gonna pay for this—”

“Shut up and take it.”

The third time you take him in your mouth, you don’t wait for the warning.

You edge him again, stopping just as his thighs start to tremble and the base of his spine tenses in that telltale way. You pull off. Again.

A string of saliva connects your mouth to the tip of his cock.

He’s not groaning anymore. He’s whining. Your big, bad assassin husband is actually whining.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, eyes blown wide with desperation. “Please.”

You tilt your head. “Please what?” He glares. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” You stroke him just once, and he groans. “Be in control?”

His jaw flexes. He looks at you like he wants to throttle you—or fuck you so hard the walls come down.

You lean in close again, lips brushing the tip.

“You’re punishing me, aren’t you?” he rasps. “For Dubai. For Varsha.”

You lick your lips. “Maybe.”

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“But you love it.”

He laughs through a moan. You smile, letting your tongue flick out—just enough to taste him again. And then, you sit back on your heels. Completely still. You don’t touch him. Don’t kiss him. Don’t move.

He stares at you, furious and hard and on the brink of madness.

You rise slowly to your feet, running your thumb across your bottom lip and gathering the saliva and precum gathered at the corner of your mouth.

You lick it clean, smiling.

You don’t expect him to move that fast.

One second you’re still standing in front of him, pleased with yourself, watching Seungcheol’s cock throb with need between his thighs… and the next, he’s out of the chair.

Before you can so much as flinch or retaliate, you’re airborne.

“Hey—” you yelp as he picks you up, manhandling you like you weigh nothing at all, and throws you across the room. Your back hits the mattress with a heavy oomph, limbs bouncing slightly on the bed as the air is knocked from your lungs.

You manage to suck in a breath before his body crashes down on top of yours, caging you in.

“You think you’re funny?” he growls lowly, his nose brushing yours as he pins your wrists above your head. You grin. “Maybe.”

He kisses you like he wants to eat you alive.

The heat from earlier flares again, but it’s darker now, fiercer. His mouth travels fast—biting down on your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You moan, arching beneath him, and he laughs against your skin.

You feel his hand on your chest before you register the slap—his palm hitting your breast hard enough to sting, then immediately squeezing it after.

“Fuck—” you whimper, legs twitching around his hips.

His mouth closes around your nipple in response—hot, wet, rough—and he sucks hard, alternating with his teeth. You cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Still feeling bratty?” he mutters against your breast.

He doesn’t give you the time to retort—instead, he grabs your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat, and bites down on your neck instead. The sharp jolt sends sparks straight between your legs.

Your pants are ripped off you in the next heartbeat—tugged down so roughly they take your panties with them, leaving you sprawled naked and gasping on the bed.

He kisses his way down, leaving a trail of saliva and fire along your ribs, your stomach, and your hipbone.

When his mouth hovers over your soaked heat, your legs tremble. His breath ghosts over your core, and you meet his eyes, dark and ravenous, from between your thighs.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he says lowly, voice laced with mocking amusement. “Fingers? Mouth? Or cock?”

You blink, brain fogged with heat.

“What…?”

Seungcheol grins. “Tch. Thought so. Haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re already fucked out. You get to choose, baby. But choose wisely.” He leans closer, nose brushing your clit. “You’ll only get one.”

That finally snaps you out of it.

“Cock,” you whisper, voice hoarse and expectant.

He smirks. “Good choice.”

And then your world flips on its axis. Literally.

He grabs your thighs and flips you with a single motion. You shriek in surprise as you land on your stomach. He yanks you onto all fours.

“Cheol—!” you start, but he’s pushing your face into the mattress, his palm heavy against the back of your head.

“Shut up,” he mutters commandingly. “You asked for this.”

You feel his cock behind you—hard, hot, lined up with your weeping entrance—and then he’s inside you in one brutal, punishing thrust.

You cry out into the bedding, your fingers clawing at the sheets as he splits you open.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans behind you, his hands bruising your hips.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust.

He starts pounding into you from behind, hips slamming against your ass with heavy, rhythmic force. The sound is obscene—skin on skin, your wetness, your gasps and his growls filling the tiny space.

You’re moaning, whining, helpless against the onslaught of his body.

Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs. He spanks your ass hard once—then again—and again, until you let out a sob, only to moan even when his palm lands on you again.

Your core clenches wildly around him.

“Fuck— you’re gripping me like a vice,” he mutters, voice low and ragged. “You like this? Huh, baby? Like being used?”

You can only cry out ‘Yes’ in response.

When your legs begin to shake, he grabs your hair and yanks you upright—your back slamming against his chest, his cock still buried deep inside you.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, keeping his grip tight in your hair as his free hand slides in front of your face.

You do without hesitation. Two fingers slide past your lips—rubbing over your tongue, pressing down against it.

“Suck.”

You moan as you obey, your tongue swirling over his fingers, your mouth hot and desperate, sucking on his digits like you did his cock. When he’s satisfied, he pulls them free and slides them down—between your thighs, right to your clit.

You cry out when his slick fingers start rubbing fast, ruthless circles over your pulsing nub.

“Cheol— oh god—fuck—”

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs against your ear. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

Your fingers dig into his arm as your orgasm suddenly crashes through you. It’s violent. Wild. And takes you by force. Your body locks, clenches, and trembles as the pressure explodes and pleasure rips through your nerves.

Seungcheol doesn’t stop.

He keeps thrusting, keeps circling your clit, keeps fucking you through it—overstimulation already setting in as you scream into the mattress.

He lets you fall forward again, and you collapse bonelessly, face down into the bed. He doesn’t stop. His hands grab your hips, holding you steady as he chases his own release.

He spanks your ass again, the sounds loud and lewd.

“Shit—fuck—fuck,” he growls, hips stuttering.

And then he spills inside you with a loud, broken groan.

Three more thrusts. Shallow. Slow. Making sure every drop stays buried deep. He finally pulls out, breath catching in his throat.

You’re wrecked. Soaked. Glistening. Barely able to move.

He flops down beside you, dragging your twitching body into his arms. You’re gasping, limbs limp, brain swimming—but a giggle bubbles out anyway.

“That was…” you pant, dazed. “Yeah. I should definitely rile you up more often.”

He groans playfully, burying his face into your neck. “Let’s not.”

The jungle is still sleeping when reality decides to wake you up.

The sharp buzz of his satellite phone on the nightstand and the soft, steady beeping from your GPS tracker lighting up beside the bed wake you both from your slumber. The haze of last night’s sweat-slicked limbs and tangled sheets is still warm on your skin, but the moment is gone as fast as it came. Instinct takes over.

Seungcheol grabs the sat phone and answers without hesitation. “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Wonwoo says, gruff and casual as ever. “Shipment’s dropped. It’s in the clearing three clicks northeast of you. Sent the coordinates to your wife’s tracker.”

“She got it,” Seungcheol replies, throwing a quick glance at you as you nod.

“Good. Stay sharp out there,” Wonwoo mutters. “And… don’t die.”

Seungcheol breathes out. “Right back at you, Woo.”

Wonwoo disconnects, and just like that, the warmth of the bed, the afterglow—it all fades. You look at each other for a heartbeat, and then the switch flips.

Game time.

You both get dressed in practised silence. Vests. Gloves. Boots. Every movement is efficient. Clean. Sharp. Two ghosts suiting up for a kill.

Outside, the air is thick with jungle humidity. You follow Seungcheol as he rounds the side of the safe house, stepping over vines and damp earth until he crouches down and yanks off a heavy tarp.

Underneath it—well hidden—is a weathered military-grade jeep.

“Of course, you had this here,” you mutter, lips twitching slightly.

He grins as he gets in. “Had to leave myself a ride.”

You climb into the passenger seat, pulling your GPS forward. “Take the path north, then veer right at the ridge. The drop is just past the waterline clearing.”

The jeep lurches forward, engine snarling low and quiet, and you both fall into the tense stillness of the mission. Every branch that scrapes the side of the jeep, every call of birds overhead, every bump in the road—it all heightens your senses.

It doesn’t take long before you reach the clearing.

Seungcheol kills the engine, and the world goes eerily quiet except for the rustle of wind through leaves. You step out, weapons drawn, scanning your surroundings. Then you see it.

A dark metal crate sits just ahead, nestled in the grass like a gift from the gods.

Seungcheol breaks it open with a crowbar, and your eyes widen.

Wonwoo went off.

Inside the crate lies a small armoury. Sleek, matte-black rifles. Knives with ceramic edges. Ammo in every calibre. Smoke bombs. Blackout tech. Scoped pistols. Infrared sensors. Heat detectors. New comms gear. Suppressors.

“Damn,” you mutter, running your hand across a silencer. “This is better than Christmas.”

You both start suiting up—checking each item before adding it to your loadout. Sights calibrated. Knives balanced. Comms synced.

You’re just about to zip up your tactical vest when something catches your eye at the bottom of the crate.

A flash drive.

You pick it up. Silver casing with black marker on the side: XOXO, Reina.

Your eyebrows lift. “The hell is this?”

Seungcheol is already watching you, so he throws you his sat phone, and you dial Reina. She answers after three rings, sounding distinctly out of breath.

“Yeah—hello?”

You narrow your eyes. “...You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replies too fast. “Totally fine. Just finished working out. What’s up?”

You stare into the jungle. “Got your gift.”

Silence.

Then Reina exhales. “Oh. Right. The drive.” Her voice shifts, businesslike. “That’s a virus I wrote to scramble Kang and Lim’s encrypted program. Once you’re in, it’ll override the signal.”

You glance at Seungcheol. “Define ‘in’.”

“As I mentioned, it uses biometric access,” Reina explains. “Voice, retinal, and fingerprint. The print scan is advanced—it monitors heart rate and body temp. If either spike, a fail-safe activates. It’s basically a dead man’s switch.”

Seungcheol groans behind you. “So… a walk in the park.”

Reina snorts. “You’ll have to get Kang to unlock the system without triggering any alarms. Once you’re in, insert the flash drive. It’ll spoof the signal to Lim—make it seem like the bounty’s still live on her end, but dead to the global market. She’ll never know.”

You blink. “That’s… impressive.”

“I know,” Reina says smugly.

You start to thank her, then pause—smirking slightly.

“You know,” you say smugly, “Next time, maybe think twice when you decide to “work out” again. And do it preferably after we’ve walked towards possible death.”

More silence.

Then a very quiet, “God, you’re creepy. Can’t hide shit from you.”

You laugh. “You’re not that subtle, Reina.”

“Whatever,” she mutters, but you can hear the faint smile in her voice. “Good luck. Don’t die.”

“Back at you.” You hang up.

When you turn around, Seungcheol’s watching you with a faint smirk.

“What?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just something about a pot and kettle.”

“I didn’t hear you complain last night.”

He chuckles at your statement, but it fades as the moment quiets.

Your eyes meet, and the atmosphere shifts. Reality settles like a weight on your shoulders.

It’s go time.

