#it's definitely not a sex thing. it almost sounds like the dull popping of fireworks

[orcelito]

Wrote tha note to put on their door in the morning.

Do u think my sleep deprived frustration is evident lol

[embrassemoi]

No Body, No Crime ✁ 1

AU - Y/N L/N is a second-year law student attending Stanford and studying under Professor Aaron Hotchner. Along with his associate attorneys, Ms. L/N is alongside some of the most ambitious and cutthroat law students in the nation. However, her life gets flipped upside down as she’s thrust into a life of murder, sex and lies.

Main Pairing: Spencer Reid x [F]Reader

Content — Mature themes, blood, major and minor character death, violence, angst, triggering themes, bad coping mechanisms, drugs, mental health shit, alcoholism, lots of smut, language, fluff, mystery, thriller, mentions of cheating, canonical typical themes , dark academia vibes, explicit content - read with caution

DISCLAIMER: This story will contain MATURE content. It will include themes such as smut, violence, etc (see content). If you are not 18+ and unable to handle such themes, respectfully, please exit this story. It is not my intention to make readers uncomfortable or trigger them in any way. If you continue to read the story despite the multiple warnings, I am not responsible for any triggers that may pop up.

Also, based off this blurb! 

I am also not a law student, so there is bound to be misinformation!

【 ao3 | Masterlist | Playlist 】

CHAPTER 1: Death and All His Friends

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Blood, she thinks, you never really know how much blood is in a person. Logically, she did know; she had to learn how many pints there were in the human body from med school and the mass amount of profile study cases. From looking at crime scenes, reading textbooks, medical journals and fake charts; blood has never bothered her, if anything, she got used to seeing and being around it.

There are roughly about ten gallons of blood in the average adult, but typically, losing more than forty percent will result in death. That was about two thousand millilitres.

But, you never realize just how much blood a person can hold, not until a human is slaughtered like an animal, eyes glossed over, body turned cold and stiff — splayed out in front of you. It seems like a lot more than what was described.

There’s a saying, bleed like a pig. Well, she understood what it meant now.

God, she sounded like Spencer.

“What are we going to do with the body?”

“Let’s leave it. We need to go back and clean!”

“No, let’s bury it.”

A chuckle of utter disbelief forces its way out of Derek’s mouth in a rush. It’s both strained and ragged and sounds as if he’s about to burst into tears, but the shock and anger seem to immerse deep in his bones and control his actions. His head shakes subconsciously, “You’re — you’re fucking joking, right? It’s the middle of winter! Tell me how the fuck we’re going to bury a body when the soil’s hard?!”  

There’s a collective panicked sigh that goes through the group as the implications finally start to settle in.

“Be any louder!” Emily half-shouts. She paces back and forth, the freshly fallen snow crunches under her shoes as they leave footprints in their wake. Her hands make extravagant hand movements, almost in an attempt to speak with her actions. But, the only thing that has Y/N somewhat grounded is the rusty blood on Emily’s hands. The stark contrast of her pale skin against the deep red does nothing but make bile rush to her throat.

“The body is what gets us caught!” JJ cuts in through her half-sobs.

“The one time it snows in California! Since when do we get snow?!”

Sticky, cold, dry, flakey blood. It brings too much attention to the blood painting her body in a cruel, evil painting. Y/N lifts a shaky hand as she turns to observe the way the pads of her fingers were stained red. Underneath her fingernails, she can see the blood caking, dried underneath and can feel the heavy liquid travelling up her sleeve.

Her fingers pressed together before a hand shoots up, trying to pick off the blood in a hasty attempt.

Everything was uncomfortable — too uncomfortable and it was sticky and disgusting and there was too much happening. Her brain was overstimulated and all she wanted to do was yell or cry or strip herself clean from these heavy clothes, hiding the blood drenching her underneath. A hand went to claw at the fabric — she needed to breathe — she needed air and it was too tight and —

The falling snow had finally come to a stop, the ground becomes muddy, wet snow being tracked all around but aside from that, it’s dry out. Panic is slow seep within her body, only just registering the dull, prickling ache that travels up the side of her right arm. Not to mention the pounding in her skull felt like someone had taken a power tool, drilling a burl hole into the side of her head in hopes of creating a make-shift lobotomy. On instinct, her hand reaches up to her temples, massaging small circles in hopes to find relief.

