#kill la kill layouts messy

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Mako ( ◜‿◝ )

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i bet on loosing dogs

[xi4ngling]

🍊 🧀 🍜 Emo Characters W Emo Hair .ヾ(`ヘ´)ﾉ

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🌺 ##_ _ M3SSY L4Y0UTS ! <3

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[daisyachi]

# RYUK0 L4Y0UTS

( R3Q )

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[h3sn3v3rb33n2plut0]

“La Vie Est Drole!” - Ragyō Kiryūin

[ppersonna]

waking up in vegas - jjk | m

get up and shake the glitter off your clothes, now.  that's what you get for waking up in Vegas - waking up in vegas, katy perry

↳ summary- you know what they say. what happens in vegas, stays in vegas.  but, what happens when you accidentally marry your brother’s best friend?

↳ rating- explicit/18+/nsfw

↳ pairing- jeon jungkook x reader

↳ word count- 3.1k

↳ genre- fluff, smut, pwp with feels

↳ warnings- penetrative sex, fingering, unprotected sex (be smart friends), cream pies, light dirty talk, jungkook being cute af, slight nipple play

↳ a/n- well. i can’t tell you why i decided to write this, but i did.  and it’s cute? i hope you enjoy this! thanks to @taetaewonderland​ @kookiesjoonies​ for reading it over and for @ladyartemesia​ and @xjoonchildx​ for being the best hype team a lady could ask for.  i love uuuU!!!! feel free to hmu if you’d like!

 It’s a splitting headache that wakes you up from your near comatose sleep.

Your eyes blink open and you groan when a sliver of light bores into your vision.  The curtains are closed but there’s just enough of a crack that the sunlight seeps in directly onto your face.

You roll over in the expansive hotel bed and hold a pillow to your face as you groan out loud.

What happened last night?

All you remember is being with the guys, celebrating your brother Namjoon’s upcoming nuptials by bar-hopping your way down the main strip of Las Vegas.

It all gets pretty blurry from there.

You know you’re in a hotel room and you hope it’s yours.  You can’t remember if you made it back to your own room or if you found someone to share the night with.  There had been that cute guy at the first bar who bought you a drink.  Maybe you’d gone home with him.

You chance a look at the bed and see a human-sized lump next to you, a tiny bit of black hair sticking out.

The black hair was nondescript, and you had no idea who it could be.  There surely were a thousand men in the greater Las Vegas area alone with black hair.  It could be anyone.

Looking around the room, you notice the decor is like that of your own hotel.  But the layout of the room is different.  You bite your lip as you notice you’re completely naked as well.  You’re in a stranger’s room and nude.  Well, at least you’re in the right hotel.

You’re desperate to know who the mystery person under the blankets is, but a war rages within you—should you grab whatever clothes you can find and book it before they wake up?  What if your beer goggles were a little too foggy last night?  How would you feel if you woke up next to someone 20 years older than you?  Or god forbid, younger than you?

A groan comes from the blankets beside you and you panic.  You quickly lay back down in bed and pretend to sleep, back turned to the stranger beside you.

“Fuuuuuck,” the voice grumbles as they emerge from the white cotton bunker they huddled under.

Your pulse froze in your veins.

That voice.  It was so familiar.  It couldn’t be.

You peek an eye out and see the back of a head, unruly black hair sticking out in different directions.  The man smacks his lips as he adjusts his eyes to the low light of the bedroom, before he turns and looks in your direction.

You nearly gasp in horror.

Jeon Jungkook stares at you with a dopey grin on his face. He’s shirtless, and you hate how your eyes can’t stop staring at the way his muscles ripple down his back.  Even in times of crisis you’re still achingly attracted to him.

Jeon Jungkook is your brother Namjoon’s best friend, soon-to-be best man at his wedding, and your decades long secret crush.

The fact that you’re waking up naked in his bed is equal parts distressing as it is titillating.  

“Oh!” He looks startled. “What are you doing here?”

You’ve pulled the sheets up to your chin, covering any inch of exposed skin.

“Uh, I don’t know,” you whisper as you swallow hard.  “I was hoping you would know.”

Jungkook sits and squints his eyes, as if he’s trying to directly visualize into the past.

“Did we end up drinking in here last night after we went out?” He asks as he rubs at his messy hair.

He drops his left hand to the bed, then freezes, eyes locked on his fingers.

“Oh, my god.”

You sit up, worried he’s recalled something that you don’t.

He spins his head to look at yours and notices your bare shoulders.  His eyes widen and he grabs your arm, reaching for your left hand anxiously.

Before you can open your mouth to question his movements, your eyes follow where his eyesight lands.

A gorgeous, sparkling wedding ring sits on your delicate finger, sparkling in the single strip of sunlight beaming through the windows.  

Your throat goes dry.  Jungkook lifts his own hand and presents a silver band on his ring finger and you nearly faint.

You’re married.

To Jeon Jungkook.

You got drunkenly married to your childhood crush and your brother’s best friend.

“Namjoon is going to kill me,” he groans.  He dramatically falls back onto the pillows and covers his face in shame.

You bite your lip carefully and study the ring on your hand.  It’s stunning.  It’s the size and shape you’ve always dreamed of having.  You can’t help but note the irony of it all.   Your dream ring and your dream husband.

Jungkook turns his head to look at you, stares at the soft skin of your bare back.

“Oh, my god, we fucked.”  He covers his face with his hands again, muffling his words.  You’re grateful that he can’t see your face—can’t see the way your cheeks are flaring bright red.

“I had sex with the girl I’ve been in love with for years and I don’t even remember if I did well or not,” he cries.

Your own head whips to where the boy lies prone on the bed, groaning his sorrows into his palms.

Did Jungkook just admit out loud that he’s been in love with you?  Were you hearing that right?  You nearly pinch yourself to check and make sure you’re not dreaming.  There’s no way.  Was there?

“What did you just say?” You question.

He peeks at you through his fingers covering his face, a bashful look on his face.

“Was I good? Did I make you cum? God, please don’t tell me I finished too quickly.”

You shake your head and scoot closer, desperate for confirmation of what he just said.

“Not that, you idiot. I don’t remember either.  What did you say before that?”

Jungkook’s cheeks turn pink and you hold back any cooing that’s desperate to claw out of your throat at the sight.

“I uhh,” he stumbles. “I sort of may be a little… into you.  Like, a lot.”

He hides his face again with his hands, but his grin gives him away.  He’s bashful, and you want to push him off the bed as much as you want to kiss him.

“You fucking asshole!” You laugh as you shove at his arm. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 6!  Ever since Namjoon crushed my Barbie dream house and you helped me fix it.”

He pulls his hands off his face and slaps them down on the bed, eyes wide with surprise.

“Really?!” He asks.

“Yes, you idiot,” you sigh.  “Why else would I drunkenly agree to marry you?”

Jungkook sits up and smiles, like a puppy.  His arms wrap around you and he pulls you in for a hug. It’s tight, and innocent and you can tell he’s still beaming from ear to ear.  It makes you smile as you wrap your arms around his middle and return the enthusiasm.

He pulls back and holds you away from his body with his hands on your shoulders.  His eyes are lit and he looks like a kid on Christmas.

“We’re married!” He exclaims.

You can’t help but laugh.  “Yes, we are.  A little non-traditional but, it worked out in our favor.”

Jungkook slides his hand down to hold your left, bringing it to his lips and kissing the diamond-studded finger gently.

He lets your hands drop, and he smiles at you, silence shrouding the two of you on the king-sized bed.  He seems to be taken, deep in pleasant thoughts.  

“Wait!” He jerks back to reality. “We fucked.  But you don’t remember it, and I don’t remember it.”

You bite your lip, suddenly shy.   “Yes?”

“So we can’t even truthfully say we’ve consummated the marriage.”  He looks at you as if he expects you to follow his train of thought.

“Kook, I’m hungover.  Can you just… spill it?”

He sighs dramatically, but the grin remains.

“Lets fuck? It is our honeymoon, after all.” He winks as he crawls towards you.  

The sheet has fallen off his lower body now and your eyes widen at the sight.  He’s hard and impressively thick.  He’s shameless too, knows you’re staring and doesn’t move to hide it.  In fact, he appears to make it more on display as he hovers over you.

“I’ve dreamt of this moment,” he sighs as he approaches you, comes face to face above you.

Jungkook is no longer the silly, playful puppy dog you know and love.  His eyes are dark and blown wide, breath heavy and confident.  He oozes a raw sensuality that has you squeezing your thighs tight.  

“I’ve always wondered what you’d look like underneath me with those big, beautiful eyes of yours,” he breathes as he leans down to pepper your collar with kisses.  

“Will you let me make you feel good? Give you a honeymoon you’ll never forget?” He asks, fingers playing with the sheet but never straying further.  He’s waiting for you, waiting for your consent or denial.

“Please,” you gasp as his fingers tickle the skin of your decolletage.  “I want you.”

Your acceptance is all he needs to hear before he’s pulling down the stark white sheet from your chest and exposing your breasts.  He licks his lips as he stares at you, and your body warms under his gaze.

“Fuck, you really looked like this under your clothes?  All this time?”  He asks, his voice turning needy and whiny.  “No wonder Namjoon kept you under lock and key.”

You huff lightly.  “Can we not talk about my brother during sex?”

Jungkook chuckles and nods, before bringing a finger up to pinch and tug at a nipple.  It makes you both moan, and the bud hardens beneath his touch.

“Fuck,” he repeats.  He seems to be stuck on a constant loop of surprise.  He seems just as dazed as you—unsure if this is real but unwilling to wake up if it’s not.

His cock hardens even more—you can feel it through the cotton sheet on your thighs and you’re desperate to touch him.  As he lowers his mouth to suck your nipple into his mouth, you push the remaining bits of sheets and mused blankets off your body and reach for his cock with a groan.

Jungkook inhales sharply around your nipple as he feels your warm hand grip him.  It makes his cock twitch in your grasp and he sucks harder to compensate.  

Your back arches with the force of his suction, and your hand strokes his length languidly.  He nearly whines onto your breast, before he pops off and lifts his head—eyes closed and mouth dropped open in bliss.

“S-shit, your hand feels so fucking good,” he whispers through gritted teeth.

“Imagine how my pussy will feel,” you counter.

Jungkook drops his head onto your breast at your words.

“You’re gonna kill me with that dirty mouth.”

“That’s the plan.”   Your hands tug at his black locks until his lips meet yours, meshing them in a deep and passionate kiss.

His hand slides down between your legs, slithers to your heat where he presses two fingers inside you and groans at the wetness there.  It makes you gasp and whimper into his mouth as he fucks your relentlessly with his fingers.

“Dirty little girl,” he whispers as he bites your lip and tugs.  “Can’t believe you’re mine.  This pussy is all mine, now.”

You nod quickly and desperately as your legs fall open even more.  The wetness of your channel is squelching around his fingers and Jungkook’s groans muddle with your own in the expansive room.  His fingers scissor you open and you’re keening at the stretch.

“Gotta get this tight cunt ready for my cock,” he breathes as he sucks a spot on your neck.  You’re sure it’s gonna leave a dark mark, and you thrill at the idea.  You want the world to see you’re his—you’re finally his.

“P-Please,” you beg as you feel your body coming closer to the breaking point.

Jungkook growls as he pulls his hand from inside you and shakes his head.

“I want you to cum on my cock.”  He lines himself up and rubs the head of his cock up and down the slit.

“You okay without a condom?” He asks, waiting with the bulbous head still catching the slick of your pussy, not quite pushed in fully.  “I’m clean.”

You’re whimpering—the feeling of his thickness so close to being inside of you has your mind nearly empty.    You nod your consent.  

“I’m good too.  On the pill.”

It’s all the boy needs to finally push his length into you.  His head throws back in bliss as he feels your tight walls accept him.  You wrap your legs around his waist to encourage him deeper, pulling him in to the hilt.  

“A-ah,” he gasps. “You feel so fucking good.” His hands grip your hips as he stills himself for a moment—allows himself a minute to catch his breath and beg his body not to cum too quickly.

“So big,” you whine. “Fuck, Jungkook, baby…”

There’s nothing else to say, no ability to speak as he pulls his length out slowly and slams it back in, knocking all the air in your lungs with it.  

“You’re finally all mine,” he grits as he thrusts in and out of you again, as deep as he can.  “My fuckin’ dream girl, all mine.”

He finally opens his eyes and watches as your cunt takes each thrust, watches your tits bounce in time with his pistoning hips.  He can’t help but travel up to your face, where your mouth opens in silent rapture and you focus your eyes on him—like he’s the only man in the universe.  Jungkook has never felt more powerful, more loved.  The girl he’s only ever pined over is finally here, finally beneath him, wearing his ring.   While he doesn’t remember how it started, he’s sure as hell he will remember how it continues.

You squeak out moans with each harsh thrust, reveling in the way the tip of his cock kisses your cervix and drags against your walls.  Feeling him bare—rubbing and hitting each spot that has you gasping for air and seeing new colors, is sending you closer and closer to a screaming finish.