The sun rides high above the canopy by the time the wheels of the jeep crunch to a stop beneath the thick shadows of the jungle. You and Seungcheol sit in stillness for a moment, the low hum of the engine dying out as he kills the ignition. Birds call in the distance, muffled by the density of the leaves, and the air is heavy with anticipation.

“We’re close,” you murmur, checking your GPS. “About one klick northeast.”

He nods once, scanning the tree line. “We’ll go on foot from here. We park any closer; we risk setting off possible perimeter sensors.”

Without another word, you both exit the vehicle and disappear into the green.

The jungle is unforgiving—thick vines, hanging moss, and humidity clinging to your skin like a second suit. You pull a machete from your belt, and Seungcheol does the same, both of you slashing carefully through the underbrush, keeping your steps measured and soundless. There’s no conversation, just the rhythm of your shared breaths and blades, and the silent language spoken between trained killers.

After a short climb, you reach a ridge. It crests gently above a natural dip in the earth, and below it, spread across a cleared stretch of jungle floor, lies Kang’s compound.

Modern. Sleek. Built like a fortress with luxury trimmings—glass walls, solar panels, and a central structure acting as an office or control centre. It stands out in the wild like a dagger.

You drop to your stomach near the edge of the ridge, dragging your binoculars from your pack. Beside you, Seungcheol pulls out his own gear—infrared heat sensors, a laser rangefinder. You share what you see in low, practised whispers.

“Two snipers. North and southeast towers,” you murmur. “Both posted high, rifles trained toward the outer edge.”

“Got eyes on two more guards. Heavily armed, center-left of the courtyard near the entrance,” he adds. “Looks like they’re protecting the main path in.”

You tap the side of your lens, switching to thermal.

“Seven more, patrolling inside the compound. Standard rotation—seems like they’re on a ten-minute loop. Armed, but not alert.”

“Visual on Kang?”

You scan the second floor of the compound and freeze when you find the shadowed silhouette of a tall man, pacing across what appears to be an office.

“There,” you whisper, nudging Seungcheol. “Tall, wide shoulders. Movement pattern matches. Looks like he’s talking to someone—”

Seungcheol adjusts his lens. “Confirmed. That’s him.”

You nod and reach into your pack again, pulling out the scrambler. You power it on and set the frequency, watching as the blinking green light turns steady blue.

“Alarms scrambled. Cameras looped. We’ll have a twenty-minute window before their system reboots, and he realizes something’s off.”

“Plenty of time,” Seungcheol replies, cocking your rifle and attaching the silencer and balancing it on a tripod.

You both lie flat on the ridge, shoulder to shoulder. You take the snipers. He watches for movement.

“North tower first,” you whisper.

You adjust the sight, take a breath, and squeeze the trigger. The silencer reduces the crack to a faint hiss, and the sniper in the north tower drops like a ragdoll. One down.

You shift slightly. “Southeast tower.”

Another shot. Another body slumps, this time into the rail, his body tumbling quietly over the edge into the brush.

“Clear,” you mutter. “I’ll move. You take east. I’ll go west.”

Seungcheol nods, already sliding down the hill.

You stay behind a moment longer, disassembling your rifle and pocketing the scrambler. Then you’re on your feet, slipping through the trees silently.

You move fast and low.

By the time you reach the outer edge of the compound, Seungcheol has already taken out the two guards near the courtyard. You spot their bodies tucked neatly behind a stone wall, blood blooming silently across their shirts. You nod to yourself and slip around the west side, coming up behind the greenhouse wing. A guard steps out to smoke. You waste no time.

Karambit to his throat. A gurgled gasp. You pull him into the shadows, wipe the blade, and move on.

Another guard rounds the corner, humming to himself. You take him down in two swift moves—elbow to the windpipe, blade to the kidney. He falls in a twitch.

Inside, the compound is eerily silent. The scrambler continues to work wonders—no alarms, no flickers of suspicion from the guards, still unaware they’re being hunted.

You and Seungcheol clear the floors like ghosts. He moves swiftly on the east side, the occasional thud of a body hitting the tile filtering through your comms. You press into the south corridor, slicing through two more men and dragging them into an empty bathroom.

With every guard down, every hallway cleared, the silence grows heavier. Anticipation coils tighter in your gut.

Finally, you reach the top floor.

And just like that—you’re standing at Kang’s office door.

Seungcheol rounds the corner from the other direction, his face slick with sweat, blood spatters on his cheek, but his eyes sharp. He meets your gaze, and you both press flat against either side of the door. You nod once to each other.

Seungcheol opens the door with a silent push, and you toss a smoke bomb inside.

The hiss of the release is immediate, followed by a fast bloom of dense, grey smoke that overtakes the pristine mahogany of his luxury office. The desk disappears, the floor vanishes beneath haze, and you hear the sound of a chair scraping back sharply.

“What the—?!” Kang’s voice barks in confusion.

You slip inside, silent and focused. You can hear Kang’s movements: stumbling, coughing, his shoes thudding heavily against the floor as he tries to orient himself. There’s a crash—he’s knocked something off his desk—and then a shuffle of panic.

Then silence.

Until the feeling of a cold, steely barrel of a gun chamber touches his forehead.

“Don’t move,” Seungcheol says, voice calm, firm, and ice-sharp.

He freezes.

“Seungcheol?” Kang rasps through the smoke.

Your figure melts from the shadows behind him like a ghost. Your karambit is back in your hand, its curved blade cold and gleaming. You press it to the side of Kang’s throat.

He stiffens instantly.

Your voice is quiet and cold, the edge of your breath brushing his ear. “Hello, Kang. Miss us?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes out a rough laugh, half-amused, half-appalled. “You two have really lost your minds.”

He tries to move, but you press the blade a hair deeper. A single drop of blood runs down his neck.

He barks another laugh. “The two biggest targets on the global kill list walk right into my compound. I should be flattered. Or furious.”

Seungcheol says nothing, only pressing the gun harder to his forehead.

“I underestimated you, Seungcheol. I knew you were soft, but this? Playing Bonnie and Clyde with your little wife? How’s it feel, huh? Always in her shadow?”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. He’s still as stone, but the way his jaw clenches tells you exactly how hard he’s biting back the need to pull the trigger.

Seungcheol finally speaks, voice low, cold. “It feels like I married the only person worth trusting in this goddamn world. And the fact you’re scared of her proves it.”

You smirk.

Leaning closer, you whisper, “Let’s see if we can keep you calm enough to survive the next few minutes, shall we?”

Kang glares. “What do you want?”

“Access,” you say simply. “To your program.”

He scoffs. “You think I’m going to just hand it over?”

You press the karambit harder into the tender skin beneath his jaw, a steady stream of blood oozing from the tip piercing his skin. “No. You’re going to walk us through it. And if you fuck around—if you even flinch the wrong way—you’ll die before the failsafe ever gets a chance to go off.”

Kang huffs through his nose, but walks to the desk with your blade still at his throat. Seungcheol stays close by, his gun never wavering. Kang’s fingers tremble slightly as he wakes up the terminal. The light from the monitor casts strange shadows across his face as he clears his throat and accesses the program.

“Director Kang Hojin,” he states, firm and loud. “Override sequence Omega Black, authorisation Sigma-One-Seven-Delta.”

The system chimes.

Voice scan accepted.

He places his hand on the scanner. Another chime.

Fingerprint accepted.

Then comes the retinal scan. He leans forward towards the webcam. The screen buzzes.

Access denied. Retinal match not found.

Your heart stutters. Seungcheol’s grip on his gun tightens.

Kang lifts his head with a smug look. “Oops.”

You grab his shoulder and force him back down. “Do it again. Don’t blink.”

Kang exhales sharply through his nose and leans forward again. This time, he holds perfectly still.

Retinal scan accepted.

Access granted.

Relief floods you, but you shove it down. No room for error now.

“Bounty logs,” Seungcheol says.

Kang navigates the system with practised fingers, moving through encrypted folders. “Here. This is what you want.”

You reach into your belt and pull out the flash drive. Kang’s eyes flicker to it.

“Plug it in,” Seungcheol says. You do.

The second the drive locks in, the screen flashes. Code scrolls, long strings of green bleeding across black. The virus is doing its job.

“You idiots have no idea what you’ve just done,” Kang growls. “You think Lim won’t find this? You think she didn’t plan for this?”

You say nothing. Seungcheol watches the screen. Progress: 82%.

“Even if you kill me, she’ll never stop. You’re nothing to her. Ants. She’ll make sure the entire world hunts you for sport.”

The progress bar reaches 100%.

Final confirmation: Bounty Deactivated — Market Update Complete.

“You talk too much,” Seungcheol mutters. Then he pulls the trigger.

The bullet hits Kang clean between the eyes. His head snaps back before slumping forward onto the keyboard, blood blooming fast beneath him. The room goes quiet.

You exhale. Slide the flash drive from the port and tuck it back into your belt.

“Let’s go,” Seungcheol says.

You’re two steps toward the door when the monitor flickers red.

On the screen, a new prompt flashes: ALARM ACTIVATED — FAILSAFE INITIATED — DETONATION SEQUENCE: 2:00

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

“Run,” Seungcheol breathes, already grabbing your wrist. “GO!”

Your boots slam against the floor as you both bolt from Kang’s office, weaving past his slumped, lifeless body behind his desk. The halls flash red—emergency lights triggered by the failsafe.

“Where did that come from?!” Seungcheol shouts.

“My scrambler!” you gasp, realisation slamming into you like a truck. “It triggered the reboot. The system finally recognised us.”

01:45.

You skid through the corridor, heart in your throat, legs pumping hard. Down the stairs—two at a time—your boots barely hitting the steps before you’re flying again. You hear Seungcheol right behind you, breath ragged, muttering a string of curses between each inhale.

You nearly slip on the last stair, but Seungcheol grabs your arm and steadies you without stopping. The two of you slam through a side exit and into the open air of the jungle’s edge.

01:02

“Too far,” you choke out. “We parked too far—”

“We’re not making the jeep,” he says, teeth clenched. “Find cover.”

You don’t argue. You veer left, leaping over a fallen tree trunk, ducking under a vine. Your legs burn. The world is loud with your breaths, your pulse in your ears, the scream of your muscles.

00:54

Behind you, the compound hums unnaturally, the kind of silence that feels like something holding its breath. You glance back—just a flash—and see smoke already leaking from the vents on the roof. The timer is real. The end is coming.

“There!” Seungcheol shouts behind you, pointing.

A rock formation, jagged and moss-covered, partially buried under tangled roots. A crevice big enough—maybe.

He speeds up. You do, too.

00:32

You’re panting. Staggering. Tripping over your own feet—but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Then—just as your feet hit the edge of the formation—arms wrap around your waist.

Seungcheol lifts you, spins, and throws the both of you behind the largest boulder.

You crash into the dirt hard, grass in your mouth, Seungcheol’s weight covering you entirely. His arms pin you down, his body a shield.

He curls around you, breath hot against your ear.

“Hold on,” he whispers.

You shut your eyes. You feel his heartbeat.

00:01.

The sky lights orange. Fire screams through the trees. The compound behind you explodes in a catastrophic blast that tears the jungle apart. Glass, steel, smoke and flame shoot into the air like a volcanic eruption.