But then she catches sight of her hand again from her peripheral vision, or rather, it’s as if she can feel it laminating her skin. Blood.

Now there must be smeared streaks of dried blood coating her face. Fuck, now she really feels like throwing up.

A soft wail can be heard in the background somewhere, but it sounds distant and underwater. She thinks it’s JJ. Her high-pitched cries are loud and she thinks that’s Derek’s voice yelling at her and god… it only amplifies her headache.

She needed an aspirin, Advil — maybe Spencer had some.

Her mind wanders back to the group. Emily… Emily — she’s — Y/N doesn’t know where Emily went actually. She could have sworn she was by the trees…

She continued to pick at her skin absentmindedly, and now she couldn’t tell where her blood started and the one that was sprayed onto her ended.

And Spencer, he’s pacing and hadn’t muttered a word since they left Hotch’s house. His body language is closed off, his hand rubbing up and down his arms in either a self-soothing method or because it’s cold out. She assumes it’s the former.

The one time — the one fucking time the asshole is supposed to be smart, his IQ magically drops below zero.

Everyone is arguing and they all hear the faint cheers, laughter, early fireworks and music blaring in the background. The sound of the bonfire crackles in the distance and all she can do is drown it out. She was supposed to be having fun. She should’ve been visiting home, or maybe studying of fucking Spencer, not wearing shoes twice her size, gloves to cover up her fingerprints; not trying to come up with an alibi and there definitely shouldn’t be someone else’s blood clinging to her. She should’ve been anywhere but here. It’s too much.

Lightheaded, Y/N stumbles backwards, supporting herself against a nearby tree. The shadows and black coat camouflaged her, engulfing her into the night and she feels an odd sense of comfort by it. But, it does anything but calms her down as her chest begins to rise rapidly up and down.

Oh god, oh shit, shit, shit! They’re all fucked — she’s fucked. Her DNA is all over the crime scene. The crime scene is on her and probably under the body’s fingernails. There was no way she was getting out of this. It wasn’t even her fault and look where she is.

She should’ve listened to her Grandparents; don’t go to law school, it’ll turn her into something she’s not. Y/N smiles twistedly thinking about it, they were right.

You can’t get away with murder.

Shit, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

“We need to stop wasting time,” Emily announces, appearing remarkably calm.

“W-we should call the police,” Y/N mumbles in a shaky voice. Her voice hitches and she sucks in a cry.

All of their heads, besides Spencer’s, whip over to her; she’s on the verge of breaking — possibly even running off and going straight to the local police station. Her phone suddenly feels heavy in her pocket.

“What we’re not going to do is that! Do you want to spend the rest of your life in jail?!” Derek exclaims. His mouth goes to open again before he suddenly halts, looking over to Spencer and shouting. “Ayo, kid-fucking-genius, could you, I don’t know — think?!”

The yelling makes her shrink in on herself. Yes, call the police, turn yourself in. Obstruction of justice; tampering with evidence, manslaughter, attempting to hide a body, invasion of privacy, possible perjury — all this leads to incarceration and more time. Maybe she could even get a deal, say that she was in shock, dealing with PTSD. Immunity! Maybe she could strike herself and Spencer an immunity deal.

God — they killed her. They murdered someone.

Immense guilt bubbles its way through her before she turns to gag on air. Her hands clutches her stomach as she heaves, distantly hearing the arguing background.

“— about Hotch?”

“What about him? He’s going to put us in jail himself. If we’re lucky, he’ll kill us so we can skip a life sentence!”

JJ cries louder. God was she fucking annoying.

“He doesn’t give two shits about her —” “Could everyone just stop for a fucking moment,” a new, irritated voice cuts in. It sounds like it’s been pushed through gritted teeth, muddled by straining and holding back tears. It’s Spencer.

His eyes shut, the palm of his hands pressed harshly on them before rubbing them hard. But, they travel up to his forehead and through his hair, pulling down so hard that Y/N would be surprised if he didn’t already lose a chunk. But within a swift motion, he crouches to the ground in a fetal-like position; the balls of his feet roll back and forth, making his entire body bounce in small rhythms.

He’s having a panic attack, judging by the way his breathing cuts in and out in large volumes, hyperventilation bound to happen soon.

The entire group stays silent before Derek has enough. He walks up to Spencer, a hand clutching his jacket which forces him to stare straight into his eyes.

