#law school netflix
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
Why Law School KDrama is one of the best dramas I have ever seen so far:
⥠It's about students, who actually are studying.
⥠It's about struggle. Wether it's for your grades or for addiction. Or to prove something.
⥠It's about justice. There's a famous quote I don't think I'll ever get over it but the quote starts at the beginning of the story, with an answer.
It's the beginning of judgment by the law with scales and a sword. Is the law truly righteous?
And the quote is meant to keep you watching. For you as a viewer to decide for yourself. By the end of the series, it ends up finishing the quote solved. Pay attention.
⥠Gorgeous Intro~~ I don't think I have ever skipped it.
⥠It's about self development. And self achievement. Nothing in life is easy. That doesn't mean you should give up.
⥠it's about bullying
⥠About sexual harassment
⥠The acting is insanely good
⥠Well rounded characters. Every single one of them. Their arcs, the way the change. The exposition and the time they have to show it to you. To win your heart. They suffer and win or lose. It's just gorgeous. Simply touching.
⥠The plot keeps you on your toes. You have to look at the dates to understand how the events happened. Devil is in the details~~ pay attention!!
⥠It's about feminism. Say whatever you want. But I was so ready to punch those bad guys but instead the law brings them to justice. If i told you I cried with them so much?
but they made me feel so proud too. I was literally screaming, crying and rooting for all of them. All the way. And especially for her. Seriously.
⥠They do make you feel like, you can do it too. This series is my go to whenever I'm feeling lazy, or depressed.
⥠It's about friendship~ and some implied but nothing too spectacular, romance. Place your bets, choose your team~ go and watch it!! because I need more people talking about this serie. I need fans to interact with đđ pretty please?
#annabourbon#danteann#kdramas#kdrama#law school kdrama#law school#law school netflix#recommendations#kdrama recommendations
33 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Someone rec me 'no bs no sex scenes no relationship drama all study all social issues all broody guy goes around adopting everyone' type kdramas like law school this is not in the least bit sarcastic I want kdramas of students where students actually study
#vik's posts#not study related#recs#law school#law school kdrama#kdrama#kdrama recs#law school jtbc#law school netflix#netflix
105 notes
¡
View notes
Photo
As a newly initiated Kim Beom fan, I find this really funny đđ
Just something I madeâŚ
#Kim Bum#Kim Beom#Han Joon Hwi#han jun hwi#joon hwi#law school#law school jtbc#law school netflix#law school kdrama#lee rang#tale of the gumiho#tale of a gumiho#the tale of the nine tailed#tale of the nine tailed#gumiho#tale of gumiho#go seung tak#ko seung tak#ghost doctor#ghost doctor tvn#ghost doctor kdrama#mrs cop 2#lee ro joon#kdrama#korean drama#kdrama meme#kdrama jokes#meme#funny meme#kim bum meme
343 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Kdrama casting people choosing leads with the most delicious chemistry and then putting them in the NOT romance genre.
#law school#the revenant#vincenzo#little women#law school kdrama#happiness kdrama#netflix tomorrow#moving#flex x cop#revenge of others#vagabond
366 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Lawyering through fandoms: The four types of common law murder
1) Frank Castle / The Punisher shoots a criminal because he wanted to. It was not out of self-defense and Frank had time to think about it. Intent-to-kill murder.
2) Matt Murdock / Daredevil beats up a criminal with his sticks until the poor bloke goes unconscious. Unbeknownst to Matt, the guy ended up dying in the hospital due to the several blows he took to the head. Grievous bodily harm murder.
3) Party!Thor Odinson decides to hold another party in Midgard. On a dare, he sends a bolt of lightning at a random passing car. The lightning was supposed to miss since Thor only meant to scare the person. Instead, the lightning directly hit the car and electrocuted the person to death. Depraved heart murder (or reckless murder).
4) Scott Lang takes part in a burglary, specifically to steal the Ant-Man suit from the Pyms. During the course of the robbery/burglary, he unintentionally scares Hank and Hopeâs live-in maid. The maid has a sudden heart attack and dies instantly. Felony-murder.
#lawyering#lawyer#law school#law#legal stuff#common law#marvel#mcu#nmcu#netflix marvel#frank castle#the punisher#daredevil#matt murdock#thor odinson#thor#what if#what if...?#party thor#marvel what if#scott lang#ant man#antman and the wasp#hank pym#hope van dyne#hope pym#marvel stuff#mcu stuff#legalese#fandom stuff
21 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Go Youn Jung character posters
#go youn jung#go yoonjung#sweet home#law school#alchemy of souls light and shadow#alchemy of souls#tvn alchemy of souls#hunt#kdrama moving#moving#cho yeong#jin bu yeon#naksu#jang heesoo#jang huisoo#jeon yeseul#park yuri#ęł ě¤ě #ííź: ëšęłź ꡸댟ě#netflix kdrama#korean dramas#korean actress#it girl#doramas#dorama#alquimia das almas#disney kdrama#korean drama#k actress
18 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Dizide isimleri karÄąĹtÄąrsam bile hâlâ izliyorum.
21 notes
¡
View notes
Text
90% of Assemblyman Ko's interactions with Dean Jung-Hui is just him befuddled that a law school actually follows the law.
21 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Beginning watching relationship-y TV shows like Netflix's Love, just as I'm about to be done with Law School, doesn't bode well for my stone-cold bitch persona that I aspire to embody in my career
0 notes
Photo
(via LAW SCHOOL) Legge, avvocati, procuratori, professori e allievi universitari in un legal che attira subito l'attenzione e avvince per tutto il tempo.
#diamanta#crime#diversamente intelligente#drama#drama coreani#drama universe#kdrama#kim bum#kim myung min#law#law school#lee jung eun#legal#legge#mistero#legal drama#netflix#recensioni drama#ryu hye young
0 notes
Text
Law School
Sipnosis Cuenta las luchas de los estudiantes de derecho que crecen y se dan cuenta de la ley y la justicia a travĂŠs de la pasiĂłn y el desafĂo mĂĄs feroces que el hombre puede mostrar, a travĂŠs de los conflictos y la angustia mĂĄs desesperados. OpiniĂłn personal La crĂtica de est saerie bien podrĂa ser resumida como ÂĄWOOOOOOOW! pero sĂŠ que querĂŠis una explicaciĂłn un poco mĂĄs amplia. Es una serieâŚ
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
currently watching law school ep 7 kdrama via loklok pwede sd netflix hahahahha
0 notes
Text
BDSMaid - Chapter 3
Pairing: Millionaire!Joel Miller x Female!Reader
Rating: E, 18+, Minors dni
Series Summary: After recently graduating from university, your best friend offers you a job cleaning luxury homes for clients youâll never know. Itâs only temporary and a good way to save money for when you go back to get your law degree. Thatâs what youâre promised at least. Easy. Simple. Mundane. That is, until one of your clients is home and everything that you felt was missing in your life starts to fall into place. This goes against the NDA you signed and you could get fired. Or worse, you could fall in love.
Chapter Summary: You decide it's time to put yourself on Joel's radar.
CW: Age gap (Joel 45, Reader 22), dual POV. Specific warnings in small red below the cut, do not read to avoid spoilers.
WC: 10k. Sorry, grab a snack!
AN: I'm continuously surprised by the love, excitement and joy that this story brings anyone but me. That probably doesn't even make sense, I'm just lost for words, tbh. Forehead kisses to @mermaidgirl30, @littlevenicebitch69, @joelmillerisapunk, and @milla-frenchy for screaming with me or pre reading this for me. @lotusbxtch gets a forehead kiss and a tip of the nose kiss for deep dive beta reading this, she's solely responsible for every semi colon.
Series Masterlist || My Masterist
I no longer have a tag list, please follow @mountainsandmayhem-updates to be alerted for future chapters.
Content Warnings: Flirty, alcohol consumption, mentions of sexual acts, kissing, mutual pining, reader being pinned against a wall, sexual tension, touching. Reader does have some description so may be considered more of an OFC.
The week after Joel removed you from his club goes by in a well-scheduled blur. You work your usual three days, cleaning mansions of people who donât tip as well as Mister Miller. You pour yourself over LSAT study guides, practicing insane logic questions. You enjoy a coffee date with Jamie who asks you what happened the night at the poker game. You tell her a practiced lie that feels like acid on your tongue as it leaves your lips. You hate lying to your friends, especially her. You can feel that lie sitting heavily on the top of your stomach the entire time youâre with her, but you simply cannot afford to get fired with three years of law school on the horizon. You spend an evening with your roommate, Odette, watching Netflix and eating dumplings from her favourite spot, the only spot in Austin that has those little white paper boxes with the red writing.Â
If you decide not to lie to yourself, on top of everyone else, you also spend at least an hour a day watching videos of women tied up and dominated, thinking of Joel goddamn Miller the entire time. Since learning his full name, and the name of his club, the Google searches you swore youâd stop doing have been much more productive. Youâve found multiple blogs and Reddit posts, not just about kink, but also about Joel. It turns out that heâs well-known in the kink and BDSM communities around the world, but is essentially changing the face of kink in Austin.Â
One night, you get lost in a Reddit wormhole of women in Texas, and one in Paris, who have been a submissive for a man that sounds a lot like Joel. They donât actually mention him by name but thereâs advice on what he likes and doesnât like, and how he never actually has sex with any of his submissives. It also sounds like some of these women pay him to be their dom, and, based on the conversations in the comments of one thread, it seems like he has a few submissives at the moment, and majority of their interactions happen at the club.Â
 The club. Fuck, Jamie wasnât kidding when she said JMK was exclusive. Anyone can join, assuming you can pay the yearly membership fees that, according to Reddit, are around $80,000 per year. From the minimal, cryptic information you find, Joel Miller is the main owner and he has two business partners. One you assume is his brother that you served the other night, but the third you are unable to find any information about.Â
Since everything you find online is up to interpretation, itâs hard to say what is and isnât true. According to one disgruntled poster, once you become a member at JMKink, there are a lot of rules to follow. Everyone has to get tested monthly; itâs highly recommended that women are on birth control; and even if youâre married to the guest you bring, men must wear condoms. You canât just bring anyone in with you: every member and their guest has an app, and the only way to get that app is from a QR code and an assigned activation code. According to another poster, the app is full of waivers and consent forms. You canât stop the shy smile that crosses your face when you remember how concerned Joel was with your consent the first time you met.Â
The Monday before your usual every-other-Tuesday shift at Joelâs, you find a blog post about becoming a submissive, and itâs like it was written just for you. The writer explains how she had a hard time shutting off her brain and how, by the end of the day, she was so exhausted from making decisions that all she wanted was someone to tell her what to do for once. This led to her and her husband exploring a sub/dom partnership. Now, she feels lighter and freer; theyâve both discovered new ways to get pleasure outside of the idea of sex that society feeds us. Being a submissive isnât always about orgasms or pleasure; itâs helped her build confidence, and sheâs found that as they progress, that little voice that tells her she isn't good enough has stopped being so loud.Â
After reading through the post a few times, you shut your rose gold laptop and stare at the wall behind your desk. You feel seen, heard even though you didnât speak. At first, you found yourself feeling ashamed of getting off to these videos, like there was something wrong with you for being turned on by it, but itâs really that ability to let go of control that you crave, the feeling of someone else making the decisions for once. You want that, but more so, you think you need that, and badly.