Debris pelts the ridge. Metal thuds against the boulder you hide behind. The earth shakes.

You cry out once, but it’s swallowed by the roar.

Seungcheol doesn’t move. His arms cage you tighter, shielding every inch of you. His weight grounds you, anchors you to the earth as the fury rages overhead.

Then—

Silence.

Smoke. Crackling. The compound groans as its structure collapses.

Your ears ring. Your skin is coated in ash and dust. You blink slowly, chest heaving.

Seungcheol lifts his head first.

His hair is singed at the edges. There’s a bleeding cut on his arm from fallen debris. But he’s alive.

You roll beneath him slightly, dazed, pupils blown wide as your gaze meets his.

Neither of you speak.

You just reach up with shaking fingers and brush a smear of soot from his cheek.

Then you mouth it:

Thank you.

He lets out a dry chuckle, then shifts beside you, flopping onto his back in the grass with a groan.

The two of you stare up at the sky above. Bits of scorched leaves flutter down like feathers.

The train hums steadily beneath your feet, metal wheels grinding softly against iron tracks as the landscape rolls by in a blur of dusk and shadow. It’s your second train in two days, and the rhythm has become something almost meditative—lulling, even soothing—if not for the weight pressing down on your chest.

Munich was a blur. Quick layover. New platform. A different conductor, different glances, different whispers of German you barely registered through the haze of concentration and caffeine. Now it’s Luxembourg ahead, the final stretch before you disappear into the woods, heading toward a place the rest of the world doesn’t even know exists.

You sit cross-legged on the small fold-out sleeper bunk in your private cabin, flicking through weapons one by one. Cleaning cloths. Fresh rounds. Blade oil. The hum of the train is your only soundtrack.

Across from you, Seungcheol mirrors your movements, his back against the wall, knees up, long fingers reassembling the slide of his pistol with practised ease. It’s not about necessity at this point. Everything’s already ready. It’s about habit. Control. The illusion of it, anyway.

You glance up at him, catching the crease between his brows and the faint tremor in his thumb as he locks the magazine into place. He’s steady. Always has been. But this isn’t like any mission you’ve done before.

He senses your eyes on him and glances up, offering a small, tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You ever gonna stop checking that knife?” he asks.

You twirl the karambit around your fingers. “Not tonight.”

He nods like he understands—and he does. Of course, he does.

There’s a long stretch of silence before he speaks again, this time more carefully. “Can you tell me about her?”

You pause, eyes narrowing slightly. “Lim?”

He nods. “I’ve never met her. Never even seen a photo. Only heard what Reina and Jiwoo said. But if I’m going to walk into her house with a bullet chambered, I want to understand who we’re really facing.”

You sit back, the weight of the knife still warm in your palm. You stare out the window for a beat—at the darkening sky, at the streaks of stars beginning to appear above dense silhouettes of trees and valleys—before you speak.

“She’s brilliant,” you say softly, letting the words form with intention. “And terrifying in the most elegant way imaginable. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t make threats. She makes promises. And she keeps them. Always.”

Seungcheol listens, his jaw tight.

“She recruits people like an art collector would. She studies them. Waits. Makes them feel seen. Then she bends them to her will so subtly they don’t even realize they’ve changed sides. And when she’s done with them… she never gets her hands dirty. You’ll never see it coming.”

You feel his gaze on you, but you keep your eyes on the knife in your hand.

“I watched her take down five agencies from the inside just by turning people against each other. I watched her call a kill order on a pregnant agent because she had doubts about continuing. I saw the body. The husband. The baby didn’t make it.”

You swallow hard.

“She told me once that loyalty was just a leash wrapped in velvet. She said affection was a liability… and love?” You look up now, straight into Seungcheol’s eyes. “Love was a knife people begged to be stabbed with.”

The quiet after your words stretches thin between you, taut and cold. His face is unreadable for a long beat, but his hands are clenched, and you know that fury lives just beneath his skin.

“She gave the order for me to kill you,” you murmur. “When I married you, she knew who you were. She could have given me the order right then and there. But she waited until she was sure of my feelings for you. Until she was sure it would hurt me. She was always ten steps ahead.”

Seungcheol doesn’t flinch, but you see the flicker of pain in his eyes. “And you almost did.”

You nod. “I would’ve. I nearly did. But when I saw your face…” Your voice breaks, just slightly. “I couldn’t do it.”

“So this is it,” he murmurs. “The end of the road.”

You nod slowly. “If we fail, she disappears. The whole web collapses. And people like Reina, Mingyu, Jiwoo, Joshua—they’ll be hunted. You and I?” You give a faint, dry laugh. “We won’t even be worth the cleanup effort. She’ll make an example of us.”

“And if we win?”

You don’t answer him.

Seungcheol leans back against the wall again, exhaling heavily through his nose. “This is the part where I say we can still back out, isn’t it?”

You smile wryly. “That boat in Trinidad still floating?”

He chuckles—a low, humourless sound—but you’re glad to hear it.

“That cabin in the Alps is looking mighty tempting now,” he murmurs, gaze distant. “Just the two of us. Snowed in. No names. No guns.”

You lean your head back against the window, closing your eyes for a second.

He turns toward you again, one corner of his mouth twitching. “We’re idiots.”

“Mm.” You smile. “But we’re in love. That’s worse.”

The silence that follows isn’t tense. It’s… full. Weighty with all the things you aren’t saying, all the possibilities you won’t let yourself dream about right now. Your eyes meet his in the quiet—two people teetering at the edge of something neither of you can control.

No more chances after this.

No more exits.

You sit up slowly, slide the karambit back into your thigh holster, and reach for his hand.

“Till death do us part, right?” you ask, voice steady.

His eyes soften, his fingers tightening around yours like a promise.

“...and probably still after that, too,” he whispers.

The forest is silent. Still. Too still.

You and Seungcheol move like a whisper between the trees, every step calculated, every crunch of damp underbrush softened by instinct and years of experience. The canopy above shivers faintly in the wind, moonlight occasionally slashing through the leaves in silver streaks. Your gear is strapped tight to your body, weapons close. You feel your heartbeat in your throat, steady but forceful. The weight of what’s ahead presses against your ribcage like a warning.

After nearly an hour on foot, there it is.

Lim’s estate.

It rises from the forest, glass and metal shimmering faintly in the dark. But not glass—mirrors. Massive mirrored panels encase the exterior walls, reflecting the surrounding trees and sky so perfectly it makes the entire compound look like a trick of the eye. Almost invisible. Almost unreal.

You crouch down with Seungcheol behind the trunk of a fallen tree, binoculars raised. But they don’t help. The reflections are endless. No windows to see through. No weak spots. You try the thermal sensors, the electromagnetic sweeper, even the pulse radar.

Nothing. Complete blackout.

Seungcheol’s expression hardens beside you. “We’re going in blind.”

You nod once, tension coiling low in your stomach.

At least the scrambler still works. You check the signal and feel a flicker of control return. “No alarms. No cameras,” you murmur.

“But everything else?” he asks.

You meet his gaze. “We’re caught in her web now.”

Just then, movement—a silhouette rounding the west side of the compound. A guard. Walking alone, slow, almost bored. Rifle at his side. Head turning in lazy arcs.

You both recognize it instantly: your window.

You slip over the tree, bodies melting into the foliage. The air feels colder the closer you get to the structure, like something sinister is waiting. You signal. Seungcheol nods, flanking left. You go right.

The guard never sees it coming.

One swift, clean movement—your blade slicing silently, Seungcheol catching the body before it hits the ground. You both drag him into the brush and dart to the wall. A hidden side door. Seungcheol picks the lock, fast and silent, while you cover him.

The door creaks open with a soft hiss.

And then you’re in.

The compound swallows you in darkness. No overhead lights. Just muted emergency bulbs glowing red along the baseboards. The air smells faintly of bleach and expensive perfume.

Together, you move room by room—clinical hallways, offices filled with screens, empty staircases. You kill quickly, efficiently. One by one, the guards fall. They don’t scream. They don’t even know what’s happening until it’s over. You and Seungcheol sweep the entire ground floor, then the first, avoiding the glass-walled atrium and sticking to shadowed corners.

No alarms. No reinforcements. No Lim.

You’re starting to feel a strange sense of unease. Like it’s all too easy.

Then—just as your boot hits the top of the second-floor landing—it happens.

A voice rings out, smooth and cold, echoing through the speakers tucked into every corner.

“Gwisin.” You feel Seungcheol stiffen behind you. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Your body freezes. You’d thought—hoped—you were ahead. But of course not. You warned Seungcheol yourself: she’s always ten steps in front.

The silence that follows is deafening. You look down the hallway. Then, with a mechanical hiss, a door at the end slides open.

A deep, impossible darkness yawns within.

You don’t move. Neither does Seungcheol.

“Come in,” Lim’s voice purrs. “I insist.”

You glance at Seungcheol. His jaw clenches, but he nods once. No turning back now.

You move in sync, every step echoing on the polished black floors. The office is silent, save for your breathing. Then, the door shuts behind you with a hiss of finality, locking you in the dark.

And then—

Bang.

“Agh—!”

The sound of the gunshot is deafening, sharp and shocking in the enclosed space. You scream his name, reaching out, panic clawing at your throat.

“Cheol—!”

He drops beside you, groaning in pain, clutching his leg. You see the blood, dark and hot, pouring from his thigh.

“Stop.” Lim’s voice snaps, sharp now, slicing through the dark like a knife.

“He’s not dead. Yet. But if you take one more step, Gwisin, the next bullet goes through his skull.”

Your hands lift immediately. You straighten slowly, your heart thundering, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Seungcheol grabs your hand as you try to move, fingers slick with blood.

He’s trying to stay conscious. His teeth are clenched, his breathing shallow. But his eyes never leave yours.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t do this.”

You turn to Lim, face blank. “I’m here,” you say aloud, stepping forward into the dark. “I’ll play your stupid games. Just don’t touch him again.”

The lights flicker to life.

And there she is.

Madame Lim sits in the centre of the room, calm and unbothered, her white suit pristine, her legs crossed as if she were merely waiting for tea. Her hair is swept back, face emotionless, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. A table separates the chair facing hers.

Atop it: a single, silver revolver.

Your stomach drops. Lim smiles slowly.

“You remember how this works.”

You stare at the gun. At the chairs.

And for the first time in a very long time, you feel real, consuming dread curl its claws into your chest.

Russian Roulette.

And you already know—only one of you will be walking away.

Your legs carry you forward, one heavy step after the next, the sound of your boots echoing in the stillness like distant thunder. The pain in your chest doesn’t come from a wound, but it hurts just the same—coiled fury, barely contained. You can feel the heat of Seungcheol’s blood still on your hand, your breath caught somewhere between rage and terror.

The chair is waiting. Empty.

You sit slowly, your knees trembling under the weight of what you’re walking into.

Across from you, Madame Lim lounges in her seat like the queen she’s always pretended to be—composed, elegant, a portrait of detached cruelty. She eyes you with a quiet satisfaction, her red lips curling into something that’s almost… amused.