“Don’t treat him like that,” Emily tries to cut in.

“If you don’t give us something good within the next few seconds, you better pray to god —”

With newfound determination, Spencer meets his eyes with a fiery look, his chest puffed out a bit and his voice is even.

“We burn it.”

━━━━━━━━━༻✈︎༺━━━━━━━━━

Friday, August 29th, 2003

Palo Alto, California. Apartment 7

Four months before

A clanging sound reverberates throughout the empty hallway for the third time within the last five minutes. Her keys.

An annoyed sigh involuntarily leaves her lips as she struggles to lift the stacks of heavy boxes in her arms. Her attention was drawn to a bulletin board near her door. A missing person’s photo was plastered, marked with an eye-catching red border. Printed underneath a photo of a man in bold letters: George Floyet, twenty-five-year-old student at Palo Alto University. Last seen on July 30th, 2003.

When Y/N L/N was fourteen, she vaguely remembered people asking her where she saw herself in the next ten years. Now standing outside her newly rented apartment, sweating as she juggled a stack of large boxes without tripping — well, she certainly hadn’t thought this.

Life had many ups and downs, as cliche as that sounded. She hadn’t expected to graduate university with an English and Human Physiology degree, nor had she expected into medical school before ultimately deciding to take the LSATs, pursuing a career in law.

Truly, had Y/N used one word to describe her career ambitions at the moment, she’d say she’s pretty fucked and clueless. Although, she’d liked to consider herself fairly motivated, resilient, perhaps even strong-willed and quick on her feet. Scratch that, if anything, the one thing she did pride herself on was her ability to compose herself quickly and the want to overcome fear. It was a motto, of sorts, which she’d been sticking close to: going with the flow.

If anything, those were the attributes that built the foundation of what anyone needed to become a successful lawyer. Yes, that made her situation sound a lot less… pathetic.

But certainly, standing in the middle of a corridor in a shitty apartment with walls too thin to save money on rent, she’d consider herself pretty pathetic.

Oh, the joys of moving.

Just as she felt one of the boxes tipping, the sound of shuffling fills the hallway. A pair of large pale hands come out of nowhere, swiftly catching the stacked cardboard boxes with ease.

When she looked up, she hadn’t quite caught a look at the man in front of her as he bent down to pick up her keys. But when he finally stood straight, eyes locking, she took note of his features

He was tall, much taller than herself and dressed in black slacks and a light lilac dress shirt which was pushed up by the sleeves. He was young, probably the same age as her or younger. He was wide-eyed, almost doe-like and wore a nervous yet seemingly gentle expression.

“Hello,” said the stranger. His hair was rumpled as if he’d just woken up as darken eyebags accentuated his face. His face was sharp, features dark — but in a soft sharp way that made the shape of his nose and lips the most noticeable. Pink lips, a tired look, pretty face.

This stranger was friendly and very attractive. That was her first impression of him.

“Hi,” she replied, a bit breathless from the weight of juggling the boxes. But still, she smiled and her head tilted to the side slightly.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were my new neighbour, I hope you don’t mind me helping, you looked like you needed it,” he says nervously, his extra free hand goes back to rub the back of his neck.

Y/N’s eyes shoot over to the door at the end of the hallway, conveniently next to hers: apartment 8. He must've heard the banging against the doors and walls, and suddenly, she felt guilty. She must’ve woken him up.

“Haha, yeah! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

“No! It’s fine.”

Now, both stand there a bit awkwardly before she coughs, which has him nodding and fumbling with her keys in his hand, “Er — I have a couple of minutes before I leave for work, do you still need help?”

“Right, yes!”

Y/N hands him over her other box, her hand taking the keys back as she clicks open her door. The smell of cleaning products filled her nose along with the smell of old books. It’s spacious, considering what she’s paying for it. It’s a flat, aside from the bathroom and kitchen and there’s a small balcony that’s connected with another set of railings outside. The view of green trees and flowers could be seen and suddenly, Y/N considers herself lucky when she’s realized the place she’s snagged.

The man trails behind her, setting the boxes down on the kitchen counter before dusting off any non-existent lint off his pants. His eyes quickly scan the area, in an analytical fashion.

He clears his throat, “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

She nods too, walking back up to her door to lead him out. “Likewise, neighbour.”