Your hands hold his powerful arms, grip the muscles of his biceps you’ve spent years drooling over.  You can’t comprehend that he’s yours now, all yours to touch and feel and fuck.  And love.  You finally can shower the man with all the love you’ve cultivated for him, and you plan to start now.

“L-love you, Jungkook, fuck! I love you,”  You gasp.

His rhythm stutters as he registers your words, and he feels his stomach tighten—your admission bringing him even closer to his climax.  His hands grip your hips tighter, knowing he’s sure to leave bruises there.

“G-god, baby,” he grunts as he thrusts into you harder, faster.  The sounds of your cunt are music to his ears, the slick juices squelching around his cock.  “I’ve always loved you.”

He removes a hand from your hip and rubs your clit with the pad of his thumb, eyes now firmly locked with yours.  Your legs fly up to rest on his shoulders and the new position has him hitting you even deeper.  

“Cum with me, baby,” he begs as his thumb circles your clit harder, applies more direct pressure.  “Wanna see my pretty wife cum on my cock.”

Your spine tingles as it builds and you’re gaping for breath as your orgasm slams into you like a freight train.  Your entire body is alight with licking flames and electric shock.  Your cunt pulsates wildly around his cock, gripping so tight that Jungkook lasts only a few more thrusts before he’s cumming hard inside you.

Jungkook gasps your name as his cock spills his load inside you, emptying himself completely.  Your walls are coaxing him, stroking and encouraging him to spill so deep, as if it can’t get enough of him.  

You take nearly a full few minutes before your vision returns to normal and your breathing settles down from the heavy breathing.  Your legs are still on Jungkook’s shoulders and his cock still rests deep inside you, softening gently.

“Holy shit,” you whisper with a long exhale.

Jungkook nods and lets out a chuckle.  He eases his cock out of you, sighing with pride at the way his thick cum slides out of you with it.  He can’t believe that this is him, and that is you.  That his cum is what’s decorating the inside of your walls, that he gets to be the one to do it—always.

Jungkook lies beside you and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you to kiss him sweetly.

“I know we sort of skipped the whole dating part and went right to marriage,” he says sheepishly. “But, I was hoping you’d let me take you to dinner sometime?”

You can’t help but cup his cute cheeks and kiss him again—your heart feels as if it might burst.  

He pulls you close, wraps his hands around you to pull you on top of him.  His cock is jerking with the need to go again, to be buried inside you once more.

You smile as you straddle him, lining his cock up with your soaked heat before sitting fully and allowing him to enter until he’s completely enveloped.  You gasp out his name at the feeling—oversensitive but still not yet satisfied.  You sit and marvel at how he feels inside you—you think you could let Jungkook be there forever, as if it’s where he’s meant to be.

A harsh knock pounds on the door, before the clicking noise of the lock moves and allows entrance to the intruder.  Jungkook is quick to throw the sheets of your combined bodies, you still straddled and laying on top of him.

“Kook! Have you seen my fucking sister? Where the hell--,” your brother is cut off mid-sentence as he takes in the scene in front of him.

“Uh,” Jungkook blushes. “Hey, new brother-in-law.”

Namjoon quickly averts his eyes and backs away quickly. 

“Jesus! Christ!” He complains as he moves out of the field of vision.

“You two get dressed now!” He demands from the hallway. “You have some explaining to do!”

You can’t help but giggle as Jungkook’s features turn stark white with fear.  You press a kiss to his lips for reassurance.

“It’s okay, babe,” you whisper as you pat his cheeks.

“And what the fuck do you mean by brother-in-law!?” Namjoon shrieks.  “Jeon Jungkook, I’ll fucking kill you!”

© ppersonna - 2020 - do not repost on any site, or translate without express permission from author.

[snackhobi]

pairing: min yoonji x reader / word count: 9.7k / genre: f x f smut, assassin!au

summary: a fic inspired by this post and that’s pretty much it-

warnings: sexually explicit content (NSFW), talk about death/assassination (nothing graphic dw! but they are assassins, so), mild violence, unnecessarily sexually charged lipstick application, face riding, fingering, multiple orgasms, oral (f giving/receiving), use of restraints, overstimulation, squirting, kind of dom!yoonji?

a/n: this is an entirely self-indulgent fic I wrote as a gift to myself for my bday, it’s a lil rushed bc I wanted it done for today! women are so very beautiful and I am so very weak, thank you ladies for all being so amazing ily. this was meant to be a short pwp and now it’s almost 10k but I have no regrets bye

--

la petite mort French literal meaning: ‘the little death’; also an expression used to refer to the brief loss or weakening of consciousness, specifically the sensation of orgasm as likened to death; an orgasm.

--

“It’s just unacceptable.”

The woman in front of you is clearly wealthy. Her dark hair is perfectly styled and her pale nails are perfectly shaped and her subtle makeup is perfectly flattering; she’s starting to get older but rather than shy away from it, she’s leaning into it, and she looks almost imperious in her beauty, eyes sharp and set of her lips severe. Park Dahye was born into wealth and has clearly thrived in the life that she’s been afforded.

“Mmhm.” You try not to yawn. 

“He’s flitting around with some young, silly thing on his arm, with no consideration for the family’s reputation— my reputation,” she continues. Her posture is perfect, from the set of her spine to her crossed legs to her folded hands that rest on her knee, somehow demure and yet highlighting all of her beauty and riches; the jewellery on her wrists and fingers, the expensive heels on her feet, the slit of her haute-couture dress, no doubt tailored for her and her alone. “I’ve already spoken to him about his behaviour, but he’s just ignored my warnings. We may have agreed on the divorce but we’re currently still husband and wife— has he no shame?”

“Awful.” You don’t even try to hide how bored you are, but Dahye is so quietly incensed that she doesn’t even notice as she launches into the next part of her queenly diatribe, and you muffle a sigh.

That’s the problem with rich clients. Sure, they’re willing to fork over stupid amounts of money to you, but they also think that their issues are of paramount significance— like they’re the centre of the universe and their problems are the only important ones in the world. Like you’re interested in what they have to say. Like this is the only job you’ll ever do that holds real weight or meaning.

For them, it’s a life-changing (life-ending) decision. 

For you? It’s another Tuesday.

“Yes, yes, that’s just so terrible, gosh, I don’t know how you manage it,” you say once she pauses to take a breath, using the opportunity to cut her off before she launches into another part of her articulate rant. “Anyway. Would you prefer if his death was embarrassing or quiet?”

For the first time since you’ve met, she seems unsettled. “Pardon?”

Namjoon is much better with people than you, smooth and charming with his boyish dimples. Normally any discussions would go through your handler, but this woman had demanded to meet you personally and had been willing to pay for the privilege: so here you are, with your relative bluntness instead of Joon’s winsome smile.

“You know,” you say, gesturing with your hands. “When they find the body. Do you want him to be caught with his trousers around his ankles—literally or figuratively, that’s up to you— or would you rather it seemed like something natural and unpredictable? Like a sudden heart attack in his sleep, for example.”

When it comes to rich clients, a lot of it is about reputation. When someone’s shuffled off this mortal coil, it’s not just that they’re removed from the equation, it’s also about the ripples that their death leaves in the high society that they’ve lived in. Does she want her (soon-to-be) ex-husband made a mockery of, or does she just want him out of the picture?

She can’t see your face, behind your mask as it is, but you can see hers in perfect clarity. For all that Dahye seems put together and almost impassive, you see the tiny flicker in her eyes. Ah. She’s not just mad because he’s ruining their reputation. She’s hurt.

Man, that sucks. Honestly you bet it’s easier being an assassin than a rich housewife. At least when it comes to backstabbing you can literally involve a knife to sort your problems out. (Well, knives are messy, but you get the picture.)

“I’d prefer something quiet,” she decides. “I’d worry that it could lead back to me, otherwise.”

You’d be offended at the idea that you’d leave any trace that could implicate anyone or that this man’s sudden death was in any way suspicious, but she’s paying you enough that you find that you don’t care. You take pride in your work, but for the amount of zeroes involved in the fee you’re being paid, you think you can take an unintentional insult or two. Or three. Or ten.

You like money, what can you say.

“Sure thing,” you say, giving her a lazy, two fingered salute. You’ve been reclining against the desk of the hotel suite, flicking the complimentary, heavy metal pen between your fingers, twirling it like the world’s most underwhelming baton. You straighten up and let the pen drop back into the pen pot—wait, no, of course it’s a handmade porcelain jar, an alarmingly well-made Joseon porcelain replica. Everything in here stinks of money. “RM will confirm where the money is to be deposited. Half of it now as collateral, and half upon completion of the job,” you say. “If you change your mind between now and then, we’ll be keeping the original 50%, but if for some reason something goes awry, you’ll receive that money back. Sound good?”

She seems surprised at your directness. “I—”

“Fabulous!” You clap your hands together, although the sound is muffled by your gloves. You’re not about to leave your fingerprints everywhere, geez. “Alright, time for me to skidaddle I suppose! I’ve got work to be doing, people to be watching, men to be killing!”

Dahye flinches imperceptibly, but by this point you’ve already slipped out onto the balcony and into the night.

--

Being an assassin is hard work.

Technically, everyone has the capacity to kill another human being. But killing as a job involves a lot more than just caving someone’s head in with a rock—that’s why Cain isn’t referred to as an assassin, what with how he’d just bashed his brother Abel with a convenient stone that happened to be lying nearby. He was just a straight up dick.

No, when you kill professionally you need to be familiar with an array of different techniques, each one far more sophisticated than the last. You need to know how to be stealthy, how to blend in as you watch your target, how to set up the scenes of their death in a way that doesn't arouse suspicion. Or, instead, how to set the scene up in a way that lets any onlookers know that this person had been offed by someone who knew what they were doing, and knew it well. There's a difference between being a killer and being an assassin and you are firmly in the latter category.

So, if your client wants her husband to be shuffled off quietly, then that’s what she’ll get.

They really have pulled out all the stops for this charity gala. Everything is shining, glittering and bright: the surroundings, the food, the people. Especially the people. The rich elite have come together for an extravagant and exquisite night of ostentation and luxury, all in the name of raising money for some needy cause. (You try not to think of the irony and/or hypocrisy behind that.)

It’s almost laughable how easy it is to blend in here. Namjoon had secured (forged) invitations for you both, and so you hang off his arm as you make a slow sweep of the room, trailing unnoticed after your target. You’re not planning to make a move right now but you want to feel out exactly what he’s like: the more information you have about the person you’ve been contracted to assassinate, the better. 

Plus it’s an excuse to dress up nice and eat free food— though that last part is mainly Namjoon.

“God, these canapés are so good,” Namjoon moans quietly to you, hoovering up the flaky pastry crumbs from his fingers with single-minded intent. You dig your fingers subtly into his arm.

“I thought we agreed on not eating tonight, Joon,” you mutter to him, although you say it with a beatific smile in case anyone is watching; the place is heaving with people but you’re always on guard. (Even if Namjoon is right. The hors d’oeuvres that are on offer do look incredibly tempting.)

“You have a glass of champagne,” he points out.

“And you may have noticed that I haven’t drunk any of it.” You titter, as if he’s just told a funny joke, and lightly slap his arm. Again, you’re fairly certain no one is watching, but you can never be too careful. “It’s all about creating a facade, Joonie. It’s what we in the business call a ruse.”

Even throughout your back and forth, you’ve kept your eyes on your man of the night: Park Minjae, a middle-aged businessman who’s been greeting people and getting swept up in conversation, all while a slip of a blonde clings to his arm, stuck to his side like a pretty limpet. She’s cute, sure, but she lacks the poise that Dahye has, so you frankly don’t get it. Then again, not everyone finds strong women as attractive as you do. Weirdos.

You’ve been focused on Minjae but your eyes have also been flitting around the room, drinking in your surroundings, drawing up a detailed map of your environment (of course you’d scoped out the building before tonight, but with all the banquet tables and chairs around the layout is a little different). The people, too, have been subject to your scrutiny, although so far they all seem summarily unimportant and uninteresting, just as you’d suspected. You lift your glass to your lips and pretend to take a tiny, demure sip, glancing up through your eyelashes to scan the room again, and you freeze.

Holy shit.

You take back what you just said about everyone being unimportant and uninteresting. 

The woman who’s just walked in is fucking stunning. Her sleek dark bob is unstyled, but perfectly frames her beautiful face: sharp eyes, soft nose, flushed lips. Her cocktail dress lets you see almost every inch of those perfect legs, the line of her thighs to her calves and— oh, you swear you could shed a tear of joy. She’s already tall and she’s made even taller by the heels she wears, towering above most of the men here, a fucking Amazonian goddess who looks powerful and undeniably elegant at the same time. 

(Thank you for your service, tall women.)

You don’t know who she is, but goddamn, do you want to. She’s scanning the room, and for a brief moment, your eyes touch. A tiny thrill shudders up your spine at the darkness of her keen eyes, that quick and astute gaze. 