“Welcome home, darling,” she says smoothly.

You clench your jaw. The mask doesn’t slip.

“I’m here,” you say evenly. “What’s the play?”

Lim’s smirk widens. Slowly, she reaches for the revolver resting on the table between you, her delicate fingers wrapping around the cold metal like it’s a treasured artefact.

She flips it open with a practised snap, turns it so you can see—

One bullet.

She closes the chamber and spins it. The click-click-click of the revolver spinning fills the silence between you, steady and cruel.

Then she sets it down, the handle pointing to the space between you.

“Simple,” she says, voice like silk over broken glass. “We spin the revolver. Whoever the handle lands on takes the first shot. If you win, you get the pleasure of accessing my system, removing your bounty, and tearing my empire apart from the ground up… before you put a bullet through my skull.”

She pauses, lips curling.

“But if I win… I get to watch the life drain from your eyes. I get to see the anguish on Seungcheol’s face when I shoot the love of his life in front of him. Right before I kill him, too. Tragically romantic.”

Your nails dig into your thighs beneath the table, the only outward sign of how close you are to snapping. But your voice remains even.

“You forget I need you alive to access your system. So this is a waste of time. I lose no matter what.”

Lim tuts, rising gracefully from her chair. “Oh no, darling. Quite the contrary.”

She walks toward the far side of the room, the hem of her white suit jacket swaying with each precise step. You glance behind you just once—Seungcheol still lies on the ground, bleeding, pale, but breathing. His eyes find yours, and the look there nearly unravels you.

You turn back to Lim just in time to see her approach her desk and pull out a sleek black laptop.

She returns, sets it down beside the revolver with exaggerated care, and slowly opens it. The screen glows to life. One by one, she performs the biometric logins—retinal, fingerprint, and voice. Just like Kang had.

Then she leans back, smug. “Now, you don’t need me alive anymore.”

You stare at her. And she stares right back, the game finally unfolding, the trap finally sprung.

“Let’s begin,” she says softly.

She takes the revolver, gives it a spin again, and when it stops—

The handle points directly at you.

You inhale deeply, picking it up. The weight of it is intimate and horrifying all at once. One in six. You press it to your temple, finger tightening on the trigger.

Click.

Nothing. Lim smiles, pleased. You slide the revolver across the table.

She picks it up gracefully and points it to her own head, never blinking, never breaking eye contact.

Click.

Still nothing. Your turn again.

You pick it up, ignoring the burn in your lungs, the sweat forming at the back of your neck. Lim is watching you with that same gleaming hunger.

“You always were weak,” she says. “Falling in love. Letting yourself care. You would’ve ruled this world, Gwisin, if you hadn’t gone soft.”

You ignore her. Gun to your temple.

Click.

You breathe out slowly, chest tight. She snatches it next, almost eagerly, her voice rising.

“You should’ve killed him. He was never worth it. Do you know how pathetic you look, crawling around for a man who’d bleed out for you? Do you think he’ll survive this anyway? Or do you just want someone to cry over your corpse?”

Gun raised.

Click.

Still nothing. Now you know. This is it.

If you get the bullet, it’s over. If not—you win.

She leans forward, taunting, her voice a venomous hiss now.

“He’s not going to make it. You’ve already lost, darling. Look at him—pale, dying, weak. Just like your resolve. Like your entire rebellion. You could’ve chosen me. But instead, you’re nothing more than a wife in mourning.”

You cut her off, hand closing around the gun mid-sentence. Her mouth stills, eyes flicking downward as you lift it once more. You don’t speak. You don’t blink. You just pull the trigger.

Click.

Silence. Everything stops. You don’t move. She doesn’t move.

Because that was the fifth shot.

And everyone in the room knows what that means.

The sixth belongs to her.

She smiles—slow, awful, the knowing kind of smile that monsters wear in their final moments.

You gently place the revolver back down, never looking away as you pick up the laptop. You pull the flash drive from your pocket with a trembling hand and plug it in.

Lines of code scroll by. You follow Reina’s instructions to the letter.

The virus deploys.

One by one, every trace of the bounty system begins to dismantle itself. Files corrupt. Names disappear. Targets are wiped clean. You check twice, then a third time. It’s done.

You press one final command, and the entire system shuts down.

No more empires. No more Lim.

Your victory tastes like ash.

You stand slowly, refusing to look at her, and turn toward the man on the floor.

“Cheol…” you whisper, approaching him softly.

That’s when it happens.

“Sorry, darling,” Lim purrs. “Can’t let you win.”

Bang.

You freeze. But the pain never comes.

The thud of a body hitting the floor echoes behind you. And when you turn— She’s there.

Madame Lim.

Shot through the chest.

Seungcheol’s pistol clatters to the ground beside him, his arm falling limp.

He’s panting, eyes fluttering, drained from the blood loss and effort it took to raise the weapon. But he did it. He saved you. Again.

“No— no, no, no, baby, stay with me—”

You scramble to him, sliding to the floor, pressing your hands hard against his thigh. Blood oozes between your fingers. You tear at your shirt, using the fabric to make a quick tourniquet above the wound.

His skin is clammy. Pale.

“Don’t do this to me,” you plead, voice cracking. “Don’t you dare go quiet now, Choi Seungcheol.”

He tries to speak, but no words come out. His eyes close.

“NO!” you scream, pressing harder, doing everything you can to keep him tethered to you. “Stay awake. Please. I can’t— I can’t lose you now.”

You grab your comms, tears streaking down your face.

“Reina! Mingyu! Jiwoo! Anyone!” you cry into the mic. “He’s down—he’s hit! We need extraction now—NOW!”

Static. Then Reina’s voice breaks through, panicked but focused.

“We’re on our way. Hold on. Just hold on.”

You sob, forehead pressed to his as you hold the wound with both hands.

“You promised me,” you whisper. “You said even after death, remember? So don’t you dare let go. Stay. You stay with me.”

The Caribbean sun beats down from a cloudless sky, the wind gentle as it dances through the sails of the boat that floats lazily just off the coast of Trinidad. Seagulls cry in the distance, their wings cutting through the heat as waves lap softly against the hull. The air tastes like salt, and stillness, and peace. For once, the world is quiet.

You lay stretched across a sun-bleached lounge chair on the deck, skin warm, drink sweating in your hand. A lazy breeze rolls over your bare stomach, ruffling your hair. Sunglasses shield your eyes, but you’re not really looking at anything. Just the endless blue horizon.

It’s been six months.

Six months since the compound. Six months since Madame Lim fell. Since you screamed into the comms for someone—anyone—to come and save the man bleeding out in your arms.

And now—this. The boat. His boat.

The one he joked about right before you came up with that ridiculous plan to take on your bosses. The mythical exit plan. A sailboat docked and waiting off the coast of Trinidad for a day that might never come. But it did come.

You take another sip of your drink and close your eyes.

The sun presses hot against your skin. Your breathing slows.

Then— A creak of wood.

Bare feet padding across the deck.

You don’t bother opening your eyes. You know who it is.

Reina’s voice floats out from the cabin, bright and amused. “I swear, this place is turning me into a whole new woman.”

You lift your sunglasses to peer at her. She emerges wearing a bikini that somehow manages to be both functional and designer, two fresh cocktails in her hands.

She walks over and hands you one before plopping down in the chair beside yours with a content sigh.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

The boat rocks gently, and the sea stretches out in all directions.

Reina swirls her drink, then glances at you. “You know,” she says softly, “Seungcheol was onto something, keeping this boat stashed away.”

You smile, a slow curve of your lips. There’s something bittersweet in it.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “He definitely was.”

The silence between you shifts. Not heavy, not sad. Just full. You both sit with it. With the past. With what you lost. With what you kept.

Then—

“Is that how you talk about me when I’m not around?”

The voice cuts through the stillness like lightning. Familiar. Deep. Teasing.

A shadow moves at the stern of the boat.

Then, emerging from the water with a grin and a sun-drenched gleam in his eyes—

Seungcheol.

Shirtless, drenched, water trailing down his broad chest. His swimming trunks cling to his hips. His hair is dark and wet, pushed back by the sea. His towel is slung casually over one shoulder, and his smile—lazy, wicked, alive—makes your heart skip.

The scar on his leg is visible, faint against his tan skin. He walks with a slight limp still, but he’s upright. Strong. Getting better every day.

You stare, lips parted in a grin that spreads like a sunrise across your face. “You’re supposed to warn a girl before you sneak back on deck.”

He approaches, towel-drying his face, and when he leans over, he kisses you. Softly. Warmly. His lips linger, just long enough to remind you that this—he—is real.

“I heard you talking shit,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You laugh, brushing your fingers through his damp hair. “You heard wrong.”

He slides into the space beside you, pulling your legs gently over his lap, his hand resting casually on your thigh like it belongs there. Because it does.

“When are you coming in for a swim?” he asks, nudging you with a grin. “Water’s perfect.”

“When I feel like it,” you reply, tipping your glass toward him with a lazy clink.

Reina groans. “Ugh. You two are disgusting.”

You and Seungcheol both smirk, not even bothering to deny it.

The three of you laugh, and for a moment, everything is light.

Beep.

A sound breaks from the cabin. Muffled. Sharp. Urgent.

Your heart stutters.

You’re on your feet in an instant. So is Seungcheol. Both of you race below deck, Reina on your heels. You slide into the cabin, heart already pounding in your chest.

There it is.

You recognize it immediately. One of your old encrypted devices, the ones you used when Lim & Associates was still in operation, the one on which your bounties arrived.

You reach for it, hands steady despite the fear unfurling in your gut.

The screen flickers to life. Code scrolls. Then—

A name.

Target: Kim Mingyu.

Alias: Fireball.

Bounty: 3 Million.

Your blood turns to ice.

Seungcheol reads it beside you, lips parting in disbelief. “What…”

Reina appears in the doorway, eyes wide. “What’s going on?”

You turn the screen toward her.

She sees the name. And freezes.

“What the hell did that idiot do now?”

A/N: Andddd, it's here! After how much you guys seemed to love part one, I couldn't not write this second part. Hope you all enjoyed the rollercoaster that was Gwisin and S.Coups. Are you ready for the second storyline? 👀💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

[moody-alcoholic]

hi moody i know you dont take requests... i have so many ideas but since im not a writer they get forgotten..i just wanna tell you this idea so maybe you can use it somehow in future as a one shot or a mini fic or dont use it at all its all up to you of course

it could be poly 141tf or ghoap or any pair

reader is a member of the 141 ... recently she Found out she is pregnant but knowing the risks that comes with the job and how the boys aren't maybe ready to have kids she's afraid to tell them.. eventually she tries to tell them multiple times but always something comes up like an urgent situation and they tell her we can talk after or something like that..and they go on a mission wich the reader gets kidnapped in...so one day when they visit her room they find a pregnancy ultrasound👀so how would they react and how are they gonna save her knowing they can lose both her and their baby? and knowing they could have prevented this by letting her talk the last time 👀

I'm chewing on the bars of my enclosure rn..