This time, a real smile crosses his face before looking down sheepishly, a small tint covering his cheeks. “Please, I’m Doctor Reid — but please, call me Spencer.”

“Doctor?” Her face lights up with curiosity. This man looks as young as her, younger — and she’s only twenty-four.

“Oh, I don’t practice medicine,” he quickly adds. His hands go to fiddle with each other, “I have three PhDs and an IQ of 187,” he explains. However, it’s not in a blatantly rude manner — like he’s trying to flaunt it. If anything, he looks embarrassed. His head drops to look down at his shoes, trying to make himself appear smaller, seeming uncomfortable. But like she said, Y/N likes to believe she’s quick on her feet.

“Well then, Doctor,” she teases, which has him going a deeper shade of pink, “I’m Y/N L/N, I have no PhDs, I used to practice medicine and I have an IQ of — probably a hundred or less.

At this, Spencer visibly relaxes as a deep chuckle makes its way out. He nods again, making his way out the door and does a small wave before disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaves her door open, but her back is faced towards it as she hears his door click back open and she feels the vibrations of his door closing before the tapping of his feet becomes more and more distant.

There are a dozen other boxes she ends up hauling in, but she’s noticed that Spencer must have somehow carried a few of the boxes to the top of the stairs rather than just leaving them in the lobby.

As she wipes down the surfaces, music blasting through her earbuds before unboxing her new bed frame, a smirk crosses her face; cheap rent, enrolled at one of the top law schools in the country, has enough money saved for the next few months and a cute, tall, polite and a fucking doctor that just so happens to be her neighbour — damn, Y/N doesn’t mind this at all.

【 Next Chapter 】

[giowritess]

Dull — Michael Corleone

masterlist. | michael corleone.

Pairing: Michael Corleone x fem!OC Tatiana van Doren

Plot: Tatiana and Michael have always been pushing each other’s buttons. One day, when confronting him about a deal that went south, their relationship takes a different path.

Warnings: cursing, sexual themes — choking, vaginal fingering, intercourse, unprotected sex, edging. 

Word-count: 2,555

Kinktober: prompts — • 4. begging • 10. against the wall • 11. hatesex • 12. fingering • 13. edging • 32. choking

Author’s note: Wassup people!!! Sorry for taking so long to write something. I finally wrote something about one of my all-time favorite characters, who doesn’t have a big fandom but should. If you don’t know what The Godfather is about, all you need to know is that they’re gangsters and this man is perfect. This lovely piece I wrote alongside the most precious being on universe that’s @pacinorose! I love you so much and I can’t thank you enough for entering my life. I haven’t written smut in four years and this is my first attempt at it. This is also my 1st official post for kinktober. About the banner/gif: @littlefreya​‘s inspired me to do one. The gif edition is mine, but I don’t know who the gif itself belongs to (let me know if you do). I really ope you all enjoy it! Also, not beta’d. xoxo 

     Tatiana van Doren was not a force to mess up with. The van Doren family and the Corleones had always been on each other’s bad side. Their mutual hatred transpassed the invisible strings of time and, all that despise, disdain and hostility towards each other carried on through generations and generations. It definitely hadn’t missed out on Tatiana van Doren and Michael Corleone, the oldest children to take over the two businesses.

      Interaction between the two of them was always hard. The only exceptions were when both had to attend any kind of social gatherings, where they had to maintain politeness and grace. Usually, they were always at each other’s throats like cat and rat, always pushing each other’s buttons to nothing but pure and inexplicable rage. Michael always made Tatiana turn into an angry beast who wouldn’t keep quiet, and she did the same thing to him. He couldn't even recognize himself when he was around her. Michael always tried his best to suppress his emotions and stay indifferent, but with her, he just couldn’t do that. He brought out the worse in her, and she did the same to him.

      So, that meant that business between them was nearly impossible. They'd joined forces against a common enemy and that involved mastering a hazardous business deal which included exchanging weapons imported from the docks. Of course, it hadn’t been easy to find something both agreed on.

      “Miss van Do-”, Michael’s secretary started to speak, standing in a flash from his chair in a futile attempt to try and stop her.

      Tatiana was on a warpath as she blasted through his office door and almost took it off its hinges. She didn’t give a damn about discretion and was ready to take out the revolver from her thigh holster and shoot any bastard that dared to stand in her way.