As a firm believer of âeverything happens for a reason,â it all comes together for you. You arenât even nervous as the thought consumes you. If Joel shows up at his house, tomorrow Iâm going to ask him to teach me.Â
On Tuesday, you do as you always do, following Joelâs instructions to a tee while listening to a podcast. However, today you only wear one AirPod in hopes of hearing that familiar and comforting engine rev that signals him either coming or going. Every creak or pop of the house causes your heart to flutter, but itâs never him. Much to your chagrin, Joel doesnât come home.Â
Inside the envelope is that expensive matte black paper again, âThanks -JMâ neatly written along it.Â
Great, you think to yourself sarcastically, we are on initial terms again.Â
Twelve hundred dollars is tucked into the envelope this time, you roll your eyes after thumbing the crisp green bills. The first tip you ever got from him felt sincere, but after walking in on him, and everything since then, itâs feeling more and more like apology money. You shouldnât complain; people would kill to make this kind of money, but everything would be so much easier if heâd just fucking talk to you.
Your fingers run along the thick, rich paper that he uses as company letterhead. You canât explain it, but the paper feels like Joel. Itâs rough and thick, yet has a vulnerability to it, like you could easily destroy it with just a pinch of your fingers and a flick of your wrist. Your mind flashes back to his club the other night. He was literally begging you to leave, you can still hear it, the pleading in his voice as he said, âIâm sorry. I just canât have you here, this is on meâ. Your fingers trail across the golden ink of his neat handwriting and then open the paper the rest of the way. At the very bottom of the page, in shiny black print similar to the JMK logo at the top, is a phone number. Your heart slams against your ribcage as your eyes scan across the numbers.
  When you get home, you unfold the note on your kitchen counter and pace the three or four steps it takes to walk the length of your small kitchen, never taking your eyes off the paper, looking at it like itâs a live bomb or like itâs going to disappear if you let it out of your sight. This is it: you could call the office, make an appointment or something. Youâd probably have to lie, but you just need to see him; you need to make a case for yourself. Your stomach lurches, throat tightening at the thought of being in the club with him again. You open the freezer and grab the bottle of tequila, taking a big swig right from the bottle. Itâs a cold burn and you clench your eyes as you swallow it down. Your body shivers involuntarily. Â
You dial before you can talk yourself out of it and before you know it you have an appointment under a fake name to speak to Joel tomorrow afternoon before your study group meets. You take two more large gulps of tequila after hanging up the phone.Â
Fuck, this is really happening. You take another large sip of the frozen tequila for good measure, your nose scrunching up at the taste.Â
Joelâs office isnât attached to the club, itâs in a smaller building across the street and that has seemed to tamp some of the nerves that are vibrating your very core. Still, you can stop from nervously smoothing the wrinkles that have formed on the short, flowing skirt of your white sundress as you sit on the red velvet couch across from Joelâs receptionist. She is a small woman with a chin length bob, sheâs probably in her late fifties and you wonder if her kids or grandkids know that she works for the owner of a kink club, or maybe sheâs part of the community too. Youâve done copious amounts of research; kink isnât just for young people, and you suppose Joel isnât exactly young either. For all you know, she very well could be a dominatrix in her spare time.Â
She says your fake name in a soothing tone as she stands and walks towards the tall black door, pulling it open effortlessly. âGo on in, sweetheart. Joelâs ready for you.â
You smile at her sweetly, tucking your hair behind your ear nervously as you walk over the threshold to try to convince the millionaire whose home you clean to dominate you. The air in his large, bright office feels heavy and thick. Blood rushes through your ears as he looks up at you from his seat. He slips off his 1950âs style black horn rimmed glasses and places them on his desk. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he assesses you. Your heart lurches, knees trembling as you take a few nervous steps towards his desk. As his eyes meet yours you feel it again, that exposed and naked feeling that only his gaze seems to be able to cast. Maybe you shouldnât have worn such a short dress, but itâs an unseasonably warm March day and even before leaving your apartment you were sweating in a mix of nervousness and excitement.Â
You see his lips move, but you canât hear him over the pounding of your heart. You stop just past the door, then hear it click shut behind you. Joelâs silky lips move again and this time you hear your name followed by a calm, âWhatâre you doinâ here?â
The words come out before you even think about them, you practically yell them at him, âI want you to teach me.â
His hand waves to the chairs across his desk. When you donât move he harshly says, âSit.â
You rush across his expansive office, the plush carpet feels luxurious under your shoes. When you reach the black leather chair you sit on the very edge of the seat, your knee nervously bouncing up and down in time with your heart.
âYou want me to do what?â He asks hesitantly, leaning forward in his chair. He looks absolutely beautiful in the late afternoon sun - orange hues reflecting off his tanned skin, the few greys along his temples glistening like the moon on the ocean. Heâs in a black dress shirt again, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. You noticed today that heâs wearing a black watch and a gold ring on his right ring finger. Between his accessories and the veins that line his toned forearms your mouth goes dry.
âI - umm, I want you to teach me.â
The last word has barely passed your lips when he scoffs out, âNo.â
Your face falls, âJoel, please. Iâve been doing research and Iâve decided that, well, that I want to beâŚthat.â
He places his large palms on the desk, the square black diamond in his ring glittering in the sun, and pushes himself up. You crane your neck to look at him as he slips his hands into his pockets, his eyes already locked on yours. His intense eye contact wraps you up in a weighted blanket of safety and comfort, which is a dangerous and vulnerable place, a place that has the ability to rip you in half, much like you could do with that company letterhead he left you. He walks slowly to the other side of his desk. Once in front of you, he leans back onto it, keeping his hands in the pockets of his perfectly tailored black dress pants.Â
âYou canât even say it.â He challenges.Â
You furrow your brows, ready to confront him like you always seem to do. In the few interactions youâve had with Joel, more often than not, itâs been him trying to tell you what to do, you fighting him over it, and then him ultimately winning. Itâs infuriating, but not this time. No, this time youâre going to win. You have valid reasons to want this, and theyâre all backed up by your research. You are leaving this office as his submissive.Â
âI can too!âÂ
He shrugs his broad shoulders nonchalantly, âSay it then. You wanna learn how to do what, sweetheart?âÂ
You sit up tall on the edge of the chair, crossing your arms under your breasts, praying your cheeks donât flush as you finally admit it out loud. âI want to learn how to be a submissive.â
âNo.â One of his meaty hands comes out of his pocket, waving you off as he says it again.
âPlease!â You plead, âI want to learn how to be a sub.âÂ
Joel actually squirms at the sound of you being so needy. He lets out a harsh âfuckâ under his breath and then whispers your name, âI canât do this with you.â
Got him, you think to yourself, failing to fight the smirk as you lower your voice and sweetly beg, âPlease, Mister Miller?âÂ
Joel âYour-Consent-is-Most-Importantâ Miller is not a small man: his broad shoulders take up almost an entire door frame and heâs easily nearing six foot four, but at the sound of you calling him the one name heâs asked you not to, he moves faster than your brain can comprehend. You gasp as he lunges towards you, his hands landing on the arms of the chair, his wide shoulders pushing you back as he cages you in. Your exposed back hits the back of the chair, your short skirt riding up your thighs slightly. He is practically on top of you and for a second you can imagine that this is what having sex with him would look like. His knuckles blanch from gripping the arms of the chair so tightly, his eyes are practically black, and that familiar flush he gets when you challenge him paints his neck and cheeks.
His voice is deeper, thick with arousal, rattling your bones as he speaks slowly, âI said not to call me that. You canât evenâŚYou canât.â He shuts his eyes and takes a slow breath in through his nose. His tone softens as he opens his eyes, âNo, I ainât doinâ this with you, sweet girl.âÂ
You practically writhe in your chair. Sweet girl. Heâs terrifying and commanding and so fucking beautiful like this. He obviously has a soft spot for when you beg, so you soften your eyes and stick out your velvety smooth bottom lip enticingly before whispering, âPlease, Joel.âÂ
He lets out a groan as he pushes himself off the chair and walks towards the large wall of windows behind his desk, his hands resting on his tapered waist. He avoids your gaze as you sit up, squeezing your thighs together tightly to calm the need at your core. âLemme set ya up with someone else. My brother Tommy. You were gettinâ him a drink at that poker game.â
âI remember,â you mumble, looking down at your hands like you always do when your lack of confidence gets the best of you. You canât let that self-doubt creep in now, not when youâre this close. You look back towards his broad back. âBut I really donât want anyone else.â
âWhy?â He spins towards you, the lighting behind him gives him an almost ethereal glow. Thereâs absolutely no denying it, Joel Miller is the most gorgeous man youâve ever seen.