The angst the beautiful, sexy angst. You caught me at the perfect time, I've just been stuck in a 2 week rut and I need to write anything other then my main projects.

So here is a thing, I can't help myself it had to be poly 141 and there is probably going to be a second part....

CW: kidnapping, pregnancy.

___

The house is quiet. 

Price knew something was wrong the second he put the key in the door. Ghost knew as soon as he pulled up into the drive. Johnny and Gaz seemed to be too invested in the footy they started watching half way home to really pay attention. 

When the door to the house is opened and you’re not there to greet them, that's when their attention changes from the premier league. Ghost comes up to stand next to Price who looks at him quickly before taking a tentative step inside calling out for you. 

Gaz’s phone is in his pocket as they all look into the dark house. Maybe you’re asleep, it’s happened before; they’ve come home to a cold dark house and found you asleep in bed with your headphones in. Ghost walks in next, his hand brushes over his holster - it’s empty. 

You don’t like guns in the house, not that they don’t have weapons stashed in strategic places for instances just like this one. 

“Shit.” Price says as he turns the light on in the kitchen. Everyone moves up to see, the place is a mess. Food is left out on the counter, vegetables half chopped. The back door is broken, the bottom half swinging open in the wind. 

“Shite.” Johnny says from the back. Price bends down and picks something up when he stands back up he places it on the kitchen island. It makes Ghost’s stomach sink, there's blood on the knife. Ghost watches as John clenches his jaw before looking up at them all. 

“Search the place.” He says keeping his voice firm and level. No one needs to be told twice, everyone turns back into the entrance hall. Johnny’s already on his knees opening the ‘broken’ chest in the hall. The one they always say they’ll fix one day so you can store the winter clothes in it. 

Johnny reaches in and pulls out a weapon and a mag, handing it to Gaz who turns handing it to Ghost. He loads the pistol pulling the barrel back and walks into the kitchen to hand it to Price who’s shouting orders at someone down the phone. Probably Laswell, he nods at Ghost who leaves it on the kitchen island. 

He looks down at the knife, he hopes that's not your blood, by the state of the kitchen you had just started preparing to cook which means it’s been a few hours, 2 or 3 at least. 

“Ghost!” He spins hearing Johnny call him. They both have weapons in their hands Johnny is holding one out for him. He nods at them but lets Soap take the lead, he is the best of them.

It’s methodical, clean. They move in silence only communicating when they need to. It feels strange doing this in their own house, their home. Ghost holds his breath as each door of the second floor is slowly pushed open and Soap and Gaz step in to clear it.

Everytime he hopes they call out that they’ve found you. He hopes that they’re just overreacting and you’re asleep, safe. When they make it to the last door Ghost’s hope fades. 

Now they know the house is clear they need to look for anything that can help them find out who has you and where you are. Ghost orders them to search a room each, he turns into your room. The place is a mess, books pulled off the shelves, drawers opened and papers thrown around. 

It makes his stomach sink, they were obviously looking for something so he sticks his head into Price’s office. That place is a mess too, they wouldn’t have found anything though, not with the military grade security measures he has in place. 

He goes back into your room holstering his weapon and looking around at the places they missed. They even pulled the clothes out of your wardrobe, he can’t see any blood though, that has to be a good sign at least. 

The only place they seemed to have missed is your bedside table. He bends down to open it, when he does his heart stops. For a split second he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. He lets out an audible gasp before reaching into take out the black and white ultrasound image. 

Maybe it’s your friend? You said there was a pregnant girl at your work. He sees your name on the top of the picture though, it’s dated from today too. He looks back in the drawer seeing two - three positive pregnancy tests. 

He looks back at the scan, he has no idea what way is up or what he’s really looking at. He turns it over in his hand and sees written in pen; 6 weeks. He almost laughs, his head starts to swim. You’re pregnant, you didn’t tell them, he looks back at the black and white scan. Maybe you didn’t know it is dated from today. 

“LT?” Johnny’s voice snaps him out of his head and he turns to look at him. Johnny’s good at knowing what Simon is thinking under the Ghost mask. A worried look falls over his face and he steps into the room. Ghost's not sure what to say. He's just holding the photo as Johnny frowns, taking it out his hand. 

Johnny looks at it for a few seconds. It feels like hours. “Holy shit!” Johnny looks up beaming at Ghost.

“Gaz!” He calls, a second later Gaz appears in the doorway. Johnny rushes over to him, Ghost watches as he slaps Gaz on the shoulder showing him the picture. 

“Holy shit.” Gaz says smiling while looking up at Johnny. They throw their arms around each other, suddenly Ghost realises he hasn’t moved and swallows the lump rising in his throat. When they break from the hug Gaz and Johnny turn to look at him. 

“Crap, we have to tell John.” Johnny says. 

“Never mind John, what about him?” Gaz says nodding towards him. Ghost closes his mouth, he didn’t realise it was open. 

“Fuck, I think he’s in shock.” Johnny says smiling as he walks over. 

“Is that even possible?” Gaz scoffs. Johnny’s hand lands on his shoulder, he squeezes looking directly in his eyes. 

“You’re going to be a dad.” Johnny says smiling. “We’re all going to be dads.” He says looking around the room the picture of the scan still in his hands. 

“Never mind that. We’ve got more important things to worry about Johnny.” Ghost says, trying to keep his voice level. He can’t freak out now. You’re missing, they need to find you. He shakes it off, clearing his throat. 

“Damn right! Got 2 people to save now.” Johnny says, pushing his shoulder winking at him before turning to leave. Gaz moves to the side to let Johnny past him, his eyes stay on Ghost though waiting until he also starts moving out the room to the stairs before following behind him. 

Johnny is waiting at the kitchen door when Ghost and Gaz catch up with him. They all go in together, John has a laptop out now, his eyes focused on the screen before snapping up to them.

“Find anything?” He asks. No one says anything, Ghost takes this as his cue to talk. 

“Her room and your office were ransacked. It didn’t seem like anything was missing, they were clearly looking for something though.” He says his throat feels suddenly dry. John nods standing up straight and putting his hands on his hips. 

“I’m waiting for the satellite images from Laswell. Kyle, do you remember how to get into the Met’s surveillance system?” John asks. Gaz nods but doesn’t move over to him. Now Price knows something is up. Ghost can read him like a fucking book. 

“What?” He asks frowning. 

“There’s something else.” Johnny says, stepping forward and placing the scan on the island. Ghost watches as he realises what the image is, he reaches down to pick it up squinting, before relaxing his eyes again. He flips it to look at the back quickly, his other hand reaches out to grip the island, his knuckles turning white. 

No one is saying anything, Ghost is holding his breath again. It feels like minutes are passing, minutes they don’t have. They need to find you, Ghost almost steps in to interrupt him but Price’s head snaps up to him. 

“Well.” John says but his voice breaks. He looks down at the picture and lets out a chuckle, a smile creeps on his face. It makes Ghost smile too, he should be happy, he wants to be happy. He can’t focus on that now, his eyes fall on the bloody knife again. 

His smile fades and so does John’s a second later. 

“Fuck.” John puts the scan in his pocket, picking up the laptop and walking around the island. The energy changes, his expression goes hard. It looks like all the colour has drained from his face. 

He passes the laptop to Gaz. “How long until you have access to the cameras?” He asks.

“15, 20 minutes.” Kyle says. John nods, walking past them all out to the hall. 

“Let’s go, we’re going to need all the help we can get to find her.” Price says rushing out the front door. Ghost watches as Johnny and Gaz look between each other. 

“Soap you’re driving!” Price shouts back into the house. Johnny clears his throat and jogs after him. 

“Think he’s finally going to do it?” Gaz asks, looking back at Ghost. He knows what Gaz means. John has always talked about the worst case scenario, pulling all his contacts, bending all the rules in case shit went down and he needed to call in all those eventual favours. 

“Yeah. I think he is.” Ghost says, turning the light off in the kitchen. He hears the car engine start. They both walk out to the drive, Ghost can see Price is already on his phone again. 

Probably not Laswell this time. Probably the base commander, General of the royal marines, Chief officer at the Met. Ghost’s lost track of how many people owe them or John favours. He turns and pushes his key in to lock the front door. With his head turned away and the sound of the engine drowning out his thoughts he gives himself a second to think. 

He’s going to be a dad, they’re all going to be dads. They’ve talked about it time and time again but he always thought it would be something that would happen after the army. He pictures you in his head, laid out on the sofa with a round belly while they all coo over you carrying their child. 

It doesn’t matter who’s it is, they’ll probably never find out, or if they do they’ll seal it in an envelope and hide it away. They always knew from the start it would be like that, it made you feel good knowing it would be an equal thing.

The car horn blares, making Ghost stiffen up. “Let’s go Riley!” John shouts. He lets out a breath pulling the key out the door and turning to the car. 

First things first though, they have to get you back. God help whoever has you, with the warpath he knows John is capable of there's going to be no less than a small army after you soon.

___

I kinda missed out the whole part of her trying to tell them. I wanted to keep it from their POV and try and keep it sort. Things never work out as I plan XD

[laterreurofficial]

Where do you guys get your fashion inspiration from? I have an oc that also uses 2000s fashion but I myself am not very fashionable. I was hoping you just would have maybe some recommendations for how to get into it

Pinterest is obviously a good place to start, but that's ultimately very basic and will only get you skinny white woman clothes, especially for 2000s onward. I'd say involving yourself in fashion communities online is the best method to expose yourself (I follow this one fashiontwt community and it's pretty cool?), but if you want realistic non-yassified examples of period fashion, I'd say go for magazine archives.

Sears catalogs (and other department store mags) can often be found on Internet Archive or just through searches online.

Forums are a good spot for discussion on fashion, too. Look, I found a page from 2010 where people were discussing 2000s fashion! This whole website could be helpful if you have the patience to go through it, since you get to gauge others' views on the fashions as additional info to any actual stuff you find.

I would advise caution against any tiktok or instagram communities as I doubt they would have much beyond 2000s revival, and anyone who is trying to look for scenemo and can only find scenecore would attest that revival of fashions is never a direct copy.

Another good trick might be looking up [2000s celebrity name] + [specific year]? As well as searching up brands. Paul Frank, True Religion, Hollister, Abercrombie & Fitch, Baby Phat, etc.

Anyway, as for 2000s specific advice: Layer the tops, keep those jeans low, and generally tend towards more muted colors? I think people tend to oversell how bright clothes were in the 2000s.

[hrrystylesbookclub]

something that has always kind of confused me about the hunger games is that district four is a “career district” but the victors we know from four are mags, finnick, and annie. all of whom are a part of the rebellion.

here is my current working theory:

in book one, careers are defined as tributes typically from one, two, and four, well fed, and had prior training for the games. katniss says they are volunteers but we all know she is not the most reliable narrator.

i think district four trains their tributes in preparation for the games so if/when they get reaped they are capable fighters, not necessarily grooming them to desire volunteering.

this would explain how finnick became the youngest victor at 14, because i always wondered why he would volunteer so young. i think he was reaped at 14 and had decent meals and training under his belt that made him considered to be a career.

i think part of the training for possible reapings is instilling in them potential methods of breaking the arena.

this is partly because of what we know about annie’s games. she is from a career district and yet we are told she went mad during her games and managed to win by swimming/staying afloat after the arena flooded.

knowing what we know from sunrise on the reaping, beetee’s plan is to flood the brain of the arena, and that wiress was tortured into madness due to her part in the plot. to me, and i think to some other people i’ve seen, this makes annie’s games seem almost like another attempt at beetee’s plan.