      Michael’s eyes were wide from the action as he snapped his head up from his work. His eyes soon narrowed when he saw exactly who had interrupted him and caused such a scene. Her dark, doe-eyes no longer had that sparkle full of mischief and teasing. Instead, they held complete and utter anger as she pierced holes into him, her chest weaving up and down in an erratic rhythm.

      “I tried to stop her, Mr Corleone. I’m sorr-,” his secretary started. Michael interrupted him putting his hand up, a gesture for him to be quiet before he silently dismissed him and he left both alone.

      Michael took a deep breath and finally brought his eyes back to the brunette girl. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with her day-to-day teasing and uncontrollable annoying mouth, that just wouldn’t close without spurting snarky comments about how he conducted his work.

      “Do you not listen, princess?” he asked with a calm voice,  his brow arching in question. He clenched his jaw so tightly he thought his teeth might crunch under the tension of his frustration, .

      Tatiana’s face completely fell in disbelief at his audacity, and her eyes soared into his so intensely the Corleone almost took a step back. Him calling her like that made her blood boil, and he knew that.

      “I’m sorry? I don’t fucking listen?!” the words started to violently fall from her lips, like bullets hitting their targets. “I told you not to move the contraband under a fucking full moon! We agreed on that! And what do you go and do?!” she asked, prodding her index finger towards him as she spoke. Her eyes were wild with fury as she looked at him.

      While she did her small angry speech, Michael couldn’t help but notice how well that floral-print summer dress hugged her body, leaving little to the imagination. To his imagination, that would happily fill in the gaps late at night, both when he couldn’t sleep and when he’d dream of her. Of course, his dark desires were well hidden as he kept a stern look and averted his eyes back to his desk. He moved his hand to align a piece of paper that fell as he stood up to confront the intruder in his office, shrugging her comment off with an emotionless glance.

      This only pissed her off more.

      “Who the fuck do you think you are?!” she continued, striding in front of him so she'd force him to make eye contact. She was fuming. “My men could’ve been caught because of you. Because you’re so fucking dull.”

      Her fast breathing matched his clenched body, and she couldn’t help but feel a shiver run right through her while he looked down into her eyes. He seemed to be staring right through her. They'd never been so close before and, by how he was staring at her, she couldn’t help but feel like a prey, about to be devoured by its predator.

      “You’re a dull fucking bastard,” she mumbled, not even a bit intimidated by him.

      He inhaled so quickly and sharply before he brought his hand up to her throat, she had no time to register what had happened. Tatiana winced as she felt the impact of her back hitting the wall, her eyes immediately locking onto his. She wasn’t surprised by his action. Instead, it surprised her with the effect it was having on her. Her body was tingling everywhere, sending shivers through her spine and sending a fire straight down to her core. The feeling of Michael’s strong hand clenched around her throat, not hurting but still strong enough to keep her in place, was doing more to her than she wanted to admit. That she would like to admit. He could squeeze the life out of her if he wanted to — the predator could easily devour his prey. But by the look on his eyes, she knew those weren’t his plans.

      She gathered her posture back up, that mischievous glint that he so much hated returning to her eyes. Even though she wanted to be devoured by him, she couldn’t help the words coming out of her mouth.

      “What are you going to do, Michael? Kill me,” she asked, her voice slower than usual, “or fuck me?” she rolled out the last words with the pop of her tongue, sounding almost like a purr.

      Unsurprisingly, he slammed his lips down to hers, pressing her further against the wall, his hand still strong on her throat. Then, he pulled away abruptly as his hand loosened its grip around her neck, uncertainty making its way to his mind. As Tatiana slowly opened her eyes, he thought that she was the most beautiful woman on Earth at that moment, without the ice wall she had built around herself. He knew that doing what she did, she had to protect herself, but she was even prettier when she didn’t need to hear that mask. And she definitely didn’t have to wear it around him. Michael could see straight through her without any effort.

      Tatiana could see his jaw clenching as she brought her hand to his neck, slowly dancing her fingertips over his skin. As they reached his face, her eyes repeatedly travelled from his lips to his eyes, which were following every single one of her movements with attention. His chocolate eyes softened at the look of longing in hers, but then it was gone as fast as it came as she smirked up at him. Her fingers finally reached his lips, tracing a line in them before moving her hand to the back of his neck and entwining in his soft hair as she stood on her tiptoes and brought her lips to his, pulling him closer by the neck. It was slow and sensual, giving each other to explore that uncharted path that they had been longing to discover for a long time now. His hand left her throat and travelled down her back, while the other found the back of her neck. Their kiss got needier and hungrier by the second, the mutual desire finally coming to light after being repressed and ignored for so long. They kissed until both couldn’t breathe, pulling away and kissing again, letting their tongues dance together in a harmony they could only find in each other.