You tuck your hands under your legs, simply stating, âI trust you.â
âYou donât even know me. I could be a horrible guy.â
You let out a sad laugh, shaking your head at him. Heâs right, you donât know him, but you have a feeling about him and you consider yourself pretty good at reading people. âYouâve never given me reason to think I couldnât trust you. Even that first day. You were so calm and apologetic.â
Joel presses his lips in a thin line, eyes raking over you. You subconsciously slip your bottom lip between your teeth, and a muscle in his jaw flexes. âHow old are you?â
âTwenty two,â you immediately regret lying; the avenue of trust is of utmost importance between a submissive and their dominant, so you quickly add, âAlmost, I turn twenty two on Friday.â
 âI canât do this.â He croaks and you canât help but feel a little bad. Youâve put him in an uncomfortable position and his voice sounds defeated.Â
âPlease. I always felt I needed more but,â you stand up and take a few slow steps in his direction. âButâŚI didnât know what more was and I - I think itâs this.â You audibly swallow pleading, âPlease. I need you to help me. I want you to help me. Teach me.âÂ
He holds his hands up and steps back as you inch closer. A silent call that signals you to stop or that he doesnât trust himself, not here, not with you. âJusâ let me set ya up with Tommy. Youâre his type.âÂ
Your heart sinks and an acidic taste lines your tongue. Of course. You arenât that tall, slender icy blonde girl he had strapped to his desk. No, you have curves, and stretch marks along your hips, your boobs are a B cup on a good day. He can get whatever woman he wants, why would it be you? You look down at your hands, pushing back the nonexistent cuticle on your right thumb. This nervous habit of yours used to drive your mom crazy, âyouâre going to have no skin left soonâ sheâd lecture, but you canât help it. The immediate result of the nail bed looking clean and perfect is like a dopamine hit. It leaves you with a feeling of accomplishment. The problem is, the initial confidence you had about this decision on Monday night has dwindled and youâve been so anxious about this meeting that every single finger has a nicely pushed back cuticle.Â
Itâs silent in the room for a while, you shut your eyes as you sheepishly ask, âAm I not attractive enough for you?â
âNo!â He says insistently and without hesitation. His hand runs through his beard, a faint scratching sound fills the room drawing your eyes open and away from the skin of your thumb. As they land back on him you wonder what his patchy facial hair would feel like between your legs or along the soft skin of your stomach as he kissed you. His voice softens, âThatâs not it. I just - Iâm sorry. I jusâ canât do this, sweetheart.â
You feel your chance to become the woman you want to be slipping through your fingers. Your plan is failing and for once in your life you donât have a Plan B, this is the only plan that makes sense to you. Sadness creeps into your throat, âWhy?âÂ
ââS not a good idea, sweet girl,â he answers, his soft brown sugar flecked eyes reaching out to yours.Â
His face and voice seem to be at war with his words. Heâs saying no, but thereâs a sadness in his eyes and a caring undertone to his voice. Youâre not sure how you know it, but him calling you sweet girl means something to him. âBecause Iâm not your type?â
He shakes his head, that same curl falling into his eyes as it did in his foyer the other day. âThatâs the problem, youâre exactly my type.â
Hearing that youâre this beautiful man's type should feel like youâve won the lottery, but the way his shoulders slump as he says it only builds that lump in your throat. As you swallow the sadness down, his eyes travel to your neck, watching as the muscles flex and relax with the motion. âI - then why?â
He lets out a long breath and as he walks to the door he says, âI ainât havinâ this conversation. I said no. And someone who is cut out to be a submissive would just take that answer for what it is.âÂ
âYouâve made it clear that Iâm not a submissive,â you counter and walk towards the door. He cracks the door open and you step in close to him, unconsciously taking in his leather and ash scent before adding, âHave a nice night, Mister Miller.âÂ
Joel
The door feels like a feather behind his hand as he slams it shut - your body, warm and already vibrating, trapped between him and the solid piece of wood that separates the two of you from his receptionist. He made himself a promise in his rear view mirror the other week; he had to cut this off, create distance. He needed you to be just his house cleaner. Because everytime he looks into your eyes he feels the same way he felt at seventeen when he met Tiffany in that garage. Everything about you oozes sweetness and innocence, his sweetheart, his sweet girl. He didnât think he was capable of feeling that way again. And he definitely should not feel this way for someone who is younger than his own daughter.
His large frame looms behind you, forcing your chest and forehead to rest against the door. He uses his foot to spread your legs wide. A breathy gasp passes your lips as your hands scramble for purchase against the wood grain of the door. He keeps pushing your legs apart, wide enough for your short white skirt to ride up your creamy thighs. Thighs heâs imagined wrapped tightly around his head as he makes you scream.Â
Joel takes a small step forward, caging you completely, making it so youâre completely at his mercy. He can smell the sweet scent of your arousal growing between your thighs; he knows if he reaches a calloused finger to the gusset of your panties theyâd be soaked through. His cock is hard as steel, pressing against the zipper of his pants and the small of your back. Youâre practically panting and he fights to keep his breathing steady when really he wants to mirror the quick, uneven pace of your breath. This is much more serious and intimate than when he had you trapped in the chair. This is dangerous. This could lead to more.  Â
His strong fingers wrap around your dainty wrists. He loves the way you donât fight him as he pulls them above your head, gathering both your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them to the door roughly. His free hand draws a slow line down your arm, then along the sensitive skin of your neck, and down your spine. Goosebumps break out over your skin and you instinctively arch your back into him, a desperate whine passes from your lips between laboured breaths, and that sound nearly buckles his knees. Â
His lips come to the shell of your ear, his beard tickling you as he speaks in a slow and commanding tone. âDo you feel what you do to me when you call me that. Iâve asked you not to. Multiple times.â
Your mint and lavender scented shampoo fills his nose as he nudges at you to tilt open your throat to him. He revels in how easily you oblige, cocking your head to the side like the good little girl he knows you are. He continues, lips just a hair away from your pulse point; heâs sure if he pressed his lips to it heâd feel how hard your heart is racing. âBut I donât want you to stop. In fact, I fucking love that you havenât stopped.âÂ
Your soft skin is warm against his rough fingers as they continue their trail down your body, running over the firm globe of one of your ass cheeks. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, distracting himself from the urge to spank you for calling him Mister Miller yet again. Finally, his fingers find a home on one of your thighs. He brushes lightly against your soft inner thighs, small little touches jumping from one leg to the other. The little involuntary twitches of your body and the needy little gasps of air you suck through your teeth has his cock straining painfully against his zipper. Heâs aching for you in a way he hasnât felt for years.Â
âYou infuriate me with your insubordination and it makes me weak,â he mutters. âMakes me absolutely insane. I canât stop fucking thinking about whatâs underneath those clothes, and after seeing your perfect breasts and your little pink nipples⌠fuuuuck, baby. All I can think about is how good theyâd look with my handprints tattooed on them after I slap them while you orgasm. Canât stop thinking about how wet your little pussy must get. How tight she would be around my fingers as I claim her as mine. How fucking delicious she must taste. How goddamn sexy your cries of pain and pleasure would sound.â
Your whole body shudders against his. He knows exactly what heâs doing to you and he knows he needs to stop before he crosses a line, but the way your body responds to him is precisely how he likes it: pliant and ready. His mind reels with all the naughty things heâd like to do to you. If he reaches just a little bit higher he could finally know how you sound when you come, how silky your cunt is, how you taste. He runs the tip of his hooked nose down your neck, the light citrus of your perfume replacing the scent of your shampoo.Â
âThat what you wanna hear?â Joel continues. âHow fucking weak you make me? How desperate? I canât do this because once I startâŚI ainât gonna be able to let you go. Ainât gonna be able to stop. Never gonna be able to have any other little play thing. Itâs just you, sweet girl, only you. If I start this, this is it for me.â
Joel releases your wrists with a growl and walks away, carding his fingers through his curls and looking out at the cityscape as the sun begins to dip behind the tall buildings. He doesnât look back, he canât look back or heâll fucking crack. Heâll haul you over his shoulder and take you into his club. Heâll show you everything right now and he wonât stop. His eyes flutter closed as he takes controlled breaths to slow his heart rate, the unmistakable sound of his office door opening and closing behind him.Â
YouÂ
You yank the door open and walk as fast as your legs will take you, your mind swirling, every emotion trying to win for first place. Youâre painfully turned on, you can feel how soaked your panties are. Itâs just you, sweet girl, only you. Itâs like itâs been carved into your brain. Only you. You jam at the elevator close button as your lungs scream for fresh air, and as you step out into the warm spring night you suck in breath for what feels like the first time since you made this appointment last night.Â
Your phone vibrates in the small purse you have across your body. He doesnât have your number, you remind yourself as you reach for your phone. Jamieâs name across your slightly cracked screen. âHey!âÂ
âAre you ok?â her voice is thick with concern.
Your chest feels tight, âYa, why?â
âYou sound like you're out of breath.âÂ
You laugh a little, âOh. I was..â fuck, what was I doing. âI mean I am walking. Like on a walk.âÂ
Even a toddler wouldnât be convinced by your lie, and Jamie isnât either as she gasps loudly on the other end before whispering, âWere you having sex?â
âNo! God no!â Your clit twitches at the thought of how close Joel was today. âIâm on the street, canât you hear the cars.âÂ
âOk. You do need some sex though,â she laughs.Â
âJamie,â you sigh, âI have to get to a study group. Whatâs up?âÂ
She giggles devilishly. âWellll - Itâs your birthday weekend. I want to throw you a party at this really amazing club on Friday.â
âUmm, ya. Sure. Nothing too crazy though, right?âÂ
âPromise you can keep your top on this time, prude.â She says teasingly and you laugh. âItâs called Mystique. The owner is an old family friend and she gave us a sweet VIP booth and bottle service, all completely free!â
You slide your key into the door of your SUV to unlock it, âOk. Letâs do it.â
âGood, because I already invited the girls.â You sigh and your phone buzzes in your ear as Jamieâs computer dings on the other end. âOh, weird. Your regular every other Tuesday clean just requested for you to go on Friday. Werenât you just there yesterday?âÂ
Joel. You say dreamily in your mind.Â
âThatâs shitty,â Jamie continues, âThatâs your birthday. The shift is only 4 hours, but I can offer it to someone else if you want.âÂ
âNo!â It comes out too eager and you remind yourself to chill the fuck out as you put her on speaker phone and open the app. âI mean, no, thatâs ok. I need the money and my calendar shows 11 to 3, lots of time to get ready!âÂ
âText me when youâre done with your study group and weâll hammer out the details for Friday night. We didnât get to celebrate you turning twenty one with your insane schedule -â
âHey!â You exclaim, pretending to be hurt.