It’s only the tiniest of moments that’s over as soon as it’s started. The dark-haired beauty looks away and is already disappearing into the crowd before you realise, and it’s only then you notice that you’re staring, utterly drawn in by her cool poise and presence. You’ve been frozen in place with the rim of your champagne  glass resting against your mouth, and your eyelashes flutter as you blink and glance down.

The imprint of your lower lip has been left on the glass, stark red visible against its edge, and you squeeze Namjoon’s bicep.

“How does my lipstick look?”

He takes one look at you as he swallows down another tiny vol-au-vent. “Like half of it is missing,” he says, and you frown.

“Ugh. I’ll go touch it up in the bathroom. Keep an eye on our guy, I’ll be right back.”

It’s not until you’ve made it to the toilets that you realise that you do not, in fact, have any lipstick in your ridiculously small clutch bag. When it comes to your actual work, you’re meticulous and thorough and well-planned, but for some bizarre reason, a tube of lipstick is never the top of the list when it comes to equipment. Unbelievable. (You knew you should have worn the 24/7 stuff, but it was always such a nightmare to get off.)

You’ve been so busy rummaging through your bag that you’re completely caught off-guard at the sound of a quiet voice from behind you.

“Lost something?”

Oh, fuck. It’s her, your dark haired and dark eyed beauty, meeting your gaze through the mirror when you glance up from where you’re resting your bag against the marble counter  (marble, marble, marble, it’s all marble: the floors, the counters, the sinks; why do rich people always love marble?). She looks altogether too amused at your plight and at how your eyes have widened perceptibly upon seeing her again. But can she blame you? Her presence is so graceful and commanding and she’s so dizzyingly attractive it’s insane. Surely she must get this all the time.

You stare for a little longer than is probably polite, and even behind her fringe you can see how one of her eyebrows rises.

“Sorry for staring,” you say once you notice. “You’re just so beautiful.”

She pauses as she takes in the compliment. You see how her eyes flicker over your face and settle on your mouth; your upper lip, tinted burgundy red, while the lower is faint and smudged.

“Lipstick problems?” She cocks her head at you, still staring at your lips in the mirror. God, she’s so hot.

“Can you tell?” You sound rueful as you glance down at the reflection of your mouth, touching your bottom lip lightly with a fingertip. “I forgot to bring any with me so now I’m stuck.”

She finally looks away from you. You hear a small, metallic click as she unclasps her evening bag— marginally larger than your own— and lifts out a small tube of liquid lipstick. “Would you like to use mine?”

Fuck yes you would. 

“Oh, would that be alright?” You finally turn around, and you have to tilt your head back to look at her, taller than you in her heels. Jesus Christ. She’s going to be the death of you. Why are women so gorgeous? Who gave them the right? “I’m not sure the shade will match, though?”

You watch her beautiful mouth curve up into a small smirk as she pulls out a tiny pack of makeup remover wipes from her bag, and you swear could propose to her there and then. Beautiful and tall and organised? Holy shit. What a woman.

She’s got her bag in one hand, while the lipstick and wipes are clasped in the other; her hand is held up in such a way that you think she means for you to take them from her, but when you reach out she shakes her head.

“I’ll do it for you,” she says. The quiet note of authority in her tone makes you go weak at the knees.

Thank god the toilets you chose aren’t the main ones, because it means there’s no one around to see how she tilts her head at the marble counter in the universal gesture of get on there. It’s entirely unnecessary, but you, of course, immediately comply. You brace your hands against the cold stone before hitching yourself up, careful with the draping folds of your dress; the cold touch of the stone is noticeable through the material of your dress, but it’s instantly forgotten when your enchantress steps closer. 

You spread your knees so she can stand between them. Holy shit, she’s even better up close. Her lashes are wispy but they’re the perfect frame for her gorgeous eyes, which are dark and intent. You suppress a shiver. You hold yourself still as she leans forward and around you so she can put her clutch and lipstick down, trying to ignore how close she is, but there’s no way she can’t realise what she’s doing. Your heart is pounding. You wish you didn’t have a job to do tonight because you would so much rather be getting, ah, acquainted with this woman rather than following some old businessman around.

The only noise in the bathroom is the sound of peeling plastic as she opens the tiny packet of wet wipes before she curls one around her finger, glancing at you through her lashes.

“Open,” she instructs.

Your mouth drops open immediately. She sweeps the wipe over your lips, bottom, then top, touch firm but careful, drawing away the red from your skin; you stare at her as she works, how her eyes are cast down as she stares at your mouth. She’s using her free hand to grip your chin and you feel deliciously powerless in her grasp. 

You purse your lips a little to try and help her, watching the way her eyes flicker as she pulls the wipe back over them— somewhat firmer, this time, with more intent. Lingering. The only barrier between her finger and your mouth is soft and flimsy, the texture of the wipe against your lips like cotton as it drags across them, and it would be so easy to pull it out of her hands.

She flicks the dirtied wipe aside, heedless of how it lands on the unsullied marble, before reaching for her lipstick. She twists the tube in her fingers, motions of her hands precise and deft, and you’ve never been so attracted to how someone’s uncapped something before. 

You watch her hands. (She watches you.)

Your eyes trail over the wand as she pulls it out, dragging the doe foot against the rim to catch the excess before turning it towards you, putting the tube by your thigh, near where your hand is bracing against the marble. She takes hold of your chin once again. You stay quiet as she starts to sweep the lipstick over your lips, painting them the same flushed pink as her own. Once again she’s staring at her work so you’re free to drink her in, almost drunk from her beauty, eyes catching on the tiny moles on her pale skin, the smallest freckles that are only noticeable because you’re this close.

The squelch of the applicator sliding into the tube is almost lewd in the silence of the bathroom, and this time you can’t suppress a shiver when she pulls your chin down to open your mouth so she can go back in again on your lips, drawing a sharp, crisp line. Tracing the edges of your lips, the flushed swell of them, the peak of your cupid’s bow.

She glances up. For a moment you’re both still, staring at each other, tension in the air palpable, but then she smacks her lips and you copy the motion, evening the application of the makeup on your mouth. 

“Perfect,” she murmurs. “One more step.”

A small, confused frown flits over your face. She’s put the lipstick aside but then she lifts a finger and points towards your still parted lips. You take in a small, shuddering breath when she speaks again and you realise what she means.

“You don’t want to get lipstick on your teeth, do you?”

Both of her eyebrows have risen and she’s looking at you like you’re being silly if you disagree with her.

“No,” you say. You’re not about to deny her. “No, I don’t.”

Your eyes remain locked. You lean forwards, taking that perfect, long finger into your mouth, dragging your lips upwards so that any excess lipstick is caught against her pale skin, a ring of deep rose circling her bottom knuckle; you curl your tongue around her, hot and wet, feeling the crease of her knuckles and pad of her fingertip against your taste buds as you slowly, slowly pull away. 

It’s undoubtedly indecent and risqué and you can feel the flush of arousal settling in your lower belly, an almost embarrassing flush of wetness leaking out of you at the taste of her skin. She, however, remains unmoved, although she lets her finger linger just for a moment on your bottom lip, almost rough against their softness— but before you can swallow those fingers back down and ruin her meticulous work, she pulls away, lifting the discarded wipe to sweep it around her finger, catching the lipstick you’d left on her skin.

“Done.”

She steps back and you feel like you can finally breathe, a breath so deep you can feel how your lungs fill, oxygen rushing to your brain so fast you feel lightheaded. You watch as she sweeps everything back into her bag, clicking it shut with a note of finality; the sullied wipe is cast carelessly into a tiny, chrome bin with a flick of a wrist, her every motion regal.

You slide off the counter. You still can’t take your eyes off her and you don’t want to. It feels like whatever heaviness was in the air has dissipated, gone in an instant with a turn of her head— normally you’d let it slide, even if you feel disappointed, but she’s just so magnetic. 

“Thank you,” you say. You can see yourself in the mirror now and to your complete lack of surprise, your lipstick is perfect. The shade is lighter than one you’d have chosen for yourself but it’s beautiful on her, of course.

“You’re welcome.” She’s in the middle of washing her hands, but she glances over her shoulder at you, and the firm set to her face lightens a little as she smiles. It’s a small, sly thing, and you realise with a start that she knows exactly what effect she has on you.

I’m coming back for you, you think to yourself. You have work to do tonight, but—

“What’s your name?”

She pauses. She shuts off the tap with a quick motion, reaching forward for a rolled hand-towel, a neat stack on a metal tray nearby. You wonder if she’s not going to answer but then she speaks, looking at you instead of the soft cotton she’s rubbing over her skin. “Yoonji,” she says. “I’m Min Yoonji.”

Min Yoonji is the most gorgeous fucking woman you’ve ever seen.

“I love your dress, Yoonji,” you say, and it’s true, you really do— but you’d prefer it if it was off. Not that you’re about to say that, of course.

She lets out a breath of laughter. “I know.” Oh, god, you love confident women. “What’s your name, darling?”

You have that same split second of hesitation, similar to Yoonji’s only moments prior. You use a codename when you work, of course, and you have a plethora of fake identities that you use and are intimately familiar with— but the idea of your real name falling off Yoonji’s flushed, petal lips? Woof.

“Y/n L/n,” you say. 

Oh, Joon would be so unimpressed right now, giving some mysterious woman your full, real name just because you think she’s the sexiest thing since sex, but whatever. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

“Well, Y/n,” Yoonji says. You were right, your name sounds so good falling from her mouth, the mouth that’s turned into a small, almost smug smile. “I certainly hope to see you at the charity ball in a few weeks?”

“Of course.” Your schedule has been magically cleared and you’ll definitely be in attendance for whatever ball Yoonji is referring to, even if you have no idea what it is. You only come to these things if you have to for work but for Yoonji you’ll make an exception. You’ll make a hundred thousand exceptions. A hundred thousand quinquagintaquadringentillion exceptions. “I’ll make sure to remember my lipstick next time.”

And there it is, the thing that seals the deal, the final nail in the coffin: Yoonji glancing at you out of the corner of her eyes, a sharp, dark touch that shoots through you as her smile edges into hunger.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m sure it won’t stay on your lips long enough to matter.”

--

The thing you’ve discovered about Minjae is that, with his divorce due to be finalised soon, he’s apparently lost any sense of routine and is revelling in his new found freedom, which is kind of irritating when you’re trying to tail the guy. Sure, you’re still going to take him out, but you prefer it when targets have some sort of schedule that they adhere to— makes it easier to set up a kill.

“You’re certain that he’s going to be here tonight?” You’d been sceptical considering how the guy’s apparently thrown his schedule out of the window, but Namjoon had been certain.

“Positive.” He’d said. “He’s there every Tuesday night. You’ll have plenty of time.”

The house appears to be deserted. The driveway is empty and all the windows and doors are locked tight. It’s just one of the properties that the Parks own in the city, and for all its size and lushness it appears as though this one is rarely frequented; you imagine that the cleaners and gardeners spend more time here than the owners themselves.

It doesn’t take you long to evade the watchful eyes of security cameras to pick a lock and slip inside. You're grateful for the dying evening light that helps cover your tracks from any onlookers from the street, although you imagine the high walls do good work at preventing people from seeing into the grounds anyway.

There’s still enough light to navigate through the house, the golden tinged sunset casting warm shadows across the spotless furniture and fixtures; you take a moment to let your eyes slide across a huge canvas hanging on a wall that spans two storeys, some impressionist piece that’s surprisingly ugly for all the talent that’s obvious in its brushstrokes. Maybe that’s why the Parks are never here? You’d certainly try to avoid seeing this thing if you could. Eurgh.

Even though the building is empty, you’re careful as you start to make your way forwards. You always place your toes down first whenever you take a step, soundless as you start to map the house out in your mind; there are so many rooms you can hide in, but you’d prefer to be close to wherever Minjae ends up. Saves faffing around later. 

You’ll overpower him, inject the toxin into his blood and wait for him to die before setting him up on the toilet— it’s surprisingly common for people to die while on the shitter, the strain leading to an untimely heart attack, especially in older people. The poison you’re using tonight will mimic the symptoms of a heart attack in the case the coroner decides a post-mortem needs to be undertaken.

(Being found on the bog might not be a particularly graceful way to die but when you’re dead it’s kind of hard to be embarrassed.)

You’ve eased the door open into a large bedroom, and you’re just inspecting if it looks like this room sees more use than the others when you pause. It’s deathly silent in this building, the air still minus where you glide through it as you move, but there’s a feeling in your gut, some instinct that makes all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You freeze, ears straining to catch any noise to let you know if there’s someone else here, when—

There. In the reflection of a burnished pot, the tiniest shifting movement.

You react almost faster than the eye can see. You spin to parry a hit that was aimed for your head, and the strength behind it shudders through your arms. You only have a second to take in the details of your assailant— dressed in dark clothing, masquerade style mask in place, a professional just like you— before you’re deflecting another flurry of blows, flipping backwards out of reach before spinning into a kick, hooking that burnished pot with your foot and sending it flying towards the other assassin.

They dodge it. You both ignore the sound of clattering metal as you lunge forwards, trying to catch them off guard after their sidestep— your fist makes contact with their palm instead of their face, your hand engulfed in theirs, and you startle at their speed. You might not be the strongest but you’re damn fast. 