      She could feel herself getting flushed, her skin hot, as if she could make fireworks explode every single time that sinful mouth of his made contact with her skin. He was kissing a path down her neck and her collarbone, quickly pulling down and exposing her breasts, begging for his attention. The shape of his erection pressed against her felt like hard marble, and it only made her even wetter than she already was, feeling her panties soaked.

      A moan left her lips as his hot mouth sucked on her breast, and Michael felt his cock twitch in pain at that heavenly sound. He hadn’t even touched her where she needed him the most, but she was already a panting mess from his kisses alone. He knew he was going to leave marks on her body as he sucked, kissed and bit every piece of skin available to his reach.

      Her heart skipped some beats as he started kneading on her thigh, her whole body tensing with expectation and anticipation as his hand went up slowly. She knew he was doing that on purpose — he wanted to torture her, and it was working. Michael finally found the hem of her underwear and stole the air out of her lungs when one of his fingers dipped down her cunt, meeting no restrain.

      “So wet for me,” he whispered in her ear, watching carefully every reaction that crossed her beautiful face.

      “Fuck,” she muttered.

      Tatiana had to cling to his white shirt as his finger swiftly entered her, moans and sighs leaving her mouth as they pleased. Her eyes fluttered closed as he started moving up and down, his finger soon joined by another, while his other hand remained on the side of her head.

      But his torture wasn’t going to end. When her heart started beating faster and her breathing got unstable, he slowed down, only to speed up again when her breathing went back to normal. Over and over and over again, lever letting her chase her high. He could see the eagerness and irritation on her face. The fact that she was entirely at his mercy and under his control only made him harder, if that was even possible.

      “Michael…” she moaned. He could hear the exasperation in her voice.

      “Yes, princess? he replied in a mocking tone, never stopping his movements.

      He knew how impatient she was growing.

      “I… I want you,” she admitted, making a smirk appear on the corner of his lips.

      God, how ironic it was for the roles to be inverted.

      “You’re gonna have to be more specific, darling,” he said, his hot breath against her neck.

       “I want you,” she repeated, this time staring into his eyes. Her voice was nothing but a desperate plea. “Your cock, buried deep inside me. Please," she muttered, almost whining. "Please, fuck me. Please!”

      Her raspy voice full of desire and need turned a switch inside of him. Having her beg for him was exactly what he wanted, and now he just couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted her too, badly, and he couldn’t wait to be inside her. Pulling his fingers out, he held her by her thighs as he picked her up and placed her on his desk, throwing its contents to the floor and not giving a fuck about it.

      Tatiana watched impatiently as he unbuckled his belt and finally released his cock, painfully hard. She couldn’t help but lick her lips as she wondered how it would feel on her mouth, against her tongue.

      And then he thrust into her, and she felt like her brain had short-circuited and stopped working. Was she even alive? Was she breathing?

      "Like this?" he asked, but she couldn’t even reply. "You like it when I fuck you like a whore?" his voice was almost aggressive, his hands holding tight on her hips where he knew would be purple tomorrow.

      A breathy "yes" left her lips, followed by a series of moans that only made him even closer, feeling the way her velvet walls enveloped him with perfection.

      "I bet,” she started to say, but a loud moan interrupted her, “you've… you’ve dreamed..." it was hard for her to finish her sentence, getting harder and harder to form coherent thoughts, "of this."

      Even with his cock thrusting in and out of her and hitting every right angle, making her roll her eyes with bliss and see stars, she still managed to be snarky.

      “All the fucking time," he growled back, and one of his hands found its way to her throat, squeezing lightly, testing the waters. His other hand was busy, rubbing circles in her clit that made her feel as if she was going to explode.

      He knew he was in good waters when his name left her ajar lips in a scream, Tatiana shutting her eyes closed, overwhelmed with the pleasure building up inside of her. Quite satisfied with himself, he applied a lot more pressure around her neck, and he felt her getting tighter around him.

