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ilovehotactresses · 18 days ago

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JULES MY LOVE

Windows To the Soul- Kinktober Week Two

Juliette Nichols x Fem!Reader

[Originally labelled 'Mirror, Mirror On the Wall, Who's the Biggest Slut of Them All?]

Summary: An unplanned visit after your abrupt breakup with the Sheriff of the Silo brings unexpected revelations.

Kinks: Mirror sex, post-break-up sex.

A/N: This fic is less explicit smut and more graphic emotion-wise. What is the dirtiest, most sinful thing one can do if not admit they need another? (I am struggling to write the smut and it shows bc everything I write is just SAD).

Word Count: 2.1k

Every breath of air you took in this moment felt woefully inadequate. You couldn’t get a breath in, not a true, full-bellied breath that would soothe the ache in your lungs, relax the tension in your stomach, release the blockage in your throat. Three weeks of no contact, not a single glance in the hallways, and she was back, sitting on your couch like she’d never left. Taking you off guard in your own home. It’s something Juliette would do. The same blonde hair falling out of a too-loose ponytail, unbuttoned uniform and belt loosened to accommodate the natural press of her slouched abdomen against her pants.

“Jules.”

“Shut up.”

You don’t know who moved first, her barreling towards you off of her perch on the couch, you careening forwards and meeting her halfway. Her hands on your back, hips, shoulders, grasping-grabbing-pulling-yanking-cradling-holding all of you. Her mouth smashing against yours, the goddamned whimper she let out. All of the anger and hurt of the break up forgotten in the paroxysm of her body on yours, her mouth tracing hungry patterns wherever it found purchase.

“Jules, wait, please-”

A swipe of her hand over the table, glassware smashing on the floor; the destructive nature of her desires on full display.

“I can’t get you out of my head.” she whispered, nose pressed against your temple and shaky breaths puffing out over the small hairs that clung next to your ear.

That stupid face. Those stupid blue eyes and cocky smirk, the class of glassware.

“Get the fuck off.” you shoved her back, getting off the table.

A perplexed look came over Juliette’s face, her hands raised in mock surrender.

“Sorry.”

“You would be.” you snapped.

The broken glass littered the already well worn linoleum. Another mess, another headache Juliette brought upon you. Neither of you spoke a word as you swept the broken glass into a pan, putting it in a bag for now.

“I should’ve slapped you.” you mumbled, not quite meaning it.

Juliette raised her brows, shaking her head dismissively. Her thumbs worked circles over the fabric where they perched out of her pockets, adding to the sheepish posture.

“Yeah, well sex with your ex is supposed to be cathartic.” she sighed.

“Not if you ended on bad terms.” you snapped.

Juliette shrugged, using your less than furious response as a cue to push forwards a little more. One step closer towards you at a time, slowly invading your personal space.

“It was a short fling, I didn't think I needed an explanation for leaving.”

Her reasoning was nothing short of inadequate. A fling, a minor dance of passion between two people who were just in the same place at the right time. Until it was the wrong time. But it hadn’t been, not in your eyes. Realizing she had never really gotten over George well enough to love another had been a hard pill to swallow, one you’d only managed recently.

“You know, you really should’ve made it clear that you weren’t planning on staying.”

Looking at her was an awful mixture between painful and infuriating. You busied yourself with the dishes instead. They’d been soaking long enough, it was a matter of draining the water and actually washing them. Such an act conveniently coincided with having the excuse to avoid looking at her.

“Listen, I get that you’re upset that I wasn’t upfront about what I wanted, but no one ever is, so…” Jules shrugged, watching as you dove headfirst into the nearest task.

“Doesn’t excuse the fact that you just up and left. Lead me on… Flirted, teased, even hinted at something more in the future. Kind of like how George did to you.”

Juliette let out a groan of anger, turning on her heel and running a hand over her scalp in the anxious-avoidant motion she was so fond of.

“Founders be damned, are we just going to sit here and trade barbs all day?” she huffed. “I have enough shit going wrong for me, I don’t need you-”

“Oh you're still entitled to me?” you snapped. “Pretty mature of you, slinking back for a less than underhanded attempt at trying to fuck me.”

Juliette spun on her heel, now facing you. Her jaw quirked to the left, mouth working its way into a grimace. Again she smoothed her hair, hands stilling on her hips.

“I came because I wanted to apologize, and then you came in with your business casual shirt all rumpled, and in that damn skirt that just hugs your body, so yeah, maybe I got a little side tracked.”

There was nothing you could say to that. It wasn’t an insult, but it wasn’t exactly a compliment. She’d left emotional baggage and pain the same way George had left it with her. A cute little cycle, but not one you excused her from. Soap was up to your upper arms, each dish scrubbed beyond what was really necessary to get it clean, but it was better than outright hurling something at her.

“Listen, I do miss some things, it just… For so long I didn’t know what I wanted, and now I do. And it’s not here, not with you, as wonderful as you are…” she choppily advocated, taking slow steps forwards until she was just short of touching you.