There’s a pause, and you can only see a slither of their eyes through the sockets of their mask, but you can tell that they’re impressed. And honestly? So are you. 

The moment shatters when they use the hand they're holding to twist you, locking an arm around your neck and putting you into a chokehold; they’re strong, stronger than you, cutting off your airflow. You need to get out of this before you fall unconscious, but if they’re trained as well as you then they’ll know how to combat the usual ways you’d use to get out of this.

So, in a demonstration of your flexibility you kick a leg up, using the strength of your thighs and calves to slam it into the arm that’s around your neck. Your assailant lets out a noise of surprise and pain as you slip out of their hold and cartwheel across the room before spinning to face them.

There’s a beat. The air is tense. You get another chance to take in the details of whoever’s just tried to choke you out; you stare at her as she stares at you, the two of you poised and ready to strike, watching and waiting. 

Knives might be messy but of course you’re not unarmed. You have multiple sheathed weapons in your clothes, though you don’t make a move to draw any of them. Yet. “I suppose you wouldn’t tell me who your employer is, would you?”

Your opponent tilts her head. “You don’t know?” She sounds amused, even through her mask. “Minjae took out a contract on the assassin who has a contract on him.”

Your lip curls back from your teeth. The only way Minjae would have heard about your contract is if Dahye had told him. Presumably to try and shock him out of his behaviour, or something, who knows. “This is the last time I’m accepting a job from these rich old farts,” you mutter. 

“That’s for certain,” she says. 

She starts to move and you catch her arm just as she goes to unsheathe a wicked looking blade, knocking it aside before she overpowers you and you start to wrestle. It’s messy and graceless but sometimes you just have to fight dirty. 

Whoever this woman is, she still has the upper hand because she was expecting you and you weren’t expecting her; she knocks you onto the bed and pins you down, swooping the knife up from where it had been thrown onto the mattress. You go utterly still as she holds it against your throat, towering over your from where she’s straddling your waist and kneeling on your arms. Any sudden movement from you now could lead to your untimely demise— and, unsurprisingly, you absolutely want to avoid that at all costs.

Namjoon would never let you live it down if you were killed on the job.

You hum. “It seems like we’ve reached an impasse.”

She doesn’t respond. The knife doesn’t dip any lower, though; you’re undoubtedly at her mercy but you notice she’s careful to keep the knife still, hovering above the skin of your neck, but not making contact.

“Well,” you continue. “At least I’m going out the way I’d always hoped to.”

Even in the dying light and with how her face is covered, you notice her face shifting behind her mask— a silent, questioning raise of an eyebrow. You give her a cheeky smile that crinkles your eyes.

“In bed with a beautiful woman, of course.”

At this she huffs out a laugh. “Do you flirt with every person who tries to kill you?”

You’re trying to look as non-threatening as possible to keep that knife away from your jugular. The longer you talk, the longer you live, even if you can’t see a way to get out of this situation right now. “Only the pretty ones.”

The small laugh she lets out this time seems more like a scoff. “You don’t even know what I look like.”

“Please.” You roll your eyes. “Any woman who can fight like you and knows how to handle a knife? Automatically hot. I don’t need to see your face to know that.”

The knife still hasn’t moved. She continues to stare you down and you go tense when her free hand moves. She tugs the cloth of your mask down to reveal your face, the air of the room almost cold against the suddenly bared skin, your breaths free to curl out unhindered.

“Usually I like to be taken out to dinner at least once before we get this intimate, but for you I suppose I’ll make an exception.” You’re still grinning cheekily at her, but your mind continues to race as you try to think of a way to get out of this, especially now that she’s seen what you look like—but you suddenly notice that she’s gone very, very still.

“Y/n?”

The grin freezes on your face. Oh, you’re so boned. You’re so very boned. Like, yeah, you’ve been seconds away from death for the past, hmm, five minutes, but this is somehow worse. How the fuck does she know your name?

You’re given the answer almost immediately. She withdraws the hand from your chin and reaches for her own mask. Your eyes widen and your breath stutters in your throat once you see who it is.

“Holy shit,” you breathe.

Yoonji is staring down at you. She’s every inch as imperious and stunning as the last time you’d seen her— hell, even moreso now that you’ve seen what she’s capable of. No wonder you hadn’t been able to find out anything about her after you’d met at that garish charity gala. Because she’s untraceable, just like you.

“Well.” You stare back at her, not even attempting to keep the surprise off your face. “If anyone has to kill me at least I can die satisfied in the knowledge that it was you. Can I make a request? I’d be eternally grateful if you smothered me to death with your thighs. Just a suggestion, feel free to ignore it if you want.”

Yoonji cocks her head. Her bob is tied back, but there’s a loose lock of hair curled by the side of her face that shifts at the motion. Your fingers twitch. If she wasn’t kneeling on your arms you know you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from tucking it behind her ear. Any excuse to touch her. “Do you always talk so much?”

“Hey, if it means I get to feel your legs around my face before I die, I’ll give a full fledged TED talk,” you say. “I have to admit, though. When I pictured us in bed together I didn’t think it would be like this.”

The knife still hasn’t moved from your throat. She continues to stare, as if considering what to do next, though her face remains impassive. “What did you think it would be like?”

“Well, you know. Less knives and clothes involved and a lot more making out,” you answer. “You, telling me what to do. Me, entirely at your command. Anything the lady wants, she gets.”

The human body is a fickle and strange beast. Ever since you discovered who’s straddling you, you’ve been growing wetter and wetter, even if you’re trying not to let on that you’re steadily growing more aroused— you’re still distinctly aware of the knife that’s only centimetres away from your skin, but somehow your body is more focused of the fact that the woman you’ve been daydreaming about is finally in front of you again. 

(Well, less in front of you and more on top of you, which is an admittedly preferable option, sans the knife involvement.)

You see how Yoonji’s eyes are darting over your face. No doubt taking in how your pupils are dilated, how your breaths are a little shallower, quicker— signs of fear and signs of arousal are surprisingly similar. You wonder if she can identify which it is. Probably. You’re not exactly very subtle in your attraction to her.

“I forgot my lipstick again,” you add, and Yoonji’s passive mask finally breaks when she rolls her eyes.

“Didn’t I say you wouldn’t need it?”

Even the way she throws the knife aside is gorgeous. The sharp undulation of her wrist as she sends the blade skittering across the polished wood floor is careless and fluid. Her hands cup your face as she bends down, and you send up a mental thanks to any god or higher being who might be listening before Yoonji presses her lips to your and your brain goes blank.

Apparently Yoonji likes it messy. One of her hands is grasping your chin in a mockery of the last time you’d met and she’d painted your lips— your mouth is open and she licks past your lips as you shudder beneath her. She’s still got her knees pressed into your arms, pinning you down, but you desperately crane your head towards her, chasing that kiss; you tilt your head to deepen it, and the whine that leaves you when she pulls away is almost embarrassing.

The sun has finally dipped below the horizon and the room is dark, painted in shades of grey and deep blue. You wish you could see Yoonji properly and you can’t help but wriggle a little underneath her, but then you watch her raise her hands and clap three times in rapid succession before the room floods with dim light. Sound activated lights? Damn.

Yoonji’s mouth shines, covered in a sheen of your mixed saliva, her pretty lips flushed rose pink; even without makeup they’re beautiful and their colour is deep, the blooming petals of a flower. Your eyes trail over her face, down her neck, over the fall of her chest and stomach— you’re both far too covered up in these stupid ensembles of yours and you want to strip the clothes off her. You want to see every inch of her beautiful, majestic body, bared for your lips and hands.

Fuck, she’s so gorgeous.

“Not to, um, ruin the moment, but my hands are going numb.” The weight of Yoonji’s body being pressed into your arms has pretty much cut off the blood flow to your fingers and you can feel the telltale sensation of pins and needles spreading through your skin. “Can I have those back, please?”

Yoonji lifts her knees just enough for you to slide your arms out from underneath them. You immediately shed your gloves and go to grab her ass but she gives you a sharp look and you freeze, slowly settling them on her thighs instead, which she allows with only the slightest raise of her eyebrows.

“Watch,” she commands, and who are you to disobey?

She reaches for the tie in her hair, tugging it out and letting her dark locks fall to frame her lovely, beautiful face. You hungrily swallow down each sight that she feeds to you, the skin that’s revealed as she shrugs off her layers of clothing. She unbuckles the weapons hidden underneath her clothes as she sheds them; she’s a veritable arsenal of firearms and knives, all cast carelessly aside until her upper body is finally, blessedly naked. You’ve been staring at her the whole time, the graceful column of her throat, the delicate lines of her collarbones, and your gaze falls to her breasts, small and perfect, nipples dusty pink and hard. You want to put your mouth on them.

“Holy shit, you’re perfect,” you say.

She smirks. You watch as she rolls her body, lifting up from her knees and standing up, towering above you on the bed—your hands fall to the mattress as she pulls her trousers down, tight material dragging against her skin as she slides it over the curve of her hips and down her long legs. There’s a dagger strapped to her thigh, which she unbuckles and lets fall to one side, but god, if she used it to kill you right now, you would die a happy woman. The image of Min Yoonji towering above you in nothing more than some flimsy underwear is one you want to take to the grave.

You can see how the material around her entrance is darkened with her arousal, and you feel your own body react to the sight, pussy throbbing, your own lower lips slick underneath all your layers of clothing. Yoonji hooks her thumbs into her panties and pushes them down, and you’re enraptured as you watch how the wetness clings to them, before that last bit of clothing is cast aside too. 

You moan, unable to stop the sound bubbling up in your throat. From how she’s standing above you, legs spread from how her feet are either side of your hips, you can see everything—how her cunt is flushed, how wet she is, her folds shining. You bet she tastes so fucking good.

You let your mouth fall open, tongue lolling out in a way that’s obscene. You see Yoonji’s eyes flicker as she traces the motion, the way she takes in your expression: wide, hungry eyes, parted lips, wet tongue. Your hands skim up the back of her calves as she shifts forwards and returns to her knees, her naked core so, so close to your mouth, and you dig your fingers into her skin.

“Bon appé-fucking-tit,” you murmur, and then you pull her onto your face.

Yoonji gasps. 

(You were right. She tastes so, so fucking good.)

You’re utterly shameless as you slurp up her juices, the wetness that continues to leak out of her as you bury your face into her cunt, tongue lapping over her entrance as your nose brushes her clit. Your hands have moved to the flesh of her ass and you encourage her to grind against you, rolling her hips towards your greedy mouth; you’re staring up at her, drinking down her reactions, the way her face twists with pleasure and the shuddering breaths she takes in, perfect little breasts jumping at the motion. There’s a flush spreading down her neck and chest, pale skin blushing pink, and it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

You purse your lips against her clit, circling it with your tongue before dipping back down between her folds. Each time you breathe in all you can smell is her scent, heavy and dark, all your senses filled with Yoonji, Yoonji, Yoonji. When you hum against her, Yoonji arches her spine and throws her head back, so when you press your tongue into her you hum again, letting the vibrations shiver through her.

“Yes,” she gasps, rutting against your face. “Yes, yes—”

Her thighs tighten around your head. You redouble your efforts, watching her face as you continue to swipe your tongue up her slit and through her folds; you wish you could swallow each of the noises that are falling from her lips as she reaches the crest of her pleasure, the little gasps and moans each time you move your tongue in a particularly wicked way.

“There,” she says. “There, there, just like that—”

Your jaw aches but you don’t even register it, too intent on keeping your mouth open and hot and wet against her. It only takes a few more swipes and flicks of your tongue before she shudders violently, canting her hips towards your mouth as her legs go tense and she cums. She continues to straddle your face as she rides out the waves of pleasure, and you swallow down the wetness that flushes out of her rippling cunt, ignoring the throbbing between your own legs.

You can’t talk, muffled by her as you are, but your mind is singing. Look at you, you think. Look at how gorgeous you are. God, I could eat you out all day. (What a blessed life that would be.)

You can tell when Yoonji’s edged into oversensitivity, jolting when your tongue sweeps over her swollen clit; she settles back, knees spread as she rests against your heaving chest, legs tensing each time an aftershock shivers through her. Your mouth is open as you pant in air, but she watches as you swipe your tongue over your lips, catching the lingering taste of her on you, your chin opalescent with her arousal.

“Okay,” you say, breathless. “I’ve done everything that’s worth doing. I’ve peaked. Everything is downhill from here. You can kill me now.”

You’re only half joking, but your thighs instinctively go tight to rub against each other when you see how Yoonji’s eyes darken.

“I’m not done with you yet,” she purrs.

Yoonji might be naked while you’re still clothed, and so still armed, but she’s undoubtedly the one who’s in control right now. You are so, so okay with that. You watch with wide eyes as she shifts back, her hands grabbing the material of your jacket to tug you upwards, but before she can strip off your clothes you capture her lips with your own.

The taste of her is still heady and deep in your mouth and you nip at her bottom lip before pressing your tongue forwards. The kiss is already slick from Yoonji’s wetness and when you pull away, there’s a thin string of saliva that connects you for a moment before it breaks, which Yoonji wipes away from your chin with the pad of her thumb.