      "Fucking you on my desk until you couldn't speak was all I wanted when you wouldn't shut up," he said, punctuating his last words with some particularly hard thrusts.

      "Michael," she moaned, almost begged, and his name on her voice could've made him come alone. It could easily turn into one of his favourite sounds, and he could get used to hearing it all day long.

      Well, he had fulfilled his goal — she was nothing but a moaning mess under him right now. She couldn’t form a sentence even if she wanted to, her brain simply wasn’t working. The only word that came out of her lips in-between moans and sighs at that moment, the only word she knew, was “Michael”, chanting his name like a prayer as if he was a god meant for her to praise.

      He admired her as she threw her head back in complete bliss, her eyes clenched tightly and her mouth agape as the pleasure overtook her. Her hands were gripping the edges of his mahogany desk so firmly that her knuckles were turning white. No one could say this was the mighty, feared Tatiana van Doren, cheeks red and flushed, out of breath and eyes out of focus, her breasts exposed, spread out on his desk while he impaled her with his cock, each time sending her over the edge and into oblivion. To him, she had never looked prettier.

      Michael was completely enthralled by her, mesmerized by the way she moved, her face, her expressions, the way she grasped his cock and made him see stars. It was as if she’d cast a spell on him, making him feel like no one had ever done before. Now that he finally had had a taste of her and her ferocity, he couldn’t let her go anymore. He couldn’t even understand how he’d gone so long without her, but now he knew he definitely couldn’t keep on without her.

      Who would have imagined all it’d take to tame a beast was another beast?

[babbushka]

Magician!Kylo?!? This could be set any time, but I picture it in the Victorian era where occultism is high! Tall, dark, very dark, handsome, definitely mysterious and can hypnotize you with a touch or a glance! Fog, firelight, darkness, decadence, horse drawn carriage sex lol. Lots of possibilities! I hope you love this idea as much as I would love to be his on stage assistant! Thank you for all your wonderful writing!!!

(1.4k, mentions of mild gore in the magic act)

Oil lamps flicker and flare along the damp street lamps, as boots and heels scuff cobblestone. Horses whinny in the rain, chuff and neigh as their masters urge them down the streets, down down down towards the theater, the only bright attraction in this dull corner of London.

The line moves quickly as thunder cracks, as lightning illuminates the inky black alleys, as working class people on their night off shuffle into the theater. Sixpence was an easy price to pay, and nearly all could afford it – and nearly all did, and nearly all showed up, waited with bated breath for admission, waited to see him.

Kylo Ren the Incredible, the Magical, the Great.

The crowd murmurs in their seats, just beyond the red velvet drapes. They are thick and lined with fringe of gold, that had been your choice, your request. Nothing spoke of an enchanting beginning to an extraordinary evening, than velvet drapes. It is a full house, this evening showing sold out, and quiet excitement thrills you as you twist and stretch in your outfit.

Kylo is at your throat, as he always tends to be. His white gloves grasping at your breast, as he sucks a mark just below your ear, hums into your pulse. You grin, he’s excited about this show, has a new act, has a new means to dazzle and amaze – and tonight is its debut.

“The show begins soon,” You warn, doing nothing to dissuade him from ravishing you, “Darling you must go to your mark.”

“In a moment, I’ll go in a moment.” He murmurs, making you laugh enough that you must stifle the sound of it, for the music is dying down. When the music ends, the show begins, and truly, Kylo must get to his mark.

Yet he still buries his face into your tits, takes a deep breath of the sweet powdered perfume you laid there, makes you smile. The scar which splits his face shines in the low lamp-light, before he is nothing more than a puff of smoke, making you roll your eyes once again. You’re immune to his charms, you know all his tricks. Or do you?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Kylo’s voice surrounds the theater, and the crowd goes deathly still as they try to pinpoint how who what where why – “I welcome you, to our show.”

The curtains open to an empty stage, although it only remains empty for a moment, only for an instant, before sparks fly from the floor and when the fireworks have settled there he is, there is your Kylo. The crowd gasps, and you can see from just beyond the wings of the stage, that Kylo quirks a grin.