âYa ya, I know,â her voice an amused sarcasm as she continues, âThe master plan to graduate early. Which you did. So can we please make this the best celebration yet?â Even without being able to see your best friend you know sheâs dancing excitedly on the balls of her feet while giving big green doe eyes.Â
Friday rolls around quickly, and you arenât sure what youâre looking forward to more; a much needed night out with your girlfriends or the possibility of Joel being home today. Youâve tried not to think about how his body felt against yours, but every few hours you found yourself with your hand between your legs, rubbing tight little circles on your clit until you came to thoughts of him, whispering Mister Miller like a church prayer. Â
Pulling up to his house today feels strange. He requested an extra clean this week just minutes after you asked him to teach you how to sub and after finding out that your birthday was today. You haul your stuff into his house, letting out a frustrated sigh when you find it quiet and empty. You click open your app and heâs asking you to dust and vacuum the basement, as well as wipe out the fridge. You look down at the app confused. Heâs never asked you to clean the basement, and the fridge? He doesnât cook. The eleven thousand dollar fridge is basically just a decoration to fill a gap in the countertops.Â
You pop in your airpods and head downstairs. The cozy white carpet of the stairs feels like plush clouds under your Keds. As you round the corner of the stairs you see everything that makes someone's house a home. So this is where he keeps it all, you think to yourself.Â
The short hallway from the stairs to the large open concept basement is covered in photos of Joel at all stages of his life. The first picture that catches your eye is a teenage baby faced Joel and a beautiful young woman sitting on a hospital bed, sheâs smiling at the camera as Joel looks down at the tiny bundle of pink blankets in her arms. He looks so happy and soft, and it ignites a small flame of jealousy. Not at the woman, but at the happy little family.
As your eyes scan all the pictures you see that baby at all ages. Thereâs a picture of her holding a trophy as big as her with little cleats and shin guards on. In another, she and Joel are holding a big fish, her toothless smile bright and brilliant, while something in Joelâs eyes looks sad even though his plush lips are curved up in a sexy smile.Â
Another picture is of the little girl sitting on her momâs lap; the woman doesnât seem as vibrant in this picture. The next one to catch your eye is her holding a cupcake with a candle in the shape of the number sixteen, then him in a pressed black suit and her in her high school cap and gown. The last picture is similar, except itâs a college graduation photo.Â
As you peel yourself away from all the pictures you havenât managed to look at yet, you face the main living area, a large open concept space. Thereâs a cozy grey sectional facing the big screen TV, shelves of DVDs surround it and you can only imagine all the movie nights the two of them had down here. There's a pool table along the far back right side of the room and to the left are a bunch of guitars, both acoustic and electric, hanging on the wall. You walk towards the guitars, thereâs a stool and a small table beside the amp. An open notebook with lyrics lays on the table and as tempting as it is to read it, you look away. This space is who Joel is and heâs obviously trusting or testing you by sending you down here. He did tell you that you didnât know him, and that he could be a bad guy, but everything here screams wholesome family man.Â
You dust and vacuum, then fluff the couch cushions and fold the blankets nicely. Thereâs an empty glass on the side table, so you grab that and wash it at the small wet bar before placing it with the other glasses. You take one last longing look at the notebook, itâs tempting but decide you are right to not read it. Itâs none of your business what he writes and sings about. You picture him there, dressed casually in sweat pants and t-shirt, his large fingers plucking with a practiced finesse at the strings, you wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the floor with a cup of coffee and a book. The two of you being independently together on a Sunday morning.Â
Thoughts of the two of you like that are dangerous; being his submissive isnât being his girlfriend. Youâve been very good at compartmentalizing, mostly as a coping mechanism to your past, so you find a metaphorical little box in the back of your mind to stuff all those feelings and thoughts into. As you gather your cleaning supplies, you take one last look around. maybe this was his way of showing you that you canât have a future with him, that heâs done with the kids-and-marriage part of his life. None of that matters to you; you donât want kids and marriage, you just want a partnership, and the support and comfort that comes with it. You want to become a lawyer, and eventually a judge, and one day sit on the supreme court and defend everyone's civil and human rights. Thatâs the goal, the only goal. Â
From this point on, any feelings for Joel Miller go in that box. If he ever changes his mind, he is my dominant and nothing else. You push the lid on the feelings box and run through your life plan as you head up the stairs. Law school and lawyer, then a relationship before judge and supreme court. Thatâs the plan, itâs always been the plan.
Once youâre in the kitchen, you pop open the fridge to see a single red rose. You lose a fighting battle with your face, smiling huge from ear to ear. You grab it and close the now empty fridge, bringing the rose to your nose to breathe in the sweet and powdery scent. The black and red envelope sits on the shiny marble countertop. You place the rose down and pop open the envelope. You pull out fifteen hundred dollars and a black business card. Your brows knit together as you inspect the card, flipping it over. A QR code for the JMK app, an activation code, and a note that says âHappy Birthday, sweetheart.âÂ
You practically rip your phone from your back pocket and scan the QR code. You dance nervously on the balls of your feet as the app downloads. With shaky fingers you create a username and password, then type in the activation code. A bunch of permissions pop up, and while the baby lawyer inside of you screams that you need to read them, youâre too eager, so you hastily click accept on all of them. A profile with your newly appointed username splays across the screen. Right below your name it says âBeginner Submissiveâ and you roll your eyes. You upload the hottest selfie you can find of yourself to be your profile picture, smirking at what you imagine Joelâs reaction will be when he sees you in that tight fitting gold dress, a picture Jamie took of you on New Yearâs Eve.Â
On the top right of your screen are 3 little lines, you open the menu and have two options. âAssigned Dominantâ and âLimits and Waiversâ. You are eager to fill out whatever Joel wants on this app, but none of this will feel real to you until you see his name as your Dom. You giggle as you click the first menu. Holy shit, you think as the new window loads, this is going to happen, heâs going to do it.Â
Your heart freezes in your chest, and every ounce of excitement and happiness drains from you as you read âAssigned Dominant: Tommy Millerâ.
When you get home, you open your JMK app again, looking at the assigned dominant screen in hopes you made a mistake. But there it is, clear as day, âTommy Millerâ. You lock your phone in frustration and toss it onto your unmade bed. Why would he do this? Youâre sure that everything in the limits and waivers menu would have been a yes if Joel was your dom. But Tommy? Not that thereâs anything physically wrong with Tommy. Heâs definitely attractive, but heâs not Joel and you thought you made that perfectly clear.Â
After you shower you've decided youâve cooled off enough to continue in the app. Tommy is still not Joel, but you want this for yourself, right? And itâs not about pleasure or attraction, itâs about the escape, and more importantly, itâs about having someone to push you and help you grow.   Â
You click the âLimits and Waiversâ menu, a whole quiz comes up where you can rate your interest in different sexual and non sexual acts on a scale of one to five, and secondary checkmark if youâve already done those things. You scroll through the list, this would be easy with Joel, all fives, all âhighly interestedâ, or so you think. As you scroll through the list you get some real fetish level stuff - diapers, feet, scat play, being hung from hooks. You know enough not to kink shame anyone, but none of that interests you. As such, you rank them as a one, not at all interested.
You scroll back up to fill in all the stuff youâre more interested in.Â
Spanking, five.Â
Whips and Crops, five.Â
Paddles, five.Â
Nipple Clamps, five, fucking five hundred at this point.Â
Bondage, another five hundred. Vibrators, five.Â
Butt Plug, three - ya, that one surprised even yourself, but itâs Tommy, not Joel.Â
The little box to click if youâve done those things remains unchecked. You arenât a virgin, but the small handful of college boys youâve entertained had the same two or three moves, all of which left you unsatisfied.Â
Odette bangs on your door, and you jump as your phone goes flying from your hand as she barges in. âLetâs get ready! Repeat twenty one, baby!â
You scramble off your bed to grab your phone before she does, one of your hands in a death grip on your towel, âFuck, you scared the shit outta me.â
âOh god, you were watching porn again werenât you?â She laughs as your cheeks flush crimson. She wanders to your closet and opens the doors, âWe gotta find you something real hot for tonight, you need to get laid.â
âYeah yeah yeah,â you sing nonchalantly, wandering to your vanity to run a brush through your wet hair.
A few hours later and youâre all ready to go. Jamie and Laren came over to pre-drink and do their hair and make up. The four of you blasted nineties Shania Twain while drinking rosĂŠ and doing shots of cheap tequila. You pick a floor length black dress with a slit that goes almost to your hip and drips low between your breasts and leaves your back bare. You leave your hair down, curling it loosely before applying minimal makeup, flirty false lashes and a vibrant matte red lipstick. The packaging says that it's guaranteed not to smudge for up to twelve hours.Â
âWeâll test that tonight on drinks and men,â Laren says as she steals it from your hand and puts it on her full, pouty lips.
Jamie surprises you with a limo. Before getting in you swipe your JMK app open and save your half-finished preferences. Tonight is not about Joel or Tommy; tonight is about you, and you deserve to be celebrated.
The table Jamie managed to secure for your birthday is perfect. Youâre just off the dance floor, but raised up so that you can see the entire club. The music is loud and the room is dark, dimly lit with light pinks and purples. As you settle into the booth a young icy haired blonde girl in small black shorts and a lacy bra wanders in. âHey babes! Iâm Jade, letâs get these bottles going! Hereâs the menu.â
Her eyes fall to you as she hands the bottle service menu and you both freeze. Itâs her, the girl from Joelâs desk. The thump of the music fades and all you can hear is her moans and cries, the squelching of her pussy as Joel finger fucked her hard and deep. Shit, fuck, why me. She smiles at you, âOh hey! Good to see you again.â
A chorus of, âagain?â and âhow do you know each other?â comes from your friends, all of their wide eyes staring at you.