“Dirty girl,” she says, and you bite back a moan at the unabashed lust in her voice. Her grip on your chin is firm. “Did I say you could kiss me?”

“No,” you answer. “I couldn’t help myself.”

She tuts, as if disappointed, and every one of your nerve endings feels electrified, ready and anticipating whatever Yoonji is going to do next. “Such a shame,” she says. “You just can’t keep your hands or mouth to yourself, can you?”

“Can you blame me?”

Yoonji huffs out a laugh through her nose. She strips your jacket off in one sharp motion and then your shirt is similarly pulled off with single-minded intent, along with every other piece of equipment cinched to your arms and body. When you reach for her, though, she captures your wrists, her face stern.

“If you keep moving without permission, I’m going to take that privilege away from you.”

You don’t have to see your own eyes to know how your pupils will have dilated from that statement, blood thrumming through your veins, and you can tell Yoonji has noticed when her expression shifts.

“Oh.” A small, triumphant smirk appears on her face. “I see.”

You lift your arms up so she can pull your sports bra off (of course if you had known you’d been running into Yoonji again you would have worn something nicer). Rather than touch your heaving chest, however, she pushes you down onto the mattress, a hand around your wrists so they’re held above your head.

“Keep still,” she says.

She reaches for the holster that you’d had around your upper arm, lazily casting the knife aside before looping it around your wrists and pulling it secure.

Yoonji’s fingers ease under the nylon as she checks the fit. It’s tight, but not so much so that it’s painful or dangerous, and there’s a hushed moment when the realisation hits you— Yoonji and yourself are both skilled enough to know that you could easily free yourself if you wanted to. It would only take a little motion of your wrists and hands and you could slip them out of the makeshift cuffs in an instant.

You melt into the mattress. Yoonji’s eyes shift away from your wrists as she takes in the way you’ve gone utterly relaxed and limp below her, staring back at her. You see an expression flit across her face faster than you can see, before she slides down your body so she can push your legs apart.

You lift your hips to help her strip your trousers off. Her hand lingers on the concealed holster around your thigh, eyeing the small pistol nestled inside it, before that too is stripped off and cast aside. Her hands trail over the soft skin of your hips and stomach, eyes skimming over the bared length of your body before settling between your legs, the slickness of your inner thighs.

“You got this wet just from eating me out?” Her pretty mouth is curled into an expression that’s almost mocking, and your legs jolt as she runs her fingers lightly over your lower lips before rubbing her fingertips together to feel the wetness she’s gathered. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Your nails dig into your palms as your hands twist against each other and you shift your legs further apart. “Please, Yoonji,” you plead, shameless from desperation and arousal.

She laughs at your obvious hunger. “I suppose I should return the favour, shouldn’t I?”

You watch breathlessly as she lifts her fingers to her lips, swallowing them into her mouth to get them slick and wet. The motions of her tongue are languid as she licks across her fingers. You’re like a livewire, thrumming with electricity, and the sensation of her finally sinking one of those fingers into you sends sparks throughout your body.

Yoonji’s maddeningly slow. Your body takes her readily, her long finger gliding easily in and out of you, but she makes no move to speed up; you let out a small noise and she moves upwards to kiss you, as if indulging you, and you’ve just relaxed against her mouth when she plunges a second finger in.

She swallows your gasp as her fingers speed up, before she starts to kiss across your jaw, your neck, between the valley of your breasts and then closing her mouth over one of your nipples— she times the flick of her tongue with the thrust of her fingers, and then you feel how she takes her thumb to press your clit at the same time and you’re gone, falling over the edge faster than you’d expected. Your orgasm is fast but deep, your walls clenching tight around the fingers that continue to curl in and out of you, but she doesn’t stop.

“Yoonji,” you gasp. “It’s too— oh—”

Those two fingers continue to rub your sweet spot as you edge into oversensitivity but Yoonji doesn’t let up. She continues to lick and bite at the skin of your chest, putting her mouth to your other breast and circling the hardened bud of your nipple with her tongue before kissing down your stomach, your pubic bone, and then pressing her lips to your swollen clit.

You whimper. Her pace of her fingers has quickened, and she curls them each time she almost pulls them out, the squelch of their motions obscene as they slide through the cum of your first orgasm. She stares up at you, lapping at your clit with her tongue, and you can feel the saliva that’s dripping from her mouth and over your flushed core, every inch of you oversensitive but screaming with pleasure.

It’s almost painful, but you can feel an orgasm creeping through that ache; you wring your hands together and sob as Yoonji continues to finger fuck you without mercy, her pace almost bruising, the thrust of her knuckles against you each time she bottoms out just one more layer on top of that overwhelming pleasure.

“Yoonji,” you gasp. “I’m g-gonna cum again.”

She hums against you, and you make an incoherent noise at the feeling of that sound against your clit, almost too much— and then she presses one more finger into you, and that’s it, that slight burn and stretch sending you hurtling over that edge again. When you cum, your hips buck and you gasp, air rushing into your lungs before it escapes you in a moan of ecstasy; the only sensations registering in your mind right now are the ripples of pleasure spreading through your cunt as Yoonji pulls her fingers out of you, pressing down on your clit in a way that’s almost cruel, and you sob as your legs instinctively try to tighten but are prevented from doing so by Yoonji’s unyielding presence.

She’s staring down at you as you start to go lax, and you think she’s finished with you, but you watch with widening eyes as she takes her ring and middle finger to run them through your sodden folds. You sob again when those fingers plunge back into you, palm pressing against your clit each time she curls her fingers, and you squirm underneath her.

“Yoonji, it’s too much,” you cry.

“One more.” Yoonji’s leaning back and staring at you, taking in the sweat that’s beading across your skin, the tears that are gathering in your eyes and threatening to spill down your face and into your hair. “You’re doing so well, darling, you can give me one more, can’t you?”

Your reply is incoherent, a small noise that shudders out of the back of your throat. You’ve never been thrown so thoroughly into pleasure like this, overstimulated and aching, but there’s that flicker of pleasure still between your legs, growing each time Yoonji beckons with her fingers, curling over your abused sweet spot again and again and again.

“Just say the word and I’ll stop,” Yoonji says, the wet plunge of her fingers into your abused pussy so messy and loud but not enough to drown her out. “One word and I’ll stop.”

You don’t say anything. You just let your eyes roll back into your head as you cant your hips towards her, trying to latch onto that thread of pleasure that’s thrumming through you below all your screaming nerves, and the noise Yoonji makes is pleased.

“There we go,” she praises. “Look at you, so good for me. Pretty darling.”

You can feel how your pussy clenches around Yoonji’s fingers, how the coil in you is squeezing tighter and tighter, how another orgasm is somehow creeping up on you— you tilt your hips towards that feeling, towards Yoonji’s hand, and then she’s pulling her fingers out of you in an almost rough motion and you’re cumming harder than you ever have before.

“Oh, fuck!” You sob. 

It’s indescribable. The sensation rips through you as your back arches off the bed and you’re cumming and squirting and gasping and you can feel the wetness that slicks out of you, your toes curling as your brain goes blank from the staggering pleasure and static consumes every one of your senses. Your entire body feels like nothing more than a vessel for the ecstasy that’s shooting through your veins, spreading out from your core and to every corner of your insides and limbs.

It takes you a while to come back around, aftershocks wracking through your body. You feel sluggish and slow as your mind slowly clears, focusing on the sensation of warm hands stroking over the skin of your stomach and hips and thighs; your eyes flutter open and when you glance down you can see the shine to Yoonji’s skin, evidence of your pleasure painting her in a thin sheen of liquid.

“Oh my god,” you moan. “Holy shit.”

She smiles. “You were so, so good for me,” she says. She leans down to press a light kiss to collarbones and you shiver. “So beautiful. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve died and gone to heaven before coming back again,” you reply. “Oh, that was so good, Yoonji. I’ve never squirted before. I didn’t realise I could. God.”

Yoonji laughs lightly. You can’t help but watch the way it transforms her face, the way her chest jumps at the motion, every inch of her gorgeous and majestic and cute and pretty. “You did so, so well,” she praises, before she kisses you, her mouth so soft; you barely notice the sudden easing of pressure around your wrists as she releases you, more intent on the sensation of her soft petal lips against your own.

You stare up at her as she pulls away. Powerful, amazing Min Yoonji, kneeling between your legs, naked but not helpless. Definitely less vulnerable than you right now. And yet she’s still making no moves to grab one of the many weapons littered around the bed so she can finally finish her contract by completing the kill. It would be so easy for her.

The silence of the room is suddenly broken by a tiny buzzing noise. You both glance over at the sound, one that Yoonji doesn’t recognise but you do— the communicator in one of your wristbands, the one you use to keep in contact with Namjoon.

You watch the twisting of Yoonji’s body as she leans over the bed to hook the band with a finger before proffering it to you. You pause, but then grasp her wrist and lightly pull so she ends up pressed against you, softness of her breasts against your own, and you hold the communicator between your faces as you accept the call.

“Thank god you answered.” Namjoon’s voice is obviously frantic even through the tinniness of the small speaker. “Dahye cancelled the contract because Minjae wants to reconcile with her, but apparently he’s already put a hit out on you— tonight was a ruse, Minjae isn’t going to be there, you have to get out of there—”

“Bit too late for that,” you interrupt. Yoonji’s hair is tickling your cheek. “Don’t worry. I have it in hand. Send some flowers to Minjae for me, will you?”

“Flowers?” Namjoon sounds understandably confused. “Why?”

“As a thank you for taking out a contract on me,” you say. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m a little busy.”

“With what?”

“With me,” Yoonji says, and you hear Namjoon’s surprised intake of breath before you cut the line.

You end up laughing to yourself. “Oh, he’s going to hate me for that,” you giggle. Yoonji’s hand trails up your stomach and you continue to giggle at the ticklish sensation. Her skin is still slick against yours, and you suddenly realise how cold it is in the room, the air touching the cooling liquid that’s rubbed off against your skin, and you shiver. “Mm. I think it’s time to clean up. Want me to scrub your back in the shower? I give very good massages.”

Yoonji’s eyes are dark and warm before she presses her nose to your neck, lips soft as they touch the delicate skin of your throat. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

[xi4ngling]

★返信しないでください！気に入りましたか？‼️

[mx-3nglish]

My Hair! (One-shot)

~An idea I've had for a silly one-shot has been "what if Lucy had long hair?"

Well the answer to that is she'd promptly chop it all off. But for this short, let's pretend she didn't. I guess this counts as an AU.~

When people ask you to name one thing you like about your physical appearance, what's something you say? My answer is normally something along the lines of "I don't really know. I've never thought about my appearance that much." Or "I don't really have a 'favorite' physical attribute about myself." It's not because I'm self-centered. It's not because I only care about my appearance. In fact, it's quite the opposite.

I don't really like my looks. My eyes are too big for my face, my bust size isn't big verses my hips and ass which are, I'm kinda short, my hands and feet are tiny, I never seem to give off a completely "clean" appearance, and my hair...

Oh God, my hair.

It has to be the worst part of my appearance. The absolute rats-nest that I had to call my hair was so long it reached down to my tail bone. My showers took forever, having to wash so much hair. The mess took ages to comb, and then it would stay nicely brushed until a half an hour later when somehow, it would become a mess again. It took forever to do any sort of hair stiles. And it got in the way during cases. I can't recall how many times I had missed something or had gotten caught in things because of my ridiculously long hair!

I hate it so so much.

"Well if you hate how long your hair is, why don't you cut it off?" I would if I had the time. Being an agent of such a small company on the rise (the rather quick rise) required a lot of work. I didn't have much time to myself.

In contrast to me, my boyfriend loved my hair, messy length and all.

Lockwood often told me how nice it was. "Soft and fluffy, Luce!" He says, and I roll my eyes at him.

He's told me how he loves combing his fingers through my long hair. He enjoys doing it up for me when I don't have the time or don't feel like doing it. He says it's part of my charm.

Well I don't exactly know what "charm" he sees in this knotted and tangled mop that's attached to my head, but he sees a lot of things about me that I don't.

The only good part about long hair that I can see is that during the winter, you don't necessarily need to wear a scarf. Just wrap yourself up in your hair. However, this is the tail end of spring, turning into summer. It gets hotter everyday and the sun is actually starting to peak through the clouds. Long hair serves no purpose.

I collapsed onto the couch, face first into one of the pillows at the end, trying to catch a break from paperwork and practicing on Esmeralda the Second. I was hot and sweaty from the workout I had just gone through. I hadn't even noticed Kipps was in the room until he spoke up.

"Quite warm today, wouldn't you say?" He spoke, looking up from the book he was reading. I groaned out a "yeah". The wonderful thing about the library was that it was the coolest room in the house. The ventilation worked wonders for that room. In summer, it was my favorite place to be, seeing how I hate the heat.

"You've been working out?" He assumed. Again, I groaned out some sort of "yeah" towards him.

"Are you dying of heat stroke?" He joked.