IN CONCLUSION

i think (some, not all) district four tributes are trained from an early age to use their misfortune during the reaping as a weapon against the capitol (maybe by the suggestion of mags)

[1nk20ul]

Discovering Jon and Martin’s Birthdays

It’s a wonder how much you can uncover about The Magnus Archives using only a bit of mathematics and a smidge of psychology.

Apparently I have too much time for both and can definitively say that I have revealed the absolute best and most accurate dates for both of their birthdays. Feel free to join me as we dissect piece by piece when these two were born and put to rest the age old question: What is Jon’s zodiac sign?

I’ll put the results in the tags as a TLDR if you’re not interested in reading my method and simply care about what star sign they are or what date to put in your calendar so you can go out for ice cream.

Statement Begins.

To find out the birthdays of Jon and Martin, we first must determine when exactly they joined the Archives. This will be important for the wider picture, as after all, the earliest possible birthday must take place after they start working there. We also must understand the Archive team’s speed in order to understand how to space out our statements and find that aforementioned number.

Gertrude Robinson passed away, according to her file, on the 15th of May 2015. This makes 15th May our earliest possible starting date. The next time the day’s date was specified was on 13th January 2016, when Naomi Herne gave a live statement. This is MAG 13, and our latest start date. Obviously, these numbers are nowhere close to the day we’re looking for, but they act as upper and lower limits. Our answer is somewhere inside.

In Jon’s supplemental notes for MAG 12, he states that Gerard Keay passed away late the previous year. Since Gertrude died after Gerard in early 2015, he must have died in late 2014. This confirms that MAG 1-12 was recorded to tape in 2015. We know that MAG 13, the next statement, was given live on 13th January 2016. This creates, at the very least, an almost two-week gap between archiving statements. This is likely due to the holiday season, so the time between 24th December and up to 1st January can be omitted. To recap, MAG 1-12 was recorded in 2015, and MAG 13 onwards in 2016.

The key to determining archival speed lies with Martin. Martin goes missing right before MAG 17 and reappears at the end of MAG 21. As he gave such a detailed account of those two weeks, our archiving timeline can be significantly accurate. MAG 19-20 were more than likely recorded on the same day, meaning three separate recording sessions took place in two weeks. However, it took a minimum of six weeks to record MAG 14-16.

So far, the timeline looks like this:

Now we have to figure out the left half.

Calculating the average time it takes to archive statements from MAG 13-22 (removing any outliers from our calculations), we can find a true average and apply it to the 2015 year. By March of The Magnus Institute’s 2016 calendar year, the Archive staff was able to archive 1.31 statements per week. I double-checked this number by doing the same with the statements recorded between MAG 22 and MAG 39. By multiplying the average amount of weeks it should take them by the adjusted number of statements recorded, it should equal the number of weeks it actually did take them. If the numbers are the same, the average is reliable. Hoping for the number 20, the number of weeks I had calculated... was 20.11. This average seems relievingly trustworthy and fits Elias’ complaint about the staff “barely getting through one statement per week.”

All we have to do now is multiply the first 12 statements by the 1.31 average to determine how many weeks it most likely took to do the recorded work of 2015. This leaves us with 15.72 weeks and makes the earliest and most probable start date somewhere around 5th September 2015. I will round this to 1st September as I am not expecting the team to start working on statements right out the gate, so these extra four days act as a buffer for everyone to get their bearings and find the tape recorder. Also, it’s convenient for Elias’ financials to start everyone on the 1st of the month.

Now is the fun part - the birthdays. We now know that Jon and Martin’s birthdays must fall somewhere between early September and the end of February. Since March kicks off the Archives living with the threat of Jane Prentiss, they have to take place before then. After that point, the team is far too stressed to have the carefree party heard in MAG 161. We also know that Martin’s birthday has to come before Jon’s, as the team mentions going out for ice cream at Jon’s party. This event has to be long enough in the past for Jon to forget about it, so their birthdays must be reasonably spaced out from one another in the allotted time. Likewise, an amount of time must have passed after their start date for the team to be close enough bond to want to celebrate Martin’s birthday.

Martin’s birth year is easy to determine. Martin tells us his age in MAG 56. His birthday could not have happened at this point in 2017, so his birth year must be 1987. In a Q&A, it was speculated that Jon and Martin have birthdays near each other (and one being slightly older than the other), so only 1987 and 1988 are our options for Jon’s birth year. Let’s look a bit closer at that.

Early ‘88 is closer to Late ‘87 than Early ‘87. At Jon’s birthday party, he says he’s turning 38. Martin is 29 at this time. The obvious conclusion to me is that Jon simply adds a decade to his age. (I find this the most hilarious yet believable scenario.) Jonny was also born in 1988, being 28 himself when that scene would take place. As Jon’s childhood details sometimes mirror Jonny’s, I am taking this as a sign of accuracy.

And by doing some additional work that I will not share here, I can reliably say that these are the best observed birthdays for Jon and Martin:

Martin - 23rd November, 1987

Jonathan - 2nd February, 1988

Also, this makes Martin a potential Valentine’s Day Baby. Do with that what you will.

Thanks for reading!

(Full timeline for those who are interested:)

[neverheroes]

Just because I’ve never seen anyone mention that Bayverse Raphael has scarification on his right shoulder, here’s a post.

In 2016 he has a half sleeve tattoo over the scar. It’s still there.

I do see people mention their 2016 tattoos a lot but for those who didn’t know, you’re not the only one. Leo and Mike have matching tattoos on opposite arms, but all of their character designs are so complex and the lighting throughout tends to be so dark that some people don’t even notice.

Leo has a band on his left upper arm, something on his outer right forearm with a lower cuff, and a turtle motif on his upper right arm. Mike has the same turtle motif on his left. Thanks to indiblueninja on reddit for the pic.

It is, yes, a bit insane to me that their shells and plastron are shown as being bullet proof but their skin is soft enough to be penetrated by tattoo needles. The hard scars I get, blades to the face and all, but tattoo needles can get all bent just from touching the bottom of an ink cup and they blunt as they’re used. Raph’s artist (and I suspect that’s Donatello, who has no tattoos, potentially because he’s the only one who knows how to do it, right? Weird hc but here we are.) probably went through like six mags to get that done hahaha. [footnote that in repost it was noted that they pretty obviously had them done with the tebori method. Thanks tumblr braintrust]

[maraudersilver]

DOE EYES (Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!Reader) Chapter 2

Masterlist Warnings: Alcoholism. Mentions of Death. Wc: 2,1K A/N: Hi! I'm back with another chapter for Doe Eyes! This one is more of a filler, but in the next one we'll get to know reader a little better and she'll interact with Haymitch again! I appreciate comments, they motivate me to keep writing, so thank you all so much!

“He’s… a specimen. Or at least that’s what I understood from Mags.”

Finnick, Johanna and you had decided to use the pool by the Tribute Centre before going back to your own Districts. It did feel chagrin to enjoy such luxuries after the three of you lost your tributes during the first few days, yet Johanna insisted you needed some pampering. And it was indeed a beautiful summer noon, even if inside your mind there were grey clouds. 

“He’s awful,” you groaned, massaging your temples. 

“What did he call you again?” Johanna was splashing farther down the pool, playing with a rubber ring.

“Doe Eyes.”

Finnick snorted, absorbing the liquid of his drink with the metallic straw. “With how much he drinks, I’m pretty sure he couldn’t even see the colour of your eyes.”

“I just don’t understand. Doesn’t he want to give those kids a good memory to hold onto? Most of them die within the first few minutes. At least have some decency and care about them the last few days!” you snarl, indignation ploughing through your spine.

“He’s been here a long while, though. Weren’t his games the last Quarter Quell? Maybe he’s done.” Johanna shrugged her shoulders, her fight with the plastic ring over, opting for floating on the water. 

You hadn’t considered it that way. More than twenty years had passed since the 50th Hunger Games, and Haymitch was still mentoring alone. That meant that he had lost at the very least forty four kids, without taking into account his district partners back in his games. You could justify his drinking problem, those were too many kids to mourn for a lifetime; yet it didn’t sit right with you the lack of effort on his part for the alive tributes. They would probably die, much as yours or Johanna’s or Finnick’s even, but they deserved a chance. 

“Mags’s lost many kids too and she stills takes care of each of us as if we were her own blood,” Finnick gloomily said, drink discarded on the edge of the pool. “And she’s been here longer than him, so that’s no excuse.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. Haven’t paid much attention to local drunkard, to be honest.”

Johanna and Finnick settled on a comfortable conversation about the new ridiculous makeup trend on the Capitol. You, however, stayed trapped in your mind. Until very recently you hadn’t noticed Haymitch more than you would notice any of the other victors outside your inner circle. So why were you so preoccupied with his method? The less he helped his kids the bigger chances yours had. Albeit you cared too much about all kids’ safety, which you did. 

The sun crossed the sky faster than you could process. Johanna had bidden you goodbye an hour ago, she still had to pack for the trip back to her district. Finnick and you had already done so the moment your children had been outed of the competition, so you relaxed farther in the water until your hands were wrinkled and sore. 

“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

Pulled out of your thoughts, you startled and looked up at Finnick, who had swam closer to you. You were losing faculties. How didn’t you hear the shuffle of water? “Nothing. Just excited to go back.”

“Yeah, me too.” He smiled softly, a spark in his eyes that was only lit when he thought of the person he loved the most.

“How’s everything back home?”

“Fine. Perfect, I’d say. And beautiful as ever.”

None of you dared to name Annie outloud. In the Capitol, if there weren’t mics there were cameras, and if not, always a nosy vulture dancing around. “I’m glad. I hope I could visit,” I groaned, muted by my own grin.

“That would lighten the mood for sure. I’d make sure to write, though.”

“I’ve read this book before, Finnick. You’re the worst penpal in Panem!”

“Oh, don’t be so harsh, sweetheart,” he hissed, pressing a hand to his chest in mock pain. “You know there’s always a reply, anyway.”

Annie would be the one to write back. Sweet, darling Annie. If it weren’t for her, you would lose track of Finnick the moment he stepped a foot out of the Capitol. You couldn’t blame him, he made the most of his time every time he was free from the cage Snow trapped him into when he won. And for him, the best time was always spent in the water and with his girl, both at the same time if possible. 

“That’s why I continue writing, asshole.”

“Hey!”

You had already started swimming, if you wanted to make it to the edge of the pool in a battle against Finnick on water, you needed some advantage. Laughing and squealing, you didn’t get too far before Finnick grabbed your ankle and dragged you through the pool as a war prisoner. 