âWe donât really,â you rush. âJust a mutual acquaintance really.â
Luckily, she gets the hint and just nods along. âWhat are we getting to drink ladies? Iâve heard itâs on the house so pick something expensive!â
You pick a bottle of Clase Azul tequila, Jade saying she can make different cocktails with it so youâre not all just doing shots. After a few rounds you find yourself alone in the booth while your friends go to the bathroom. Jade sits on the black leather seat beside you.Â
âLook, I just want to say that Iâm sorry for what you saw the other week. Joel sort of forbade me from seeking you out, but if youâre in my section at the club I work at then Iâm not really breaking any rules.â Sheâs even more beautiful up close, no fucking wonder Joel wants to give you to Tommy. Itâs just you, sweet girl, only you. But you see it now, why heâd pass you along. You canât compete with a woman like her, and from the sounds of it Joel has more than one gorgeous, tall, slender blonde at his beck and call.Â
âNo, itâs ok. Iâm actually learning to be a sub soon.â You smile at her, trying to tamp down the jealousy thatâs threatening to choke you.
âNo way! Joel is amazing, I only see him like once a month now but youâre going to love it.â Suddenly your entire body feels like an open wound, and the lime and salt left on your hands from tequila shots burns through you. The back of your eyes burn, frustration and jealousy donât mix well with RosĂŠ and tequila. You blink a few times to stop the tears.Â
âHe actually set me up with Tommy,â you croak, âSaid Iâm more his type.â
Just as she opens her perfect pink lips you hear the unmistakable opening to your all time favourite Shania Twain song, and as if your friends appeared from thin air the four of you yell, âLetâs go girls!â. The icy blonde pats the top of the table in your booth with one hand and holds her other hand out for yours. You climb up onto the table, your friends getting on the chairs.Â
Every insecurity dissipates from your body as you sing loudly with your friends, swaying your hips to the music. You surrender yourself to the genius that was Shania Twain and Mutt Lange. As you break into the chorus for a second time, a glint of silver across the club catches your eye. Standing on the other side of the dancefloor, leaning against the bar top, is Joel Miller.Â
His eyes are locked on yours; heâs wearing brown dress pants and a white short sleeved button up shirt, the top few buttons are left undone and it pulls at his biceps perfectly. He looks so sexy and casual, hair pushed back as he swirls the amber coloured whiskey around in its glass. He smiles devilishly, shaking his head jovially at you as you put on a show for him. As the song ends he crooks his pointer and middle fingers at you, silently calling you over. The simple motion of his fingers makes your pussy flutter, wetness slicking your thighs since you decided to forgo underwear tonight. Risky choice with the high slit of the skirt but suddenly itâs feeling like itâs the best decision youâve ever made.
âIâll be right back,â you whisper to your girlfriends as they help you off the table. They call for more shots and you refrain from all out sprinting to Joel.Â
âQuite the show you put on up there,â he says, grabbing your bicep like he did at the poker game and pulling you gently along with him.
âYou didnât seem to mind.â You twist your arm out of his grasp and stumble. Youâre definitely well on your way to being drunk, but you donât want him to know that.
He grabs for your waist to steady you. âCareful, youâre drunk.â
âIâm not. And even if I was, Iâm celebrating, so Iâm allowed to be drunk. Not allowed to be your sub, but allowed to be drunk.â His eyes darken and you know youâve crossed some sort of undrawn line, but youâre at that reckless sass point in your tipsiness and you really donât care. A saccharine sweet smile crosses your face as you plant your hands on your hips.
âYou sure you wanna play this game, sweetheart?â He practically growls.
âIâm not your sweetheart, Iâm Tommyâs,â it comes out poutier than you expect. You spin on the balls of your feet and head back to the dance floor. As always, you can feel his eyes on you as you walk away. When you approach the dance floor you see a handsome man about your age looking at you. A quick glance over your shoulder confirms Joel is watching, you grab the hand of the stranger and say, âLetâs dance.â
As all young, drunk boys do, he obliges. You spin and press your back in this body, grinding your ass into him and keeping your eyes locked on Joel. How did he find you here? Why would he be out at this particular club, unless of course heâs keeping an eye on the icy blonde woman. She confirmed they only see each other once a month though, so why? Is he following you somehow?
The boy's hands move to your hips, traveling up your abdomen. You wink at Joel, pulling your hair to the side and tilting your head so the boy behind you has access to the same spot on your neck that he had in his office. Just as his lips start to lower Joel snaps. Got him, you think. He takes a few long strides onto the dance floor, pulling you away like youâre some sort of toy, like heâs a caveman coming to take whatâs his. You let him pull you, yelling an apology to the boy on the dance floor.
Even though youâre happy to go with him, you canât let him know that. âJoel, stop it. You canât kick me out of here too.â
He takes you down a quiet, dark hallway, barely illuminated by the red glow of the EXIT sign. âI own half this place, baby. So I can.â
You twist your arm free from his grip, âYouâre the bane of my existence, Joel Miller.â
âWhy havenât you filled out your app yet?â
You scoff, anger and annoyance starting to replace the happy feeling you had when he pulled you from the dance floor. âAre you stalking me?â
âDonât flatter yourself. Doms can see where their subs are at all times if they accept the location tracker on the app.â
Shit, all those menus that you just clicked âAccept Allâ to at the beginning. Of course your dom would be able to find you, depending on the relationship they can control everything you do. âYouâre not my dom!â You state.
Joel rolls his eyes. âI know. Tommy told me you hadnât filled it all out yet and where you were. So, why havenât you filled out the app?â
You lean back on the railing along the wall and slide your feet from your heels, placing them on the cool tile of the floor to soothe the ache in your arches. Your hands come back to grip the railing. âItâs none of your business.â
âSweet girl, in this case it literally is my business. The JM stands for Joel Miller.â
This time you roll your eyes and then mumble, âBecause I donât want Tommy. I donât think Iâm going to fill it out anymore.â
Joel leans back against the railing across the small hall from you, pinching the bridge of his noise in annoyance, âPlease. For me, can you just fill it out?â
âFor you? You made it clear you don't want me. Iâm filling it out for Tommy.â
He crosses his arms, biceps bulging even more against the tight fabric of his short sleeved button up, if heâs not careful heâs going to go full incredible hulk on that shirt. Not that youâd mind.
âThatâs not what Iâm sayinâ and thatâs also where youâre wrong. Youâre fillinâ that out for you. If youâre fillinâ it out for anyone else, then youâre doing this for the wrong reasons.â
You let out an unimpressed sounding huff, âIâm not.â
His lips press into a tight line as he considers his words carefully; Joel is old enough to know not to argue with a twenty-one year old whoâs had tequila. âOk, youâre not. So then why do you want to be a sub?â
He watches as your whole body seems to deflate, thereâs a shift, almost like desperation in your body. Sadness lines your eyes as they meet his and your voice comes out small and uncertain. âBecause Iâm exhausted, Joel. I - I spend all day making decisions, and studying, and learning about civil rights law. Iâm always having to come up with a plan A, and B, all the way to plan Z sometimes. And then,â your head falls back to the wall as you continue speaking to the ceiling with your eyes closed, âThen I do it all over again the next day. I canât shut it off, my brain. It just keeps going and going. It's so loud, so constant, so fucking overwhelming and thereâs no escape.â
You fall silent and he steps forward, slipping his large hand behind your neck and bringing your gaze to his. You continue, fighting against the boulder thatâs forming in your throat, âI donât think Iâm good enough. Or strong enoughâŚSmart enough. I want to see for once that I am, want to see what I can overcome. For once,â you sigh heavily. âFor once I just want someone to tell me how well Iâm doing.â
Joelâs eyes fall to your lips, his voice a hoarse whisper, âFill out the app.â
You take a deep breath. You feel lighter after finally getting to confessing all of that to him. That was your plan for his office the other day, but something about him flusters you and you were completely knocked off the rails by that special unknown thing Joel has over you. You whisper, âI donât want to do this with Tommy. Please, Joel.â
Joelâs forehead comes to rest on yours, you can see the golden flecks in his dark eyes at this proximity. He smells like mint, and that same ash and leather from his office the other day. You should ask him right now why he let you in his basement today, but he speaks before you can. âCan you please, just for once, show me that you can listen?â
âKiss me,â you hum, trailing your hands up his strong arms.
He stiffens under your touch. âWhat?â he asks dumbfoundedly.
âKiss me and Iâll go home right now and fill out the app,â you whisper, inching your lips closer to his.Â
âYouâll go home, fill out the app, and you will not touch yourself.â Itâs not a question, itâs a deep command.
Now itâs your turn to be confused as you say, âWhat?â
He crowds his body closer to yours, pulling his face back slightly so he can take you all in. Youâve never seen this expression before, that flash of darkness from the first time you called him Mister Miller in your car has permanently etched itself into your mind, but itâs almost like heâs transitioned into full dominant Mister Miller now. âIf you want to convince me to be your dom, itâs not going to be through just a kiss. So prove to me that you can listen, prove to me that you can be a good girl. â
The wetness between your legs starts to coat your thighs at the sound of him asking you to be a good girl. You clench your thighs together as his forehead meets yours again.
He continues, his voice just as commanding, âIf I give you this kiss, youâll go home alone, you will not touch that dripping little cunt, and you will fill out the app.â
Your pussy is throbbing with need. You should have known better than to sass him so hard tonight. Someone as competent and experienced as Joel would know exactly how to punish his sub when they were acting up. You nod your head and hum in agreement to his demands.
âAsk me nicely.â He murmurs.
âP-pleaseâŚkiss me, Joel.â Butterflies assault the inside of your stomach.
You didnât think it was possible, but he manages to crowd you even more, your entire body pressed firmly against his. Every skin cell is screaming for his attention, every nerve firing off signals making you hyper aware of anywhere heâs touching you.