"Maybe." I finally sat up right and looked at him. My hair had fallen in my face and I had no intention to fix it.

He chuckled at me and how I looked. I was wearing a plain white tank top and my normal black skirt. My hair was cloaked over my face, rolling down my body like a waterfall of murky, brown water.

I exhaled sharply, which forced some of my hair out of my face, allowing me to see Kipps.

"Don't laugh at me!" I demanded.

"I'm not, I'm not." He promised while still giggling.

"God, I hate my hair." I groaned while combing my fingers through the knotted mess. "It's too long."

"So hack it off then." Kipps stated.

"I would if I had time and trusted anyone." I mumbled. And God, I wish I did have the time.

"What do you mean by that?" Kipps asked.

"I mean that Lockwood and Holly love my hair to much to ever bring any sharp object to it and I don't trust George with a pair of scissors." I explained.

"I'll cut all of that hair off for you then if you wanted." Kipps offered. I practically jumped out of my seat at this.

"Absolutely not, Quill!" Lockwood snarled. He walked into the room, quite upset with what he just heard while walking past the library. He loves my hair too much to let anyone do anything to it.

"You are not going to touch Lucy or her hair." He walked around the back of the couch, leaned down and wrapped his arms protectively around me. Lockwood held a lot of pride in his hair. So much pride, that no one was allowed to touch it if there was even the chance of going out within the next two or so hours. And to be fair, his did take a while to arrange. Unlike mine (which I typically settled for brushing and putting it up in a ponytail) his hair could take hours for him to do. Why it took hours, I had no clue. His hair was shorter than mine.

I guess that pride now extended to my hair too. Or maybe he though I looked nice with long hair. Whatever he thought or felt though, it ment that I was not going to be getting my hair cut off any time soon, which honestly made me a bit sad.

"Hypothetical situation: She wants her hair cut short. Then am I allowed to touch her hair?" Kipps pondered.

"No!" Lockwood spat. "If she wants that, then I can help her with that." He buried his nose in my hair.

Well, the problem here is that you love my long hair so much that you would probably try to convince me to keep it long.

Kipps rolled his eyes, also knowing this information. I gave a small sigh. As much as I love my boyfriend, he really can be a dumbass sometimes.

~

The sun had just set, and I was ready for tonight's case. I had checked and double checked my belt and bag to be sure I had everything I needed. I was fully decked out in my agent gear as well as I had changed into my normal work clothing; a deep purple turtleneck sweater, my black leggings and skirt, brown boots, worn jacket, new gloves, and a light scarf just in case. And because I was lazy, My long hair hung uselessly off of my shoulders and back.

Lockwood called out to me from the kitchen. When I peeked my head in to see what he wanted, he didn't look the most pleased.

"The client Quill was supposed to investigate canceled. I figured you'd need the extra help tonight since you're possibly dealing with two ghosts." Lockwood informed me before turning on his heal and pointing sternly at Kipps. "Don't touch her hair." He growled.

Kipps held up his hands as if in defeat. "I can promise you that I will not touch her hair." When Lockwood relaxed and turned away, Kipps rolled his eyes and looked at me. He jerked his thumb in Lockwood's direction as if to say "Get a load of this guy!"

I covered my giggle with a gloved hand.

"I suppose I don't need to say this, but be careful tonight." Lockwood had turned and started walking over to me. "Don't go doing anything reckless or dangerous."

Kipps busied himself with checking his tool belt while Lockwood and I had a quick moment before leaving. Having these short romantic moments before leaving each other to go on cases was becoming more and more common, not that I was complaining. A nice reminder to stay safe, a sweet "I love you", and a quick kiss before leaving to face the cold dead gave me a new form of strength when facing the night.

"That goes for you too." My hands found his. "Stay safe, don't get yourself killed."

He pressed his forehead to mine. "And don't let him touch your hair." He whispered to me. I couldn't help but give a quick and quiet laugh while a smile crept onto his face.

"I love you." I said first.

"I love you too." He stated, then gave me a quick kiss.

We tore away from each other. I took my leave with Kipps, taking the cab that had just arrived.

"You're becoming more okay with his affection, aren't you?" Kipps asked.

"Don't make fun of me." I demanded while opening the trunk to store our bags in.

"I'm not." Kipps smiled at me. "I think it's sweet that you two are starting to accept the fact that you are an item." I gave him a light shove before closing the trunk and getting in the cab.

The ride took a while, the client lived halfway across London. I payed the driver while Kipps got out and got our bags from the trunk.

When I got out of the car, I took a look at the house we would be dealing with tonight. It was a standard sized house, probably made for the average family. According to George, this house wasn't the oldest. It was built within the last few decades. The client reported that there were objects being flung across rooms on their own, disembodied voices, and shadow-people. My agent mind was already at work deducing what types of visitors could possibly be waiting for us.

Kipps and I walked inside silently, inspecting what we would be dealing with tonight. I took to exploring the first floor while Kipps explored the ground floor.

Upstairs was where the bedrooms were, as well as a guest room and what looked to be an office. I opened my psychic ears (even though it may have been a bit to early in the night) in case something was already looking for us.

At the moment, nothing felt out of place. Everything was calm.

I walked back downstairs to check with Kipps and further expand my knowledge on the layout of the house.

When I found him, he was in the kitchen, looking out of the kitchen window. I decided to glance over his shoulder to see the backyard.

It was a large area with many plants. Some flowers, mostly fruits and vegetables growing in the back. Some plants looked ripe.

"They garden." I noted. Kipps nodded and hummed, acknowledging both my statement and my presence.

I had a quick stupid though and laughed to myself. Kipps looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

"What if the source is out there and we have to dig it up?" I jokingly pondered.

"Fingers crossed it's not. These are my last clean cloths and I haven't had the chance to do my laundry yet." Kipps half joked with me. And that was mostly his style of joking. Making statements that sound like they could be true but had a sort of irony to the level (or lack) of sarcasm in his voice. I had slowly learned that the hard way.

We set up base in the living room and waited. 10:04 P.M. was not normally when ghost made themselves problematic. It was the deepest, darkest hours of the night that made them active.

Kipps, being an adult with talent that had faded, had put on the Orpheus goggles, just in case something decided to show up. We had a quick conversation while in the iron circle in the living room, even though most of it was me complaining about my hair.

"Just to spite Tony," Kipps stated while leaning forward, "I'm going to touch your hair." His hands picked up a few locks of my long and useless hair, gently intertwining them with his gloved fingers. If Lockwood was here, he'd throw a fit at the moment. I half scoffed half laughed at Kipps when he pulled away.

Lockwood wasn't normally a jealous man. In fact, everyone knew him for being the opposite. He shared his skills and talents with the rest of the world. Sure he had a bit of an ego on him, but he didn't let that dictate how he treated people and how he shared himself with others. However, that charity seemed to only go so far. It stopped abruptly with me.

He didn't want to share me, as I've found out. He didn't want other men doing what he could do with/to me. And like with everything else, my hair was a big part of this.

I've felt men (other than my friends or Lockwood) touch my hair. It's typically just a quick brush of his fingers through my hair. Because I have so much of it and it's so long, they must think I don't feel them stroke my hair.

But I do. And I don't like it. It's creepy and rude. And I've found out Lockwood doesn't like it either. One recent incident had him almost braking another agents hand because he had tried to stroke my long hair.

I've also found out that Lockwood doesn't like George or Kipps touching my hair either. Why, I wasn't sure. Though perhaps today's indecent with Kipps offering to help me cut my hair is partial contribution to that.

We got up a little while after Kipps touched my hair, to make second rounds of the house. This time I was on the ground floor, Kipps on the first. For most of my round, I heard nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing. Kipps came back downstairs and shook his head.

"Nothing up there." He noted. I groaned. I was ready for the night to begin, I was ready for action.

I listened again, closer this time.

Still nothing.

"Let's check the backyard." Kipps spoke up. "I've got a feeling you might be right about something being back there."

So we opened the sliding door to the back and stepped outside. The first thing to take not of was the temperature. It was freezing cold outside, not the semi-cold of the summer night. The next thing to note was the noises. I heard something. It was a small noise. In fact, if I hadn't been exclusively listening with my inner ear, I would've missed it.

I informed Kipps on my discovery, and listened closer, trying to pinpoint where that sound was coming from. I followed my sensed closely. I couldn't even tell what the sound was. It was almost like some sort of small clicking noise. But it also sounded wet. A small, wet clicking noise.

I walked past a few beds of flowers, and a bed of strawberries. Something in the bushes, my gut told me. I began digging through the branches and leaves, hoping beyond hope that my hair doesn't somehow get tangled up in the bush.

The next event happened quickly. Kipps called my name, and before I could respond, I heard a deep gurgle from behind me. And then something behind me exploded, sparks and embers from a flare rained from behind me. I quickly pulled myself out of the bush and turned around to see Kipps standing a ways away from me.

"What the Hell?! Somethings behind me and you throw a flare?!" I hissed at him.

"I didn't think you were going to react in time." He reasoned. I took a breath. Okay, okay, you're trying to look out for me. That's good, that's fine. But with a flare?!

"How close was it to getting me?" I asked, pushing my anger to the side.

"It manifested pretty close behind you." He explained. "Even if you did react, you wouldn't have had much room to work with."

"Right, right." I mumbled to myself. I also took the note that something smelt funny, but that I also ignored for the time being.

"So what did it look like?" I questioned. I need to know just how grotesque this ghost is.

"It's a shadow person but it doesn't have a head." Kipps explained. I nodded. That smell was getting a bit stronger now.

"Did you find anything in the bush?" Kipps checked. I shook my head.

"Nothing. I was probably hearing an animal. It's gone now. I can't hear anything." I informed him. I had walked closer so we could regroup and think about what we should do next. But that smell was starting to get to me. Kipps hummed in acknowledgement.

"Well, it's out here. Perhaps we should stay out here and start looking?" He concluded.

"Yeah, perhaps." I turned to go back to investigating the furthest of the backyard. I stopped when Kipps made a strange and startled noise.

"Carlyle, hold still. Don't move." He ordered.

"Huh?" I was a bit worried as to why he was so shocked at the moment.

The next event happened faster than the last.

I felt Kipps lift my hair, exposing it to the frigid night, and then three quick hacks nearing the base of my skull. I quickly pulled away, ready to fight back since he wanted to joke with me so much.

But this wasn't a joke. It was far from one. Kipps - rapier in one hand - dropped what he was holding in the other. What was now on the ground was my hair. My long, long hair that had been growing since birth. Almost 17 years worth of hair now lay in the grass.

On fire.

My hair had been on fire while we figured out what our next step in the case was.

How had it come to be on fire? I wondered for a brief moment before a realization struck me. Kipps had just hacked off my long hair while using his rapier. His sword was so close to the back of my neck. He could've killed me!

We looked at my hair as flames consumed the length of it. I felt dizzy. Not only had that been attached to me and could've cause major damage if I hadn't noticed, but Kipps had his sword cutting it all off. That sword was so close to my neck...

We stood there for what felt like forever, just watching my hair burn. Finally, after a few minutes, Kipps looked up at me and took off the goggles. He looked at me apologetically.

"I am so sorry." He apologized.

I just looked down at my hair. One of my hands snuck around the back of my head, feeling where my hair had been cut.

"I'm so sorry. I just saw it was on fire and did the first thing that came to mind. I'm so so sorry." He continued. I, unlike him, was frozen in my spot, just feeling the uneven cut of my now short hair.

"I'll fix it. I'll fix your hair up so it's even and it looks nice." He was probably panicking at my shocked state. "God, I am so sorry. I really am. I'm sorry."

The flare... I thought. The flare he threw. They normally burst into embers and sparks upon impact. Combine those two and you get a fire. Be it a clients house, someones cloths, or someones hair, they're going up in flames.

"Here, let's-" He walked over to me and began guiding my shock-struck body. "Let's go inside and let ourselves settle for a bit, have some tea."

So we walked inside. He sat me down in the iron circle we had made earlier that night and left to the kitchen. By now, both of my hands had found their way to my head. They were roaming around that territory, discovering how light and effortlessly my hair could be moved around now. A smile found it's way onto my face.

Maybe Kipps throwing that flare was a blessing in disguise.

This is wonderful! No more clogged shower drains because of how much hair I have! No more spending hours in the shower just to wash! No more having to sit in place for hours because Lockwood or Holly doing my hair up! No more creepy guys casually stroking my hair! No more getting caught on things during cases! No more putting it up in order to see properly during physical exercise! It's short now! It's perfect!

I found myself giggling. At first it was quietly to myself. Then it got louder. The more things I realized how short hair would make my life easier, the happier I got. It wasn't long before I was full on laughing. I was so happy! Sure, Kipps had scared the hell out of me, nearly gave me severe burns, and could've nearly cut into my spinal cord with his actions around the back of my neck, but this had turned out to have an amazing result!

Kipps rushed back into the living room with two cups of hot tea. He looked down at me, a bit terrified.

"Carlyle? You okay?" He cautiously asked.

"Okay?" I giggled. Then laughed some more. "Okay?!"