Oblivion can only last so long, and your time with Finnick was up faster than you would have liked. You loved your home, and unlike many victors, you still had a family to return to. But it wasn’t the same anymore, they didn’t understand you as well as your victor friends did. That was something the Capitol had taken from you.

Andromeda left your small bag outside the apartment, so it didn’t take you long to make it to the train station. Not too crowded, most passengers were using coffins rather than the lovely seats by the compartments. 

Finnick waved at you from where he stood on his platform; Johanna already sat on her train wiggled her fingers playfully. The trip back was more depressing than the one after the reaping, it had to do with the fact that no more childish chatter filled the compartments, traded by the reek of death.

Before making it to your own train, you saw Haymitch stumbling down his platform, mumbling something unintelligible to Effie, who looked as bewildered as the rest of passengers around him. He looked worse than what he appeared at the bar that first day of the games, which seemed impossible to achieve back then.

His hair was more unkempt and greasy, and his dark blue suit had many stains over both the shirt and the jacket, probably caused by spilled liquor. There was no sight of his unblemished dove vest. His stubble messier, as if he hadn’t even bothered to trim it off. And dark eye bags were prominent in his face, uprooting the attention from those deep, grey eyes of his. 

Effie pushed him up the stairs of a compartment, shaking her hands off once he was out of sight and sighing heavily. If you had to bet, you would place your money on her having to wake him up fifteen minutes before so he wouldn’t miss the train. 

You huffed. Not even sober enough to flee the Capitol he so much despised, as most of you. The more you thought about him the higher your blood boiled and your flesh scorched.

Suddenly, a fluffy, grey little thing swung before your eyes down to the floor, where it laid placidly in the middle of the train station. Narrowing your eyes, you realized it was a feather. A dove feather, to be more exact. Confused, you looked up at the ceiling in search of the bird, but it must had already flown away, as there was no trace of its trail. 

It took more than half a day to make it to District 6. To your surprise, your mother had been waiting on you at the station, a knitted pink jacket hanging from her left elbow as she waved with her right. 

“Put this on! It’s chilling and you’re gonna end up with the flu.” You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at her greeting, but you complied, placing the jacket over your shoulders. “It may have been sunny down there, but it’s raining here. Gosh, girl, you’re an adult now to know how to dress.”

“It’s good to see you too, ama,” you slurred, already tired of her scalding. You had just arrived, for goodness sake. 

“C’mon, dinner’s waiting.”

The change between the Capitol and your hometown was abysmal. You had left the sunny, overcrowded city painted with skyscrapers to welcome the smoke polluted air of District 6. It was late, or early, depending on who looked at the clock, yet factories had triple turns. Apparently, the Capitol needed way too many trains for their rendezvous after the games were over. 

You waited until the coffins of Ruby and Tyler were collected, beeding them a quiet goodbye in your mind as the Peacekeepers dragged them up the street towards their respected houses, where their families would have to grief them once more. You weren’t sure you could face them, not at that moment, not in the following days. Maybe never. 

If it were for you, the walk back home would have been silent, yet your mother insisted on updating you on anything that happened while you were gone. Deep down, you were grateful for the shush of your thoughts. A train had derailed and a couple workers had been whipped to death. One of them was one of your father’s former coworkers, but in your mother’s opinion your father had been mostly unfaced, more worried about you.

Your older brother, Miles, had a new girlfriend, and your younger brother, Rail, had been helping the people at town to keep his mind out of the games. 

Ever since you won, the apprehension for the Games only but grew in your family. The state you came in and the things you didn’t dare speak about were enough to unsettle even Miles, who prided himself on being quite tough to feelings. 

Once inside your house at Victor’s Village, you didn’t spend much time bonding with anyone. They knew you needed some time to adjust after returning from the Capitol, especially after the Hunger Games, so why they decided to send your mother instead of anyone else to fetch you was beyond your comprehension. And, truth be told, you had eaten your fair share back at the Capitol, so you really didn’t feel like having dinner.

With your borrowed time before Rail decided to ambush your room to kidnap you and tie you on the dining table, you unpacked and had a warm, necessary shower after the long trip. Getting rid of Capitol odor was a top priority. 

Lily scented soap scrabbed your skin until you felt that sweet stinging that told you your flesh was sore and deeply cleaned of Capitol bullshit. Yet there were things that would never be cleaned off your body, such as the biting marks on your inner thighs, or the cuts down your stomach. You always tried to keep your eyes away from them, yet sometimes your mind betrayed you and forced you to look at what was done to you in your very first year of victor. Bless Finnick and your own unstable mental health for drawing away the men who forced themselves on you.

Pijama on and linen sheets wrapped around your body, you closed your eyes, trusting you misjudged your younger brother, until the door swapped open without previous knocking, startling you awake.

“We were waiting for you, dimwit,” Rail said, pulling the sheets off your body. “C’mon, get up. I’m famished.”

“Fuck off, Rail,” you replied, turning on your side to hide away from him and regain some warmth. 

“If you don’t come with me I’ll have to drag you myself. So choose.”

In another family, probably there would have been time to election. However, your brother, not sooner he finished speaking, he grabbed you by your armpits and sat you at the table, where everyone else was already digging up. So they didn’t wait on you as Rail said. Oaf. 

It was nice. They’re trivial problems were enough to take your mind off the atrocities at the Capitol, and you thought about that year’s winner, the boy from District 2. Handsome, young, and new blood for the fangs of the Capitol to drink from. That poor boy would wish he was dead once the feast started. 

Finnick would already be wrapped in Annie's arms, and Johanna was probably enjoying a family dinner similar to yours. But what was Haymitch doing? Did he have a family back in 12? Maybe a wife? No, no woman would tolerate such levels of alcoholism without leaving. Kids? Siblings? Or was he alone?

He had been comfortable at the bar back at the Tribute Centre, so he could be protruding the local bars of his District. Although you wondered if they would sell to him; he had already been plastered at the train station, and in the compartments there was booze to enjoy for a whole year. A set that would last less than four hours in his hands, of course.

Whatever he was doing, and as much as his methods annoyed you, you hoped he had someone there to lift the burden of being a victor.

Tag list: @beingalive1 @timessa @chivasgozilla

Translations - Ama: mom

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Campfire

Materials Needed to Start a Fire

Matches, lighter, or flint stick: Every fire needs a flame. Use matches or a lighter to light the tinder. In the absence of matches or a lighter, a flint stick can help you get a fire going.

Tinder: Tinder material can take many forms. When looking to nature for tinder, pine cones, birch bark, dry grass, leaves, and pine needles are best. You can also use a knife to make sawdust or wood shavings for tinder. Household items, like cotton balls, dryer lint, newspaper, and cardboard are good options as well.

Kindling: Soft woods are the most ideal types of wood for kindling—think pine or cedar. Soft wood burns quickly and is useful for the initial phases of the fire. Use a knife or hatchet to break the wood into small pieces.

Firewood: You’ll need firewood of various sizes. Use smaller pieces during the initial fire-starting phase, and use larger pieces to maintain the fire over time.

Fire extinguisher: Though not essential for building a fire, having a reliable method to extinguish a fire is recommended—whether that be a fire extinguisher or bucket of water.

How to Start a Campfire

Follow this effective method for building a fire.

Create a fire ring. Choose a level spot on the ground to build your fire. Use your hands to create a circular area that is free of rocks and debris. Use any rocks you’ve cleared away to form a ring around the cleared area. If you have a shovel, you can use it to dig a fire pit. (A fire pit may be necessary in poor weather conditions.)

Use small sticks to create a platform. Place several small sticks or twigs flat against the ground to cover the base of your fire ring. This creates a platform that allows airflow beneath the tinder.

Build up tinder. Next, gather dry grass, leaves, birch bark, and/or pine needles and place them on top of the sticks. You can also use cotton balls, dryer lint, or sawdust if you have it.

Light the fire. If you have matches or a lighter on hand, use them to light the tinder. Alternatively, you can use flint or a bow drill to light the fire.

Slowly add kindling. Use a hatchet or knife to break down small pieces of wood. Add a few small pieces of firewood to the lit tinder. Slowly add larger pieces until you have a sizable flame.

Add larger logs. Begin to add larger logs in a teepee or log cabin formation. Use dry wood to avoid excessive smoking and smoldering.

Tips for Starting a Fire

Whether you’re an avid camper or a beginner fire-builder, improve your fire-making skills with these tips.

Keep a flint stick on hand when camping or backpacking. When venturing into the wilderness, it’s wise to keep a flint stick on hand. A flint stick is made of combustible magnesium. The tool comes with a steel striker. Use the striker (or a knife) to make magnesium shavings on top of dry tinder. Knock the striker against the stick to make sparks over the shavings. The sparks will ignite the shavings and catch the tinder on fire.

If the ground is wet, build an upside-down fire. When a wet forest floor threatens to soak your kindling, build your fire upside down. Place three to four larger logs on the bottom, then rotate smaller logs at a ninety-degree angle and stack them on top. Repeat this with increasingly smaller pieces of wood. Top with your tinder and kindling.

Practice the bow drill method. The bow drill method uses friction to create an ember. It consists of a fireboard, hand drill, and bowstring. Rapidly rub the hand drill against the fireboard until enough heat is made to create an ember, which you can then use for starting a fire.

Use the battery and steel wool method. If you have a nine-volt battery and steel wool, you can easily start a fire. Place a small bundle of steel wool in the middle of your tinder. Make contact with a nine-volt battery and the steel wool should immediately ignite.

Create a fire using a magnifying glass. In a pinch, a magnifying glass can harness heat from the sun in order to start a fire. Hold the magnifying glass up to the sun so that a concentrated beam of light is produced on your tinder. If weather conditions are right, it should produce enough heat to create an ember.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[odd-avis]

There are a lot of really cool themes in The Hunger Games world we love to dive into; like fire, birds, plant life, music, technology, propaganda.

But shout out to these other things I think we should love on more:

Prevalence of Poison - how Snow discovers through Lucy and her snakes and the rat poison his preferred method of ☠️; how poison is the it girl danger in the arena of the 2nd quarter quell; how Haymitch loses Lenore (and arguably himself through basically alcohol poisoning); how Katniss and Peeta turn Snow’s favorite weapon against him with the berries

Matrilineal Impact! - yes we have tragic father deaths of literally every book perspective we get (Katniss, Snow, Haymitch), but I think the mother relationships are most telling! Katniss spends so much of her life coming to terms with her relationship with her mom; Snow takes comfort from the memory of his mother but ultimately gives up all remnants of her to more or less pursue evil; the Grandma’am; Tigris & her parentified elder sister energy; Lucy Gray wearing her mother’s dress; Haymitch trying to do the best by his young widowed mom; Burdock being covey on his mother’s side; Haymitch and Maysilee bonding over losing their grandmas; Hattie & Greasy Sae & Ripper being matriarchs of the Hob; Mags protecting her tributes like more than a mentor but like a mother; Katniss refusing to bring children into the world until there were no more Hunger Games… just… WOMEN! MOTHERS!