âAsk me again using that name I told you not to call me,â He knows heâs playing with fire, but at this exact moment he doesnât care, he fucking loves the way his preferred dom name sounds coming off your lips.Â
âKiss me, Mister Miller. Please?â Itâs airy and desperate, your knees feel weak below you and it feels as if you canât get a full breath in. The anticipation is killing you.Â
âWhy?â he growls. Growing up you were always afraid of dark spaces, but if there were any monsters in this hallway theyâd be running scared at the timbre of his voice right now.
Your back arches instinctively into him. Youâre safe here, Joel Miller is your safety. âBecause I need you, Mister Miller. Please. Just one kissâŚthen Iâll do anything. I promise. P-please. I need to feel you on me, Mister Miller.â
Joel bends slightly, his hands come to the back of your thighs and he lifts you, slamming you against the wall. You squeal, arms flinging around his neck as your ankles hook around his waist. He pins you to the wall with his hips and lets go of your thighs. Both of you are practically panting, his cock is hard as steel, pressing against his zipper and your bare pussy. Your skirt is covering you from exposing yourself to him but something about the glint in his eye when your bodies connect makes you think he might know you donât have any panties on.Â
His hands peel your arms from around his neck and he pins them with one hand above your head like he did in his office. You whimper and grind your hips against him. His free hand wraps around your throat, holding it gently.Â
âNo,â he growls and it takes every ounce of self control you have to stop your hips. âSay it again.â
He watches your mouth hungrily as you lick your lips and you fight back a moan. He can feel your pulse firing rapidly under his calloused fingertips. A needy whisper passes your lips, filling the miniscule space left between your bodies. âI need you, Mister Miller. Please kiss me.â
With that he slams his lips against yours. Itâs a desperate and heady mess of tongue and teeth, your moans being swallowed by his greedy mouth. You tilt your head to allow him in more. His tongue devours every inch that it can reach. He nips at your bottom lip before diving back in. He takes whatever he wants from you and you let him. For the first time in years your brain is quiet. No anxiety about the quickly approaching LSAT, no thinking of whatever practice question youâre stuck on. That nagging fear of being rejected from all the law schools youâve applied to goes silent. The worrying voice that tells you youâre not good enough disappears. Everything you are is replaced by whatever Joel gives.Â
You grind down onto him as you flick your tongue against his; heâs so rough yet so very soft. His tongue tastes like mint and whiskey. You can feel your orgasm building, itâs going to happen embarrassingly fast at this rate. You feel light headed from lack of oxygen and the slight push of his fingers into the side of your throat. More, more, more, you yell in your head.
Joel breaks the kiss and puts you down on your feet, holding you steady as you find your legs again. His lips are puffy and even though itâs not the time to be thinking of this, you realize there isnât a single drop of red lipstick on his face, so it really will last twelve hours without smudging.Â
His thumb comes to your face, swiping along your bottom lip gently, âPut your number in my phone, sweet girl.â
He holds his brand new iPhone Max out to you and you tap your number in with shaky fingers. He sends a quick text when you hand his phone back and then he kneels in front of you, helping you back into your heels. As he stands his hand trails from your ankle, all the way up the slit of your skirt to settle on your clothed hip. âGo get your stuff and go home now, baby. Thereâll be a car waiting for you out front.â
He pats your bum gently as you walk on shaky legs back to your VIP booth. You feel like a newborn giraffe as you make your way to your table.Â
âWhere have you been?â Jamie proclaims, holding up a tequila shot for you.
You wave her off, âI think Iâve had too much. Iâm gonna go but I want you girls to stay. Enjoy your night for me.â
It takes a few minutes but you convince your friends to stay and that youâll be fine and already have a ride arranged. As you exit the club thereâs a gorgeous blacked out town car parked in front. An older gentleman in a suit looks at you and nods, âGood Evening, Miss. Are you the young lady Joel Miller has asked me to escort home?â
You nod back, trying to act like this is an everyday occurrence and not the most outrageous thing thatâs ever happened to you. As soon as you get home you change into your most unflattering set of pajamas, hoping that if you feel unsexy then itâll stop that insistent throb between your thighs. Joel was so fucking close again, and this time there was no underwear in his way.
You slide open the app, Tommy Miller is still set as your dom, but you go through the preferences carefully and answer as honestly as possible as to what you want. You try to focus on the questions even though you can still feel Joel's throbbing cock pushing against you, and his warm hands around your wrists and throat. You can still taste him on your lips. You shake the ghost of him off of you and remind yourself again what you want from this, aside from mind-blowing orgasms.Â
You fill out every section and then hit save. Just as you are about to lock your phone and try to fall asleep your phone vibrates, the JMK app as a notification.
âYour Assigned Dominant has changed to Joel Millerâ
Your heart pounds behind your rib cage as you stare at the notification, your head feels fuzzy, possibly from the booze, or that kiss, but you canât believe your eyes. You close out of the app and go back in, staring at where Joelâs name has replaced Tommyâs. Just as it all starts to feel real you get a text message from a number you donât have saved. You click on the message app.
âNo coming until I say so, I know you werenât wearing any panties tonight. Messy little pussy ruined my pants. Go to sleep now, my sweet girl.â
Next Chapter
#joel miller#joel miller smut#joel miller x reader#pedro pascal#joel miller tlou#joel the last of us#joel tlou#joel miller fanfiction#joel x reader#pedrohub#joel x f!reader#joel x y/n#joel x oc#joel x you#joel miller fic#joel miller fanfic#joel miller x you#the last of us hbo#tlou fanfiction#joel miller x original character#joel miller x y/n#joel miller x oc#dom!joel miller#bdsmaid
978 notes
¡
View notes
Text
house of addams (1)
â đ pairing: ot7 x fem.reader
â đˇď¸ genre: mystery, angst + fluff + smut
â đď¸ word count: 4.3k
â đ summary: hired to look into the mysterious deaths, disappearances, and disturbances in the small town of Farrow's End, you soon meet a certain gang of oddballs who help you connect the dots. and NO, you are NOT taking a liking to them.
â â content warnings: private investigator!reader, cozy small town mystery/addams family vibes, botanist!yoongi, magical absurdity, bookshop owner!namjoon, barista!jin
â đ¸ď¸ a/n: first chapter! directly influenced by this fic on ao3 by tinyratthief, which is loosely based on the addams family.
series m.list/schedule â next chapter
chpt. 1: new digs
september 16, 2004
If this job has taught you one thing, itâs that the laws of truth can and will be bent by anyone with enough concentrated effort. People come to you to find very specific truths; birth parents, cheating spouses, the details of shady business deals.
But if this job has taught you one thing, it's that the truth will also reveal itself to anyone with enough concentrated effort.
Though, there's always a handful of cases that force you to delve deep into things youâd rather leave buried. Like the person in Oregon who didn't show up in any photographs. Or the small town in Maryland with the strange, centuries-old secret society.
Youâve seen sides of human nature that have left you cynical, distrusting. Some have called you âdead inside,â but youâre not here to brag. Naturally, you are excellent at your job.
And when the Mayor of Farrowâs End, a sleepy town with enough missing persons cases to warrant a Netflix documentary, contacted you about a possible case, you accepted almost instantly.
Even her first correspondence and initial offer were strange. She stated a preference to discuss the finer details in person and in person only, which to you immediately suggested that the entire investigation would be a matter of confidentiality.
You were proven right when you met with her a week later. And while being proven right is usually one of your favorite things, you didnât exactly expect this.
The offer: investigative services regarding (but not limited to) local missing persons/homicides, ecological disturbances, environmental chemical imbalances. etc.
In exchange for: monthly salary, rent support, covered business expenses.
And above all, everything must remain off the books.
The salary along with the rent support is very generous considering what you're used to, but you donât tell the Mayor that. You do inform her that, while you wear many hats, you are not an ecologist, nor a chemist.
Mayor Summerbee, a middle-aged Asian woman with a sweet smile and even warmer eyes, informs you that you will have access to the local Universityâs college of natural sciences. She gives you the contact information for one Min Yoongi, a botanist who works in the school's research department.
Then she gives you the contact information for one Kim Taehyung, the town coroner and pathologist. Apparently, both of them will be available for consultation.
She is eager, maybe even desperate, smiling at you with an urgent sheen in her eyes.
When you accept her offer, shaking her hand with your usual firm grip, she seems to exhale in relief.
You move to Farrowâs End by the end of the week. Itâs not as if you have much to move, just a trunkful of books and a handful of duffel bags. Youâve always moved around for work, and even if you didnât, staying in one place for too long makes you nervous.
Your bags hit the pavement beside your boots as you survey your new home. It's a small, quaint house. The paint is faded but the architectural structure is sturdy. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, kitchen, living room. The whole place is in a slight state of disrepair, but you can't complain.
You spend the next day cleaning and unpacking, which doesn't take long since you leave most of your books in the trunk. You're exploring the town by the end of the afternoon.
The town square, though full of shops and businesses, is nearly barren. A few civilians putter around, their faces weathered and reflective of the gloom in the air. They stare at you as you pass by, a cocktail of curiosity and slight suspicion.
The next thing you notice is the posters. They're everywhere, on the crumbling brick walls, stuck on lampposts, taped to the windows, all displaying a variety of subjects. Events at the University, local night markets, antiques for sale.
But there are a few that stick out. THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE LAKE! Sign the petition to restrict land access â
HAVING STRANGE DREAMS? You're not alone, contact a psychic today!
BEWARE! DO NOT FEED LOCAL WILDLIFE.
Though, what's more strange to you is what you don't see. There are barely any missing person posters, and the few that you do see appear to have been ripped away.
Work begins now, you think to yourself as you snap some photos of several posters, flapping in the cold wind.
You pop into the general store to pick up some essentials, and the store clerk immediately recognizes that you're not a local.
He asks where you're from, you reply with the standard answer: a city not too far but not too close. He asks what you're doing here, you reply with the standard answer: you're a journalist. You add in the suggestion that you're working with the University about a story, and he doesn't question any further.
You're not sure if it's because he takes the hint or because he loses interest.