He set the mugs down, and he seemed to put himself in a defensive stance. Perhaps he thought I'd lost it.

"God, Quill, I'm absolutely wonderful right now!" I exclaimed. "My hair! My hair!"

I was overjoyed at the moment. My hair was finally cut short! I was finally free from the binds of that long rats-nest! I felt so free, so light.

He picked the mugs back up and carefully handed me one.

"Well I'm glad you're happy." He stated. "Tony is going to kill me when he sees this."

"He's not going to kill you because this was an accident and I love my short hair." I assured, sipping carefully on my hot mug of tea.

"You're right. He's not going to kill me because this was an accident. He's going to kill me because I touched your hair. More so, I cut your hair." He argued.

"He'll live." I stated.

"Yeah, but I won't." He panicked.

"Look, next time he sees me, he'll obviously want to talk about this. I'll explain everything to him then, he'll be calmer and believe it more if it comes from me." I planned. Kipps didn't seem convinced, but nodded, probably deciding to go along with my plan anyway.

I had only half payed attention the rest of the night. The source was a moldy, half-decayed decapitated head that had been buried in the back yard around where the visitor had first appeared. We took it to the furnaces and had it burned. Many agents did a double take when they saw me. Some who knew of me, and knew me previously with very long hair. Some who had just seen the uneven, choppy cuts at my hair and probably wondered what happened on this case.

For once, the stares didn't bother me. In fact, I liked it. I liked that they were noticing my shortened hair.

After burning the source, we both went to Kipps's flat.

"There is no way in hell Tony is going to find you with an uneven cut. I feel like that might piss him off further." He explained while he fished around for a pair of scissors. I sat still, happy as could be with my short hair.

It took about half an hour and I could tell how paranoid Kipps was about getting my hair right. After that half-hour, I left for home. I needed to figure out exactly what I was going to say to Lockwood when he saw me with short hair. I also needed to be prepared for his inevitable freaking out over my now lack of hair.

When I did arrive home, I took note that Lockwood's and George's coats were handing up on the coat rack. They were both home. The house was dark, all of the lights were out. I could only assume this ment they were both asleep. I decided that it would be much better to show them this new change in the morning anyway.

~

For once, I had spent all morning marveling at my reflection in the mirror. The girl looking back at me looked beautiful without all of that excess hair always hanging in her face. Not to mention, Kipps did a good job with making it look stylish.

But now came the hard part of this morning; Lockwood.

He was expecting nothing different, he was expecting same old Lucy with her insanely long hair. Boy was he in for a surprise. Better get it over with.

I walked downstairs to the first landing, noticing that both doors to the boys bedrooms were closed. Though, they were probably up by now, I still foolishly hoped one of them would run into me on that floor, just to get it over with. Instead I progressed downstairs.

From the kitchen, I heard silverware and dishes clanking together, Lockwood laughing, and George laughing with him.

That laughter won't last long...

Holly stepped out into the hallway as I stepped off of the steps. She had a smile on her face, clearly enjoying whatever joke was just made.

Just get it over with, Lucy!

"Good morning Holly." I greeted nicely.

"Good mor-- AHH!!" She let out a shriek as soon as she saw me, then rushed to me and placed her hands on my head, feeling my short hair. The boys rushed out into the hallway to see the commotion. They both froze in their tracks when they saw me.

"Oh, you noticed?" I pulled my head away from her hands.

"Your hair!" She shrieked.

"Yes, well... There's an interesting story behind this." I began explaining.

"What, did you have a mental break down during your case and finally chop it all off?" George joked. "It does look good though..."

"What did he do?!" Lockwood stepped past Holly and threaded his hands in my hair. Horrified, he asked again; "What did he do?!"

"Please, calm down. I'll tell you what happened once we're all at the table." I promised. And all four of us took seats at the dinner table.

I told them everything that had happened last night. The accidental fire in my hair, Kipps's panic, finding the source, fixing my hair to look less sloppily done. When I was done, I looked at them. The were all so shocked.

"He could only think of cutting off your hair?!" Holly cried in outrage.

"Are you alright? You're not burned are you?" Lockwood interrogated me.

"Huh... Never though Kipps could actually give someone a good haircut. Maybe he should do that rather than being an agent." George joked.

"Now, I'm sure you understand this was all an accident." I rationed.

At that moment, we heard the front door open and close.

He decided to come in for work? Brave man.

Lockwood got up from his seat and mad move for the front. I panicked. I know he's angry that Kipps touched my hair, let alone cut it all off.

George, Holly, and I stood up, all knowing what was going to happen.

And sure enough, a conflict was happening in the front room.

Lockwood's hands were around Kipps's neck, while Kipps tried to pry Lockwood's hands off him. Lockwood was enraged, shouting profanities at Kipps while the man tried to defend himself. I wrapped my arms around my boyfriend, Holly wrapped her arms around Kipps, and George helped pry the two apart by getting in between them. Everyone seemed to be shouting at the moment. I held tightly to Lockwood, knowing he wouldn't do anything violent while I was holding him. Kipps was practically hiding behind Holly.

Somehow, and I'm not quite sure how (it took a lot of convincing from George and I), Lockwood left Kipps alone. It was decided that to best avoid Lockwood wringing Kipps's neck, they should not be in the same room alone.

For that reason, I took Lockwood upstairs to his room. And now we sat on his bed, his hands in my hair. He combed his fingers through my hair gently.

"It's not bad. I don't not like it." He stated. "But-"

"But you don't like other guys touching me." I finished the thought for him. He nodded.

"I get that. But it was my hair cut off or some serious burns on me. Aren't you glad you've only got the former?" I wondered.

"If he was a little more responsible, you would still have your beautiful long hair." He grumbled.

"I like it short." I grabbed one of my now shortened locks of hair, looking at it.

"Do you really?" He combed his fingers through my hair again. "Well, if you like it, I guess that' all that matters."

"I suppose this is a big loss for you, huh?" I looked up at him. "You can't do my hair anymore."

"I'll find other casual ways to touch you." He stated. I laughed. "Holly's going to be the one who's devastated."

"I thought you really liked it long? Like, it was your favorite part of me - physically speaking." I rambled.

He chuckled. "I did like it, yes. But it wasn't my favorite."

"Then what is?" I asked.

"I'm surprised you don't know." His hands dropped from my hair down to my hips. "I'm told I won't shut up about it."

I tilted my head. I then felt a tight squeeze on my hips, where his hands were placed.

"Pervert!" I playfully swatted at his chest.

[crampdown]

Cramp’s Comic Recommendations For Fans Of Classic Rock And Co.

Allright here we go. This is my current list of comics/manga/graphic novels you might enjoy if you’re into classic rock. Before we get started I’d just like to let you all know:

- This list is far from being complete. I’m sure there are many more groovy comics out there that I’m simply not aware of yet so if you have any suggestions feel free to add them :)

- I know I said “Classic Rock” but some of my choices may drift into other musical directions

- Needless to say I do not own any of the following images. They all belong to their rightfull owners and I’ll use them as visual reference material only.

- Sorry for eventual misspelling

Let’s go ^^

1. Bob Dylan Revisited 

Let’s start with an obvious choice. This is a collection of 13 well-known Dylan Songs, each of them graphically interpreted by a different artist. The most striking feature therefore is the high variety of different art styles. Some of them are cartoony, some are very abstract while others are almost photo realistic.

Dylan’s mesmerizing lyrics have always been inspirational and these beautiful depictions truly are a sight to see. 

Including works of Thierry Murat, Lorenzo Mattotti, Nicolas Nemiri, François Avril, Jean-Claude Götting, Christopher,  Bézian, Dave McKean, Alfred, Raphaëlle Le Rio, Maël Le Mae, and Henri Meunier, Gradimir Smudju, Benjamin Flao, Jean-Phillippe Bramanti and Zep.

Zep’s take on “Not Dark Yet”

Jean-Phillippe Bramanti’s interpretation of “Knocking On Heaven’s Door”

Definitely worth checking out not only for Bob Dylan Fans.

2. Baby’s In Black” by Arne Bellstorf

I’ve seen several people in the Beatles fandom complain about the lack of Stuart Sutcliffe material when it comes to early Beatles history. 

Well, here it is: a graphic novel that focuses on the relationship between Stuart Sutcliffe and fotographer Astrid Kirchherr who took the very first professional photos of the Beatles during their time in Hamburg (1960-61).

Told mostly from Astrid’s point of view this comic presents itself in a grey and melancholic tone that fits the rather sad story. Bellstorf’s drawings are simplified and charming (they remind me of early sixties children book illustrations which suits the setting’s time period)

If you’re interested in early Beatles history (especially their Hamburg days) you should give this one a try.

3. Blue Monday by Chynna Clugston Flores

I really wish I had known about this amazing comic series a few years earlier, not only because this is a slice of life/coming of age story with teenage characters who are actually likeable and relateable but also because “Blue Monday” is an overall highly entertaining depiction of early nineties teen culture/rebellion in an American suburb that comes with a lot of references to Britpop, mod culture, Buster Keaton movies and Adam Ant (to name only a few).

To quote the author herself: “It’s like Archie on crack, with cursing and smokes”.

The art style of Chynna Clugston Flores is very vivid and expressive and has a certain stylistic touch of anime/manga (like a lot of comics from the early 2000s). I also really enjoy all of the graphic fashion details in this one. Plus, this is the first comic with it’s own soundtrack and that’s always a nice bonus.

I’d recommend “Blue Monday” for fans of Britpop, Punk, New Wave and early 1990′s culture.

4. Punk Rock And Trailer Parks by Derf Backderf

Another story about growing up in American small town madness, this time set in 1980s gritty Punk subculture of the former rubber city of Akron, Ohio. Protagonist Otto who likes to refer to himself as “The Baron” becomes fascinated with Punk after attending a Ramones concert. He meets several Pubk icons (thus as The Clash, The Plasmatics, rock journalist Lester Bangs and many more) and becomes someting of a local punk star himself.

Derf Backderf (who is best known for his highly acclaimed graphic novel “My Friend Dahmer” and his Eisner award winning comic “Trashed”) created a comic that is as “raw and dirty as punk itself”. His art style is an unique combination of expressionism, underground cartoons and punk magazines.

“Punk Rock And Trailer Parks” is a must-have for punk fans (especially if you’re into The Ramones and The Clash. It made me a huge fan of both of them).

5. “CASH - I See A Darkness” and “Nick Cave - Mercy On Me” by Reinhard Kleist

Two biographical graphic novels by Reinhard Kleist, both of them tell the story of a fascinating personality in rock history and both of them are incredibly well drawn. Kleist’s art is full of life and movement and very atmospheric due to his impressive use of stark contrasts. 

I personally love his semirealistic way of drawing people and I’d highly suggest you to check out his other works too. He made a lot of biographical comics that really amazed me.

CASH

Cave

Definetly worth reading. Not only for Johnny Cash and Nick Cave fans.

6. Nowhere Men by Eric Stephenson, Nate Bellegarde, Jordie Bellaire and Fonografiks

I talked about this one a while ago but I’ll gladly do it again since it’s just too cool. “Nowhere Men” is set in an alternative past/present and future where scientists became as popular as pop stars (catchphrase “Science is the new Rock n` Roll”) but somewhere along the way something definetly went wrong. 

The hype of science shares obvious similarities with the beatlemania of the 60s and the founding of Apple back then. Furthermore, the characters are partly inspired by well-known personalities of Rock history. There are many more or less hidden nods and references to musical popculture wich is why I put it on this list.

Nowhere Men is a thrilling sci-fi dystopian that requires an observant reader because there is a lot of jumping back and forth i time and inbetween information. The art style is realistic and full of very vibrant colours.

I found myself reading this multiple times to get all of the details in the world building. A thoughtful and brilliant writing indeed. 

7. P.I.L. by Mari Yamazaki

Japan 1983: 17-year-old Nanami couldn’t be more frustrated. Her grandfather loves to spend all of their household money on useless luxury junk and her strict school criticizes her messy hairstyle. Caught between teenage rebellion and responsibility as she tries different side jobs to earn at least a little bit of money, Nanami also has a thing for punk music and overall everything originated from England.

P.I.L. tells the story of conflict between two generations who aren’t as different as they might seem. Sometimes funny and heartwarming, sometimes with a bit of drama this is a charming slice of life/ coming of age josei with a more simplistic but aesthetical pleasing art style.

as the title might suggest, Nanami is a big fan of P.I.L. and other bands of the punk, neo punk and new wave movement such as The Stranglers and The Killing Joke

8. Yellow Submarine by Bill Morrison

A comic adaptation of an animated film such as Yellow Submarine? Yeah, I was skeptical at first too but hear me out: This is really great. Morrison did an amazing job at capturing the trippy and psychedelic feeling of the legendary Beatles film. As the 1968 film used the medium of animation as an actual form of art to accomplish things only animation can do, Morrison did the same thing and used the advantages of the comic medium to accomplish things only comics can do. And it works. It really works.