Escape the Arena - we see attempts of this in every timeline, but I think it’s Snow that really gets that the war and the games are one in the same, they are extensions of each other. You can never truly leave the arena.

Weapons the Suit their Wielders - Katniss is direct and practical as an arrow, but it’s more than a weapon for people in her hands, it’s a tool for a survivor. Haymitch and his axe and his knife are fairly similar, these are tools, but also require you to be in much closer proximity and risk. Ofc Maysilee thrives with poison darts, they’re the only thing more deadly than her words! Snow and the elegance and power move of poison that he consumes too, his victims not suspicious until it’s too late, striking like a snake. Lucy and Peeta and their songs and words being their strongest weapons.

Honestly it’s pure poetry how Suzanne writes this stuff.

[magnuspanoptes]

🔥 jonelias

i think people have overcorrected a little in their enthusiastic criticism of wider fandom interpretation of je as elias keeping jon chained in a dungeon somewhere, because i've seen way too many 'elias is not a controlling partner' posts and. can i be honest. with you. it's not that elias wants jon to have a choice, because he's perfectly content with taking it away when it suits him (160), he wants jon willing (and you can't tell me you're not curious). and we know he gets there through lying and obfuscation and manipulation. he is absolutely a major controlling influence in jon's life, it's just that his methods of control are a lot more insidious. yes, jon has some agency in his becoming, elias did not personally push him through all those doors, but you also have to consider that he simply wouldn't have made a lot of those choices if he was not being methodically kept in the dark. and s3 is very clear about how elias likes to remind jon exactly how reliant he is on him -

mag 96 - "return to sender"// mag 107 - "third degree"

at this point jon's already dependent on the statements for nourishment, it's no longer simply a psychological pull, so all these instances of elias intervening are overt displays of the power he wields over jon because not only is he providing jon with the necessary information he needs to keep up his investigation but without that supply of statements he would be sick and dying.... grotesque in the sense that elias has so easily, neatly acquired jon's life in his hands and in such a manner that even the act of accepting elias's help (to stop the clown ritual—to stay alive!) is preparing and pushing jon towards the apocalypse. this is not a relationship of equals, i'm sorry to say, jon is very much a thing to be possessed and maneuvered for his own gain until 160, when jon acquires enough power to start meaningfully retaliating back. and this is why season five power dynamic reversal je hits. put that old man in saw traps ‼️

[blackcrowing]

Important Facts about Samhain from an Irish Celtic Reconstructionist

Pronunciation

SOW-in or SOW-een ~NOT~ Sam-han, Sam-win etc.

Dates

Most reconstructionists celebrate Samhain on Oct 31-Nov 1, however some may choose to celebrate on Gregorian Nov 13-14 as this would match the Julian dates of Oct 31-Nov 1. Some also believe that it was a three day festival spanning Oct 31- Nov 2 on which Nov 2 is specifically devoted to ancestral veneration, but there is no specific evidence of this, only possible extrapolation from more modern practices.

Following the Celtic method of days beginning at sunset, regardless of the specific dates you choose to celebrate on your festivities should begin at sunset and end at sunset.

Importance in the Mythos

Ná Morrighan has a strong connection to this time of year thanks to the story of Cath Dédenach Maige Tuired (The Last Battle of Mag Tuired) in which she is found depicted as the ‘Washing Woman’ (sometimes washing herself in the river and other times washing the bloodied armor of the soldiers that would die that day), on the eve of the battle which is also Samhain. The Dagda approaches her and couples with her (creating the ‘Bed of the Couples’ along the bank of river and granting Dagda her blessing in the battle to come). This encounter seems to over emphasize the liminality of the encounter by taking place during the changing of the year and with the couple each standing with ‘one foot on either bank’ of the river.

She and her sisters (Badb and Macha) then use various forms of magic to rain destruction on their enemies (in the form of fire and blood). After the day is won Morrighan speaks a prophecy that describes what is taken by some to be the end of days and others to be the events which will later lead to the Ulster Cycle.

Beneath the peaceful heavens lies the land. It rests beneath the bowl of the bright sky. The land lies, itself a dish, a cup of honeyed strength, there, for the taking, offering strength to each There it lies, the splendour of the land. The land is like a mead worth the brewing, worth the drinking. It stores for us the gifts of summer even in winter. It protects and armours us, a spear upon a shield Here we can make for ourselves strong places, the fist holding the shield Here we can build safe places, our spear-bristling enclosures. This is where we will turn the earth. This is where we will stay. And here will our children live to the third of three generations Here there will be a forest point of field fences The horn counting of many cows And the encircling of many fields There will be sheltering trees So fodderful of beech mast that the trees themselves will be weary with the weight. In this land will come abundance bringing: Wealth for our children Every boy a warrior, Every watch dog, warrior-fierce The wood of every tree, spear-worthy The fire from every stone a molten spear-stream Every stone a firm foundation Every field full of cows Every cow calf-fertile Our land shall be rich with banks in birdsong Grey deer before Spring And fruitful Autumns The plain shall be thronged from the hills to the shore. Full and fertile. And as time runs its sharp and shadowy journey, this shall be true. This shall be the story of the land and its people We shall have peace beneath the heavens. Forever

(based on the translation by Isolde Carmody)

It is also mentioned in Echtra Cormaic that on this festival every seven years the high king would host a feast, it was at this time new laws could be enacted. (but it seems that individual Tuathas or possibly kings of the individual providence may have done this for their territories at Lughnasadh).

It seems to be a time considered especially susceptible to (or of) great change as it is the time which the Tuatha de Danann win victory over the Formorians and take control of Ireland, the invasion of Ulster takes place at this time in Táin bo Cúailnge, in Aislinge Óengusa Óengus and his bride-to-be are changed from bird to human and eventually he claims kingship of Brú na Bóinne at this time of year.

Celebration Traditions

Samhain is the beginning of the “dark half” of the year and is widely regarded as the Insular Celtic equivalent of the New Year. The “dark half” of the year was a time for story telling, in fact in this half of the year after dark is considered the only acceptable time to tell stories from the mythological and Ulster cycle (the Fenian cycle being assumed to be no older than the 12th century based on linguistic dating). Traditionally anything that had not been harvested or gathered by the time of this festival was to be left, as it now belonged to the Fae (in some areas specifically the Púca).

This was also an important time for warding off ill luck in the coming year. Large bonfires would be built and as the cattle were driven back into the community from the pastures they would be walked between these bonfires as a method of purification (the reverse custom of Bealtaine where the livestock were walked between the fires on their way out to the summer pastures). Assumed ritualistic slaughter of some of the herd would follow (though this perhaps had the more practical purpose of thinning the herd before the winter and creating enough food for the feasting). In some areas the ashes from these fires would be worn, thrown or spread as a further way to ward off evil.

Homes would be ritualistically protected from the Aos Sí (Fae or ‘Spirits’) through methods such as offerings of food (generally leaving some of the feasting outside for them), carving turnips with scary faces to warn them off (we now tend to do this with gourds), and smoke cleansing the home (in Scottish saining) traditionally with juniper, but perhaps rowan or birch might be an acceptable alternative. It is likely these would be part of the components used in Samhain bonfires as well, for the same reason.

Lastly based on later traditions as well as links in the mythology this is a time where divination practices or those with the ‘second sight’ were regarded to be especially potent.

Art Credit @morpheus-ravenna

My Kofi

[notablenotions]

Masks of Nobility – Chapter 19

Henry had never expected his life to include embroidery circles, but here he was—seated under the soft shade of the courtyard awning, needle in hand, trying not to bleed on the fine linen. Opposite him, Jikta stitched with the precision of a surgeon, calm and methodical, as if they weren’t two people entangled by the same man, but instead an old married couple, discussing crop yields and tool designs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Which, to Henry’s surprise, it was.

Jikta glanced at his clumsy attempt at a double satin stitch and sighed, not unkindly. “That’s a disaster.”

Henry frowned at the uneven threads. “I’m a blacksmith, not a seamstress.”

“And yet, I’ve seen you thread a needle to stitch wounds. Try thinking of it like repairing chainmail.”

Henry grunted, adjusting his grip as she leaned forward, guiding his hand with clinical precision.

“I’ve something for you to look at.” She set aside her hoop and pulled out a rolled parchment. “Schematics. A theoretical plow design. More efficient for the common folk. I need your eye—would it be practical? Easy to forge?”

Henry unrolled it, studying the lines. “With the right tools and materials, aye. Might cut time in the field by half.”

“Good.” She resumed stitching. “I’ll have it drawn up for the smiths if you think it’s sound.”

The conversation drifted to more mundane topics—grain shipments, the new mare in the stables, Mags’ increasingly prophetic disdain for Hans’ antics. It was peaceful, almost comfortable, as if they’d been sitting here for years, weathered companions managing a house. Not a husband’s lover and said husband’s wife.

Henry didn’t mind it.

Not until the tranquility shattered.

---

He heard it first—the honking.

Then the shuffle of webbed feet across the stone courtyard.

Henry looked up to see Black Bartosch striding toward them, smug as sin, with a goose in tow—dressed in bright yellow, a near-perfect mimicry of Hans’ most garish hunting outfit. The goose flapped its wings once, then stood still, terrifyingly calm.

“Good day,” Bartosch said, voice casual, as if he hadn’t just declared war. “Lovely weather. How’s the stitching?”

Jikta didn’t look up. “Peaceful. Was, anyway. I suspect that won’t continue.”

Henry was still staring at the goose. “Is that—?”

“Yes,” Jikta answered. “Yes, it is.”

The sound of rapid footsteps thundered from above, followed by the slam of a door and the unmistakable yelling of a man unhinged.

“You bastard!” Hans stormed down from his office, cloak billowing, hair a mess, looking like he’d seen the gates of hell—and it wore feathers. “What is this treachery?!”

Bartosch gestured at the goose, deadpan. “A gift. For the pig.”

Hans pointed dramatically, voice cracking, “I renamed a pig—one pig! You’ve brought an abomination! Dressed like me!”

“It honks less,” Bartosch noted. “Better behaved.”

The goose waddled in circles, pecked at Hans’ boot, and honked.

Hans shrieked, flailing. “Why does everyone think I’m a goose?!”

Henry, without missing a beat, muttered, “Because you’re a silly goose.”

Hans gasped, clutched his chest like Henry had stabbed him, and flounced off with a trail of dramatic curses, shouting about betrayal, mockery, and a distinct lack of appreciation for his greatness. The door slammed behind him with all the subtlety of a war hammer.

Jikta didn’t even blink. “He’ll sulk for hours. That’s your job now.”

Henry blinked. “What? You’re Lady Capon.”

She fixed him with a look. “And you’re more of a wife than I’ll ever be.”

Henry stared. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

She wasn’t wrong, and he hated that.

He sighed, rolling up his sleeves. “Fine. I’ll go soothe the goose.”

Behind him, Bartosch called, “Tell him I’ve got another cape for the goose—if he wants to match.”

Henry didn’t look back. He couldn’t risk laughing before reaching Hans.