During the drive home, you notice something looming in the distance. Atop the highest hill is a dark house, with spires and towers rising from the tops of spindly trees. Even from here, you can see that the architecture is old and ornate, almost ancient in a hypnotic way. You're fairly certain you can see a murder of crows circling above.
An unusual feeling hangs around the house, like there's some kind of aura surrounding it. Welcoming some, yet blocking others.
Very strange indeed.
You spend the rest of the night huddled next to the fireplace, using the flickering orange light to skim over newspaper clippings.
No, the house does not have a heating system. But you don't mind too much, you have plenty of wood and warm clothes.
Five missing and three dead in the last year. Local law enforcement has done everything they could with what they had to work with, which apparently wasn't much. Scattered locations, no visible connection between the victims, and an alarming lack of evidence.
Eyelids heavy, you leave the papers scattered across the floor and head to bed, already looking forward to tomorrow's first coffee.
september 17, 2004
The University appears to be just as old as the rest of the town. Original wood, aged stone, curved iron accents. The brick walkway is slick with morning rain, and the sky is swirling with fog.
Perfect weather, it makes you ready to get to work.
The directory stated that Min Yoongi would be in Montgomery Hall, the natural sciences building, either in the greenhouse or in one of the labs, according to the TA you talked to earlier on the phone.
It takes some wandering, but what you like about this place is that people don't seem to notice your presence as much as they do in town. Out there, you're an easily identifiable outsider. Here, you're just another passerby with a purpose.
You find him in one of the lab rooms, tucked into a little nook that's encased with plastic sheeting, dotted with beads of moisture. The small space is crowded with greenery, big pots of tall plants with fanning leaves, draping vines from wall planters, seedlings in little trays.
Through the condensation dripping down the plastic walls, you can see that he's spraying the plants down with water, wearing a classic white coat.
You're indulging in your bad habit again. Your footsteps are notoriously quiet (you've been told), and you (apparently) have a tendency to sneak up on people and observe them for several minutes before they notice that you are there.
But it's a skill you delight in.
The man is of average height, thin, black hair, delicate features. You notice that the soles of his boots are caked with mud, and his skin is dewy from the humidifiers pumping moisture into the room.
"You already know my opinion on this," you hear him say, muffled by the spray of the water.
For a moment, you think he's talking to you, that he's rejecting your case before you've even presented it to him. But he isn't facing you, and his tone is decidedly casual, like he's talking to an old friend.
"It's bad for the others, anyway," he continues. "Don't wiggle your trigger hairs at me like that."
A pause, the water flow stops. Then a sigh of defeat.
"Fine, one puff. Then you quit pouting, got it?"
There's the sound of shuffling, then the fwick of a lighter being ignited.
Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you step forward to peer through the slit in the plastic sheeting.
There's a Venus fly trap on one of the shelves, and between the jaws of one of the trap mouths, is a lit cigarette.
The man's head piques up when you enter his field of vision. Eyes widening, he looks like a cat that's been caught off guard.
He looks between you and the plant several times. You're fairly certain you see the tip of the cigarette glow ember, as if the plant were actually inhaling.
The man snatches the cigarette away and crushes it beneath the wet sole of his boot.
"Nasty habit," he finally says with a nervous chuckle. An awkward, straight-mouthed smile crosses his face, making his cheeks puff out slightly.
"Min Yoongi?" you ask.
"Yes, ma'am," he responds politely.
"I'm ______," you say, holding out a hand to shake.
He shuffles forward, his cold slim fingers meeting yours.
"Ah, the mayor mentioned that you'd be around."
That throws you a bit, because from what you've gathered about this case, you assumed that the mayor didn't want to be associated with it.
"Yes, would you mind filling me in on some of the ecological disturbances that have been going on in town?"
It's as if the question sends ants crawling down his spine. His neutral smile dissipates into an anxious twitch of his lips. He turns the hose back on and resumes spritzing the plants.
"What do you want to know?" he asks, a new tension in his voice.
Odd.
"Well," you start, "The mayor tells me that locals have been complaining about strange mushrooms invading their yards, increased acidity in their soil. Would you know anything about that?"
His eyebrows are knitted as he dampens the leaves of a spiraling fern.
"Mushrooms are really just the fruit of fungi, they bloom like flowers when the conditions are just right. Moisture, shade, an abundance of organic material, stuff like that. When it comes to the acidity, there's a variety of factors. All the rainfall recently leads to leaching, and the increased use of fertilizers causes nitrification. It's pretty standard."
You raise an eyebrow. He's deflecting.
"People have been saying that these mushrooms have been particularly hard to get rid of."
Yoongi 's brows furrow as if he's thinking hard.
"Fungi are tricky like that. We don't know much about them, really. They're their own class of life form. It could be a particularly stubborn strain."
"There's also been some unusual plant growth, creeping vines or the like. Very resistant to herbicides, apparently."
He pauses, considers it.
"Hmm," he mutters, the nozzle of the hose going lax in his hand.
âAlso,â you continue, trying to further engage his curiosity. âThere's been several cases of strange root rot?â
You add a questioning tone to your voice, gauging his reaction. Apparently, he hasnât heard about it, because he looks up at you with the same question in his eyes.
âRoot rot? In household plants?â he asks.
âNo, in residencies.â
Yoongi stares at you for a moment, and you can tell heâs intrigued.
âI would benefit a lot from your knowledge, if I could just bring you a few samples, maybe go out and do some fieldworkââ
âYou wouldnât like working with me,â Yoongi interrupts. âIâm veryâŚparticular.â
You have a feeling the word is meant as a substitute for something else.
âWonderful, so am I,â you reply, digging one of the many notebooks out of your bag. Flipping to the calendar, you click open your open your pen and start scribbling.
âMornings are best, get the most out of the daylight. Make sure to bring your equipment and something to write on, and a camera if you have one.â
âWait, I just donât know if Iâm going to be much use to you,â Yoongi says a little nervously, sticking his hands in his pockets.
You pause your scribbling to look at him. Heâs pale in the fluorescent light, but not just physically. He has pale mannerisms and pale expressions, the countenance of a person that doesnât feel as if they belong.
You know the feeling well.
âCoffee is always on me. How do you like it?â you say instead.
âDoes Wednesday work?â
september 18, 2004
Three dead and five missing in less than six months. First, Michael Bradley, aged forty-two. Cause of death: chronic poisoning/exposure to toxic chemicals. He was found in his garage surrounded by household cleaners and herbicides. Apparently heâd been trying to get rid of the same strange mushrooms in his yard.
For now, all you have to work with is what theyâve published in the newspapers, and it seems that all that's come out of it is a public service announcement warning homeowners to be careful around toxic chemicals. His wife, Mary Bradley, hasn't commented on the circumstances of her husbandâs death. And no one else has inquired any further into the matter.
Until today, obviously. Mrs. Bradley didn't answer her phone, and when you knocked on her door earlier this morning, she seemed less than pleased.
You opened with the standard introduction: I'm a journalist working on a story, would you mind consenting to an interview? Mrs. Bradley narrowed her eyes and scanned you up and down with barely concealed suspicion.
She asked what a journalist would find interesting about a common, accidental death in a small town. Apparently, the citizens of Farrow's End are very perceptive to outsiders.
You mentioned that fact that although Bradley's death appeared accidental, it's not common for people to die at the hands of household chemicals from prolonged exposure. Chronic poisoning is rarely without symptoms, why didn't he go to hospital?
She didn't have anything to say to that. You asked if she'd be comfortable divulging some of the details of his death, maybe even giving you access to the autopsy report. But she just grimaced at the mention, insisting that she had nothing to say about the matter and that you should leave right away.
She slammed the door in your face, but luckily it wasn't the first time people have resisted your questions. Unfortunately, a significant part of your job involves being a pain in the ass.
You linger in the front yard, where it's impossible not to notice the gnarled tree stumps and large rings of mushrooms scattered across the lawn.
You're not a mycologist by any means, but even you can tell that these mushrooms are strange. They seem to be multicolored, red and orange and brown, changing depending on the light like a hologram, but without any of the shine. They aren't bulb-shaped like many other mushrooms, but twist in tendrils this way and that, stretching.
And a smell hangs about them. You can't really describe it, something like damp and musk and old meat. Standing there, breathing them in, for too long makes your head spin.
And the trees, or rather, what's left of them. Nothing but stumps now, but you can tell that they were old when they were cut down. There's that same multi-colored effect to them, except it runs in veins throughout the tree's bark, spiraling into the rings.
You'll have to ask Yoongi about it.
Curiosity nips at you like a non-venomous snake even after you're home. It's not deadly, but it sure as hell is annoying.
What kind of disease infects fungi and trees? Why would the mayor care about privately investigating such a thing? And a thousand other questions.
You shove your boots on and enter back into the chill. You remember seeing a bookstore in town.
The Magic Shop: Books and Oddities
The front window glows with warm light, crowded with displayed volumes and curiosities (a stuffed raven, a jar of yellowing teeth, insects encased in amber).
The door swings open with the ring of a bell. Someone calls out "Welcome in," in a deep-velvet voice.
The smell of parchment and aged leather envelopes you like a familiar hug. You can't help pausing in the doorway and inhaling deeply. No matter what city you're in, places like this always feel like home.
It's everything that a bookstore should be: crowded, mysterious, and slightly dusty. The shelves are tightly grouped and arranged like a labyrinth few are privy to, and stacksâno, towersâof books occupy every corner.
You enter into the space, feet padding on the braided rugs, eyes drinking in the details. There are labels on the shelves, haphazardly spaced. They start normal enough: gardening, self-help, adventure.
But then you realize that they branch off into even more labels, or rather sub-labels. There's nocturnal gardening, gardening under the influence, Faerie gardens and goblin gardens. Each labeled sub-genre branches into even more specific sub-categories, creating a seemingly endless array of subjects.
You could explore this place for hours. In fact, you intend to over the course of your stay in Farrow's End.
You spend an indeterminate amount of time exploring all the labels and categories. The shelves twist this way and that, creating little nooks where the occasional armchair is tucked into.
Eventually, you come to a more open area with a wide-sprawling desk. The man sitting behind it is tall and tan, glasses perched on his nose, with short chestnut hair that shifts golden in the candlelight.