Every single page of this colourful book has a different panel layout. Some of them are so beautiful and creative that I’d love to have a full-size poster version of them :’D

If you liked the film, if you love the psychedelic age, you’ll probably like the comic too. 

9. In The Pines by Erik Kriek

“In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines...”

5 Murder Ballads, some might call them dark Country Music, each of them beautifully illustrated by Erik Kriek. Atmospheric, dark and gritty and always on point to match the spine-chilling western-like storytelling of these ballads, great for fans of horror literature a la E.A.Poe.

10. Andy - A Factual Fairy Tale by Typex

Allright folks this is it:

Typex’s “Andy” is by far one of the best comics/graphic novels I’ve ever red. It defenitely is my personal favourite reading of 2019 (and tbh I kinda doubt anything will top this anytime soon)

This is more than just a biographical take on of the most enigmatic pop-art artists of 20th centuary’s America, this is a portrait of the 20th centuary itself. There are so many references to art, history, literature, music and more that I could fill a book counting them all. And of course this is a monument for the medium of comic itself. Typex really managed to show what comic’s are capable of (At this point I’m really sorry I can’t explain it better I’m not good in writing stuff like this yet...)

Visually one of the most appealing things are the different art styles Typex manages to pull off so well for every chapter in Warhol’s life because each of them are a mirror of their zeitgeist. The introduction of Warhol’s childhood during the 30s is drawn in a cartoony style of old news paper comic strips. The chapter of 1967 has a psychedelic edge. The chapter of the early 60s shows similarities with the works of Roy Liechtenstein

So many icons from the 1930s-1980s have a cameo in this graphic novel it’s just amazing. If you’re even remotely interested in anything of this time period you’d definitely should read this. (seriously, READ THIS). But at this point I’d also like to mention that this comic does not shy away from showing very explicit content and sensetive topics (please keep in mind this has a mature rating for a reason)

Yeah so I couldn’t give this piece of art enough praise. It is absolutely brilliant, a masterpiece in every sense and word.I wasn’t too aware of Typex before but appearentely he also did a graphic novel on Rembrandt. I’m gonna read this too.

Some honorable mentions:

California Dreamin` by Penelope Bagieu

I haven’t red this one yet so I can’t say anything more about it. But I wanted to let you know that a graphic novel about the life of Cass Elliot exists.

Before Watchmen: Silk Spectre by Darwyn Cooke and Amanda Conner

One of the prequels of the legendary “Watchmen” by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons. It’ “only” an honorable mention because you’ll have to be familiar with the Watchmen universe to fully get all of the story. This prequel focuses on Laurie Jupeczyk, the second Silk Spectre and her own adventures during 1967, the summer of love in San Francisco.

Hip Hop Family Tree by Ed Piskor

Another one I haven’t fully red yet, but so far I’m loving it. It basically tells the history of Rap and Hip Hop from the early 70s to the mid 80s. The art style is intentionally old-school wich really fits it’s tone and setting.

Fritz The Cat by Robert Crumb

I suppose I can’t make a list like this without at least mentioning an absolut icon of the underground comix movement. Crumb created the adventures of this nasty junky cat during the 60s. Fritz can be seen as a satirical mirror of counter-culture’s zeitgeist.

and speaking of Crumb, his “Heroes of Blues, Jazz and Country” trading cards are neat too...

allright that’s it for now. like I said, if you have anymore suggestions, feel free to add ^^

[chenhongandlife]

A Higher Call?

2 weeks have past since trades phase and section training has been a bit more tiring due to the amount of prep and the timing we end. Was suppose to write this but I KO at about 11.15? And my mum was frustrated that I didn't off comp and light HAHAHA. I got recommended by my section instructor to be the Learning Sergeant Major (LSM), for those who do not know, it is basically company in charge. Compared to other LSMs before me, my job was more stressful due to the start of section training. First it was Basic Main Range (BMR), where we all had to refresh our gunnery brains and muscles and get all the maintenance items(OVM) and vehicles ready. The tough part wasn't the lesson, it's always always the OVM because we have to keep accounting for them, a total logistical nightmare. During the process of getting the vehicles ready, I had to keep track who has done what and whether they had already updated the board of their signal helmets and radio sets' serial number or not. Same for the weapon systems, testing the electrical cables and recording the serial number so that we can make sure that the items are 101% working with that same vehicle so that we don't waste time fixing if things go wrong. Lots of things to do and what can go wrong will go wrong! But nonetheless Polaris did it. Time came when we moved out to the range, and I can't emphasise how FRUSTRATING THAT WO KUANSHIN IS -.- to cut the story short: In the range: Range Sergeant Major (RSM) biggest, while LSM will support in counting strength. Guess what? HE KEEP LOOKING FOR ME -.- and end up instead of supporting... I did almost all the RSM job, THE RSM NEVER FIGHT FOR ME ALSO SIA-.- zzzzzzz I become R/LSM SUA LIDDAT. PEKCEK MAX. Not only that I had to deal with recovery after the range because when we reach company line, LSM resumes his status... LAME RIGHT? That Encik srsly... KEEP LOOKING FOR ME SIA IDK WHAT IS HIS PROBLEM. Other than that... BMR was a huge success! Thanks to the hard work Polaris put in together with the Gunnery Instructors:) Second, the start of section training. Come Monday when we started, it was self directed learning(SDL) the whole day, so I tot it was fine and all, and my thought was, section training rly that jialat meh, like Master Vincent said. So I just mentally prep myself a bit. Little did I know that things would get so messy. We were supposed to do up the groundsheet but then we had lots of OVM missing so we went to find it but to no avail, so end up we had routine orders(RO) at 10.15-20? I think. So I had everyone who were not involved in the OVM search before to copy down whatever SDL mentioned on the groundsheet so we would mess up as much... however come Tuesday, EVERYTHING IN THE MORNING WAS A HUGE MESS... ppl fall in late, ppl draw arms slow, most frustrating of all, WE DIDNT KNOW WHAT TO DO W THE OVM LAYOUT CUZ THERE WAS A FEW DIFF VERSIONS............... Stores weren't complete and appointment holders had to answer for them... hell of a day. So in the end the Instructors covered for us cuz they knew that their commands were also messy and they taught us how and what to do. Well at least I'm Glad that I didn't get knock down for nth cuz I got sth to learn. PLUS the change of command(COC) parade was on the same day but I told my Master (MSG) cannot cuz no time, so ended up I actually extended my duty for 3 days...(BETTER THANK ME HOR). Things got better only on Thursday and Friday when every ICs and my Learning Platoon Sergeants (LPS) knew what to do and we quickly deploy our men. That's when things were smooth, we met timings, and less confusion going on, and everything ended great on a Friday when I handed over my duty as the LSM to my section mate MARTINIE :) I'm sure he will do a good job knowing that he is a very hardworking person, even tho he rly sleeps a lot. Now when I think back, it is really a fruitful week, an amazing chance to take care of 68 men together with my other in charge, be it cadets or commanders. Rly a milestone of my army walk, now I can truly say that I have been in all roles before, Learning Section Commander(LSC), LPS and LSM. IN ADDITION! During my term as the LSM, I retook IPPT on Wednesday and my section Instructor, MSG Raymond keep telling me, "you can reach silver one la! My section left you Liao, I believe you can! 如果你跑不到12:30，我就杀了你。(If you can't run 12:30, I will kill you)" HAHAHA!!! I gave my best and ran 12:21!!!!! Push up maximum and sit up 40!!! That's a 75points just nice silver!!! Really thankful that I have a commander who kept believing in me and chose to push me on every round I go, I keep hearing ,"Lai chenhong run! Gogogo!" His good Friend SSG Long Fei was also there for me hahaha! Very touched by their actions and heart for cadets:) So in summary for this fruitful week: 1) A huge success(I feel) for my LSM term. 2) A Silver for IPPT Thankful for all who supported and it's my turn to support my Friend who I handed over as LSM :)

[foursprout-blog]

Your Messy Office May Be Helping You Get More Done

New Post has been published on http://foursprout.com/wealth/your-messy-office-may-be-helping-you-get-more-done/

Your Messy Office May Be Helping You Get More Done

In 1993, advertising legend Jay Chiat announced his radical plans for the office of the future. His agency, Chiat/Day, was already a paragon of creativity — its legendary campaigns included Apple’s “1984” and “Think Different” campaigns — and its new LA office, designed by Frank Gehry was to be its monument.

The space was engineered to be playful; with decorations that included pieces from fairground rides and a four-story sized set of binoculars. It eschewed the traditional office cubicles and desks in favor of public spaces where executives could meet in impromptu places and brainstorm ideas.

It was a disaster. As Tim Harford explains in his book Messy our desire for engineered spaces — even creative ones — can kill productivity and innovation. At the same time, disorder and disruption can help us to do our very best work. While this defies conventional wisdom, decades of research clearly shows that your messy desk may very well be a mark of genius.

The Tidiness Temptation

Kyocera, the Japanese technology giant, strictly adheres to the 5S workplace philosophy (Sort, Set in order, Shine, Standardize and Sustain). Employees are discouraged from cluttering up their desks or hanging personal items on the walls. Inspectors routinely patrol to enforce compliance.

This type of uniformity may be great for the factory floor — some believe 5S was originally derived from Henry Ford’s CANDO system (Cleaning up, Arranging, Neatness, Discipline and Ongoing improvement) — where efficiency is the primary goal, but there is ample evidence that it may seriously harm productivity when creativity and problem solving are required.

In 2010, Alexander Haslam and Craig Knight, both researchers at the University of Exeter, set out to understand how office environments affect productivity. They set up four office layouts and asked subjects to perform simple tasks. They found that when workers were able to clutter up the space with personal knickknacks they got 30% more done than in the 5S environment.

Yet the issue goes far beyond a bit of clutter. Harford points to a number of examples, from musicians to software engineers to daily commuters — that suggest that we often produce our best work amidst some kind of disruption. As it turns out, being thrown off our game can actually bring it to a whole new level.

Why Messy Works

To illustrate why disorder can lead to better outcomes Harford offers a simple hill climbing analogy. Imagine if you had to design an algorithm to find the highest point on earth. The simplest way to do it would be to pick a point at random and simply move to the next highest point. With each move, you would go higher and high until you reached a peak.

Your performance on the task, however, would be highly dependent on where you started. You might do better selecting a number of different points, but here again, you would basically be relying on luck. You’d be just as likely to end up in the lowlands of Holland as you would to land in the Himalayas or the Andes.

The best approach would be to combine the two strategies by picking a limited set of random points and then hill climbing. That would allow you to avoid getting stuck in lowlands and still benefit from steady improvement. It wouldn’t guarantee that you would end up on the top of Mount Everest, but it would outperform either strategy alone.

There is evidence that the hybrId strategy produces better results in the real world. In fact,  a team of researchers analyzing 17.9 million scientific papers found that the most highly cited work is far more likely to come from a team of experts in one field that borrowed a small piece of insight from another. Injecting a little bit of randomness can work wonders.

The Two Sides Of Diversity

Steve Jobs is renowned for his attention to order and detail. A micromanager of the highest order, he even insisted that the insides of his computers look elegant and streamlined. It was, in part, this meticulous approach that allowed him to make some of the most successful products ever.

Yet when designing workspaces, he did just the opposite. Both Pixar’s office and Apple’s new “spaceship” building feature central atriums where people are bound to run into people they ordinarily wouldn’t. The legendary Bell Labs was set up with the same idea in mind, almost forcing researchers with widely divergent expertise to cross in the halls.

Once again, there is ample empirical evidence that backs up the this idea. A variety of studies going back decades suggest the diverse teams perform better, even when compared with ones that objectively have more ability. Giving yourself more hills to climb increases the chances that you’ll land on a high peak.

However, research also shows that being exposed to diverse perspectives is challenging and often uncomfortable, giving rice to tension and uncertainty. That’s why the best teams often function as part of a larger small world network, with tight-knit groups connected to and interacting with other tight-knit groups, combining stability with diversity.

Sharing Purpose

Clearly, the most effective work environments have a healthy mix of order and disorder. The strict conformity of 5S workplaces can feel oppressive, but so can the imposed craziness of the Chiat/Day offices. In both cases, our own personal sense of autonomy is violated. More subtle prodding, such as the run-ins catalyzed by Pixar’s atrium seem to get better results.

Still, every workplace has its own tribes and cliques. Marketing teams clash with engineering and sales teams, while everyone chafes under the watchful gaze of finance and admin. We all have an instinctive need to form our own cohesive groups and to protect them from the incursions of outsiders.

However, those tensions can be overcome if diverse and competing tribes share a greater purpose. In a classic study done back in the 1950s with boys at a summer camp, it was shown that intense conflict would break out when teams were given competing goals, but that tension gave way to cooperation when they were given a common objective.

Many managers today go to great efforts to design innovative workplaces and they take a variety of different approaches. Yet what seems most important isn’t the actual specifics of the architecture, but whether it’s designed to empower or to dictate. If we feel we have power over our environment, we tend to be much more productive.

Of course, when everyone gets to make their own decisions things can get a little messy, but that’s what often produces better results.

[xi4ngling]

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