For an hour he dazzles them, card tricks and illusions that get them enchanted, get them entranced. Kylo pulls coins from the ears of small children in the audience and makes them laugh, gives the coins to the children whom Kylo knows have never held one of such worth before. He pulls doves from his top hat, materializes eggs and ribbons from thin air, and you sit in the wings and enjoy the way that the crowd oos and ahhs, for surely such feats are impossible. 

But then, then it is time for this new trick, then it is time for you.

He introduces you to the stage, and the crowd sits up a little straighter in their seats, watches as your fishnet clad legs stalk across to where Kylo stands at center stage. You push out a great big box on wheels, and the crowd gasps, because what could possibly be inside?

“Marvelous, isn’t she? My beautiful wife.” Kylo says, so softly that almost no one can hear it, says it just for you. He turns to the audience then as you set up the act, as you open the box and reveal that there is nothing inside. “You know my good people, sometimes I think she’s so incredible, I wish I could have two of her.”

You smile, before climbing into the box, waving to the audience before Kylo closes the box onto you, so that only your head and legs are exposed.

“In fact, tonight I think I just might get my wish.” Kylo says, as he spins the box around to show the audience that there are no strings to this trick.

Your heart pounds, you hope it works, you hope the illusion is a success.

The audience gasps when Kylo pulls out a great big saw – cartoonish almost, in its size and shape. The saw’s teeth are razor sharp, or so they appear. The audience doesn’t know, they are on the edge of their seats.

Kylo opens the door of the boxes so your body is visible through the little glass windows, and somewhere out in the theater, a child asks if you’re going to be alright. He then closes the doors, and begins to saw through you, begins to hack into your body.

You scream, deliciously and loud, as the crack snap pop of your flesh and bone make the audience cover their eyes, their ears, their mouths. Kylo grins like a maniac, like some unhinged monster, as he saws into you, all the way through to the very bottom.

“Do you think we got her?” Kylo asks the audience as he removes the saw, “I’m not so sure.”

He inserts more blades through the center of the box, by now the crowd is shouting, hollering, demanding to know what he thinks he’s doing. You try not to laugh at their rage on your behalf.

He pushes apart the two halves of the box, wheels them each around so that the audience can see you are fully cut in half, contained in each section. 

Your legs kick on one end of the stage, your body writhes on the other. There are shocked gasps, children standing up to get a better look only for their parents to yank them back down into their seat again, as Kylo spins the two halves of your body independently. 

“Kylo!” You shout, mock-angry and not in any pain at all, “Kylo put me back together this instance!”

“But darling I was just having a little fun.” Kylo playfully responds, stunning the audience.

How are you not dead? They saw the blades stick into your body, they heard the crunch of your bones. How are you still berating him, how are you still alive?

“My foot itches.” You complain, and one of your legs kicks dramatically, making them laugh, reminding them that this is nothing more than some incredible trick.

“As you wish my dear, I shall stitch your body together before all these good people, so that they may bear witness to our greatness.” Kylo rounds up the two boxes once more, fits them together.

He waves his hands over them, and all the latches and clasps pop and snap together. He pulls out all the blades, the saws and swords. You give a loud moan or two for good measure, the relief of your limbs attached once more flooding through you. 

And then, the box is opened, and out you climb, and the audience has their jaws dropped.

You bend and twist your body around, showing them all that there’s not a mark on you – well, not one caused by swords at least, lest they look too close to your throat. And when you’re in Kylo’s arms once more, when you strike your pose as the music crescendos to an end, the crowd roars with applause.

It is the most remarkable thing they have ever seen, the most incredible, the most confounding, the most astounding thing – and they do not know how to process it other than with raucous applause.

The spotlight shines on you and your man, your Kylo, as you take your bows, as he thanks the audience for their attendance, as they ask for more more more beyond the spill of light. They call your names and throw roses at your feet, a simple thanks for transporting them to a world so much more fascinating than their own.

When the last of the crowd has gone, when all that remains is fog and the eerie crank of music, when there’s murmurs on the streets of how did they do that? Kylo grins against your mouth, licks across your teeth, holds you close in silent gratitude, in an embrace tighter than your corset.

And as the red velvet drapes close, you cast a gaze to the empty seats, the echoes of their cheers lofting in the rafters. Kylo snaps his wrist and the lamps blow out and you can’t help but roll your eyes fondly at this man, this man you so adore, with all his occultist tendencies, with all his supernatural powers.

Or were they supernatural at all? You don’t know.

After all, a magician never reveals his secrets.