He's deeply focused on the book in his hands: A Comprehensive Guide to Navigating Parallel Universes and Pocket Dimensions.
Typically, you hate to bother people in a bookstore, especially if they're already reading. It's supposed to be a space for quiet reflection, for self-exploration and uninterrupted browsing. But you still have a job to do, and it's clear that you won't be able to navigate the complicated system yourself. At least, not in a concise period of time.
So you square your shoulders and prepare yourself to address the (handsome, you notice) man at the counter.
"Excuse me," you begin in a hushed voice.
The man's head whips up, as if he completely forgot there was another person here.
"Yes?" He says in that same deep voice, friendly and eager. "Do you need help finding something?" It sounds like he can't quite believe the fact. This place must not get many customers.
"Yes, if you don't mind."
His face lights up as if nothing would delight him more.
"Do you have anything on unusual mushrooms?" you ask.
The man sets down his book and slips out from behind the desk. "Hmm..." he mumbles to himself, expertly weaving between the shelves while you hurry to catch up.
"Let's see here..." he says, passing a wall draped with vines from a hanging planter, like the ones in Yoongi's lab, you notice.
"Fungi," he mutters, fingertips ghosting over the shelves. The sections under Fungi are vast and wide-ranging. Poisons & Antidotes, Moss & Lichens, Carnivorous, Aberrations.
He pauses at that last one, eyes flitting between the volumes.
"Anything specific?" he asks.
You debate on how much to disclose, but with the several cases of strange fungi in people's yards, it's probably common small town knowledge by now.
"Anything about an unusual fungus with...tendrils?" You can't help the hesitation, you're not sure if it's a common feature among mushrooms.
Apparently, it's not as unusual as you thought, because the man only nods and shifts his attention to one of the lower shelves. His slim fingers finally land on an old cloth-bound book with a red toadstool on the spine. There's no title on the cover, but the man seems to be familiar with it.
"Here you go," he says, handing it to you. "I think you'll find what you're looking for in this one."
He says it with the confidence of someone who's read every book in the building front to back. A very specific part of your brain tells you that this fact is almost certainly true.
"Thank you very much," you say, turning the book over in your hands.
"My pleasure," he replies, and means it.
"How much?"
He guides you back to the counter and rings it up for a very good price.
You're itching to ask questions, but you're not sure where to start.
The man places the book into a brown paper bag printed with Magic Shop Books and Oddities and hands it to you with a warm smile.
You lose your nerve and take the bag in silence. Then, as if he could smell the fragmented thoughts darting around in your skull, he says, "Be careful in the woods."
You look at him. There's the same friendly smile, but now with a hint of good-natured curiosity.
"If you're going mushroom hunting, I mean," he adds.
You stare at him for perhaps too long.
"Thanks," you say, dropping a generous tip into the jar next to the register.
"Hope to see you again," he calls out as you exit through the front door.
A moth to flame, bees to honey. Insert: you to coffee shops with perfect ambient lighting. You spot it just as you're leaving the narrow alley that leads to the bookshop.
Turning the corner onto a cobblestone walkway, you catch sight of the cafe windows, slick with the recent rain. But from what you can see through the glass, it looks like a warm, cozy place.
Glancing at the front door, you notice an OPEN sign, even though it's quite late. You're opening the door and stepping inside before you're even conscious of it.
The interior reflects the same aged aesthetic as the exterior, dark wood and brick and brass accents. But the kitchen area houses clean chrome appliances, and there are shelves stacked with white dishes behind them. Golden light warms a glass case fully stocked with a manner of pastries, breads, and other nibbles, all of which still seem to be steaming hot.
You immediately decide that you like this place.
"Good evening," a pleasant voice calls, though you can't yet identify the speaker.
The smell of steam and freshly-ground coffee beans becomes richer as you approach the counter. You can hear someone puttering around in the back room.
You glance at the menu's wide selection, and when you look back at the counter, a man is standing right in front of you.
You don't scare easily, but it's enough to make you jump a little.
"What can I get you?" the man asks cheerfully. He's tall and slim, wearing a white button-up and black slacks under an apron. Brown hair, dark eyes, and a full smiling mouth.
You order a coffee and a pastry.
"What time do you close?" you ask, wanting to sit down and enjoy the atmosphere but also not wanting to be the asshole that settles in just before closing.
"On Wednesdays we close at noon, otherwise we're open twenty-four hours," he replies, sounding delighted by rather than annoyed by the fact.
A twenty-four hour coffee shop? You really like this place.
He must see your eyebrows raise in surprise, because then he proudly adds, "Only one in town."
Pleasantly surprised, you look around the shop to assess the seating options. There are booths tucked along the walls, a few tables and chairs, and a few plush-looking armchairs near the windows.
"Please, have a seat and make yourself at home. I enjoy the company," the man says as he makes your drink.
You take him up on it, settling into one of the chairs by the frosted glass of the window. It's then that you take a closer look at the book the shop owner recommended.
A fraying cloth-bound cover, a red toadstool instead of a title. Inside, a table of contents. First, a bit of basic mycology, which you greatly benefit from. Immediately after, a range of mutations, circumstances, and environmental factors that caused the direct disturbance to said mycology.
You get lost in it quite easily, sipping your drink (which is expertly brewed) and nibbling your pastry (which is almost too delicious for words). You know that you'll be spending a considerable amount of time here throughout your stay in Farrow's End.
The book cites several case studies, all suggesting that a new strain of fungus is not only spreading rapidly, but infecting all other strains it has access to.
You read on, only momentarily distracted by the occasional customers that enter into the establishment. Like the group of students, most likely from the University, who order a large batch of espresso to-go. Or the old man who orders a sandwich and black coffee and sits outside despite the late-night chill.
You don't realize it, but you read on until the early morning. The first few faint, pale rays of sunlight stretch across your current page through the window, and you jerk to attention when you realize what time it is.
Not that you have somewhere in particular to be today. But you've always liked to get a jump on things early on in the investigation. And you have better luck getting interviews during the day.
You had no idea that time was passing so quickly. This place seems to have an air of particular tranquility, the kind that only a handful of coffee shops are able to achieve. It's the feeling of finding a quiet place after being overstimulated for hours.
You take your dishes to the counter, drop a tip into the jar, and step into the morning chill.
Exhaustion sets in on the journey home, and you crash moments after your head hits the pillow.
The dreams start that night.
a/n: thanks so much for reading!! love to hear any of ur thoughts đđ
next chapter
#bts ot7#ot7 x reader#bts fanfic#bts x reader#bts mystery#bts x fem!reader#bts series#bts f#bts fic#bts angst#bts fluff
561 notes
¡
View notes
Note
A blurb for Max Verstappen where he does his best to keep you and the kids away from the Drive to Survive netflix crew but wants you around the new docuseries being filmed about Max and his life off the track
"Netflix people are going to be in our garage tomorrow morning", Max said as he came out of the ensuite bathroom, careful with the noise he was making as the kids were in the living room area of the hotel room, the sofas turning into beds so they could sleep near you still despite the half wall that created a sense of separation between the spaces.
"So we'll just join you for the afternoon then", you added, showing him your understood what he meant, "have you spoken to them about us not wanting their faces shown in the show? You know how they sometimes record the paddock and other people show. I know it's inevitable sometimes, mas maybe blurr it out or something", you tried.
"Yes, I spoke to them this morning. They seemed understanding enough, although there was the usual comment of why and if they could do this or that", Max shrugged, getting in the bed next to you, "what did you tell them?", you wondered.
"Didn't let them get too far. They already know where we stand with you and the kids showing up, so there's not need to beat around the bush again and again. They're butthurt because you appear on the docuseries, but it sounds like it's a their problem and not ours, so I'm not too fussed. And neither should you be", he smiled, kissing your cheek and letting you snuggle up to him.
.
"Are you ready, Y/N?", one of the producers asked as they arranged the camera on your car so it could catch both you and the person asking the questions.
"I'm going to pick up the kids from school now, they're at a very good age now where it's not hard getting them to leave the house in the morning because they love going to school, but also not too hard to get them to leave school because they also love being at home and know they'll see their friends tomorrow", you chuckled, remembering Finn's tantrum when you wanted to take him home and he wanted to stay in school because he wanted to keep paying with his friends whose parents were running a little bit late to pick them up too.
"Is it hard juggling all of this with Max being away for some good chunks of time every now and again?", she asked as you stopped at a red light.
"It isn't as hard as before", you reasoned, "when they were younger and their needs were different, I relied a lot on my mother in law and my parents whenever Max wasn't home, which was really mostly weekends because he arranged the schedule and RedBull made it work. But now they're older and they're at a stage where they are a little bit more independent and, honestly, we just take each day as it comes and go from there", you smiled.
"How is parenting along with Max?", she wondered, "you know, there are many moments in parenting where you think 'this is definitely not the way we should do this but it works for now so we just stick to it' - and you really hope for the best in these cases -, but last week we both went to a parent-teacher meeting and both teachers said that the kids were doing well, they were kind, empathetic, respectful. - And what is there more to ask, you know? - we both got out of the meeting and we're like 'yeah, this parenting thing is going just fine',", you smiled, "obviously, we got home to our little girl having a meltdown about not being able to fly, but really? It's an amazing journey parenting with Max, even when he has to tell our daughter that that's not something humans do and let her mourn a capacity she never had", you chuckled.
(Thank you for your submission â¨ď¸)
413 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Yeah, Netflix-produced kdramas have huge budgets, fancy sets, high tech cameras, sleek cinematography, and big name actors, but do they have:
Dramatic tea slaps?
Evil stepsister ripping up and eating her paternity test results?
Very important shareholder meetings held in school auditoriums that are attended by maybe 20 people max?
Dramatic fights between father-in-law and daughter-in-law?
Tacky over the top fashion that screams "I'M EVIL!" in big flashing neon lights?
Dramatic close ups that make it seem like it'll take an eternity to hit the main character?
And last but not least, this gem of a woman who totally understood the assignment and is living her best campy evil stepmother life?
I didn't think so!
667 notes
¡
View notes