“As wonderful as I am you’re an asshole who wanted someone to fuck and hold you close while you were going through your shit. There’s a word for it, and it’s called a rebound. Shittiest thing you could ever do to a person, honestly.”

A long sigh crested over your shoulder, close enough to tickle the back hairs of your neck. Her arms snaked forwards, resting lightly on the swell of your hips.

“Crawling back to you isn’t what I was planning, but I can’t resist another go…”

An arm snaked around your front ready to pull you back towards her, to snag you and pull you towards another hook up you knew you’d regret.

“Just one more time, for the fun of it…” Juliette whispered, breath climbing over your ear, attempting to lure you into a yes.

Anger welled up again, and this time you had a sink full of soapy water and a small pot to work with. Turning on your heel, you doused her front with several cups of warm dishwater. Juliette looked down at her clothes, and then you.

“I have the maturity problem? Yeah right.”

She reached in the sink, using a bowl to douse your work clothes in that same water. You smacked her with the damp dish towel, she snapped your ass. The two of you fought like children, splashing each other with water until both of you were wetter than not. A particularly violent toss of water caused your frictionless shoes to slip on the linoleum, causing you to careen back. The plastic cup fell against the floor, your body careening down towards the ground. Two hands reached outward, gripping your shoulders. Juliette let out a yelp, losing traction as well. You both crashed against the floor in a mess of limbs. Her elbow against your ribs, her chin clacking shut as her jaw cracked against your shoulder.

Both of you groaned, each more than a little sore. Juliette adjusted her body over yours, staring down at you, laid upon the linoleum with water lining the floor around you. Her head blocked the main light of the kitchen, creating a small halo around her head as she looked down upon you with more than a fair degree of concern. Neither of you broke the silence. Doing such a thing would be precarious, shattering the subtle tranquility of the moment. She settled above you, elbows on either side of your face.

When she leaned down you didn’t push her away. Her body was warm, seeping through the damp cloth of her soaked uniform. You swore you could still feel the familiar dip and swell of her muscular back, and as your hands traced the line of her spine, you found the familiar divot at the base, hiding just under where her belt sat. Juliette, to her credit, was far more cautious in her next attempt. Soft kisses graced your cheeks, her fingers just lightly tracing the hair above your ears.

“Yes?” she whispered.

“Since we’re both here…” you softly replied, a squeeze to her back to affirm that subtle consent.

Juliette hummed once, hands sliding under your torso, pulling you up and off of the wet floor. Her hand cradled the back of your head, soothing pressure overwhelming the dull ache from where your skull had made contact with the ground. To have Juliette be this soft with you spoke to her inner guilt, a phenomena you’d witnessed many times after she vented to you about George. But you wouldn’t complain. Not when she was pulling you up, cradling you to her like a small child, carrying you away, out of the kitchen, towards the bathroom.

As your feet touched the ground, she caught your chin, pressing a soft kiss there. A reassuring kiss, probably the only real intimacy you’d get out of this experience. Her mouth found your neck, wetter, meaner, hungrier kisses working slow patterns down, her calloused hands undoing the zipper of your skirt, the buttons of your blouse. Your own hands shook as you undid her uniform. Belt clanging to the floor with her slacks, uniformed button up shrugged off in the same manner you’d watched countless times. Neither of you could speak at this moment, neither of you dared. Words could ruin this moment, would ruin it.

By the third time her lips crashed against yours you were finally bold enough to reciprocate, mouth slackening as her tongue slipped past your lips. She had the smallest hint of coffee breath, the one beverage you were sure she consumed regularly. Juliette lived on coffee, she depended on it in ways you knew to be worrisome. But when that coffee-breath stained tongue touched yours, it was a comfort. A spark of assurance in an otherwise vague moment. Her hands slipped to your back, yanking off your bra, blunt nails digging in with the desperation of her jerky moments. You both kicked off your shoes as you finished pulling off your panties. A push into the shower, that was all the direction she gave.

Cold water shocked your flushed skin as she turned the water on, body pressing against yours as she desperately kissed you against the shower wall. A quick glance to the long mirror in the bathroom confirmed the sight. Juliette’s hands tracing your hips, her mouth tracing desperate patterns on your neck. You didn’t have the heart to tell her to stop. You’d wear turtlenecks for a month if that’s what you needed.

“Jules, look at me, please.” you broke the rhythm of the moment, trying to catch her gaze.

“I am.” she whispered.

Her gaze slipped to your right, and you turned, following it. Blue-steel eyes meeting yours in the slightly foggy mirror. You turned, still making that eye-contact as her hands slipped around you from behind. One hand down, parting your labia. The other cupped your left breast, thumb drawing circles over the pebbled flesh.

You didn’t watch her hands as they stimulated you, fingers dipping inside, thumb tweaking your clit. You felt that. But all you saw were those blue eyes overrun with emotion. A white-hot throbbing erupted in your chest, complimenting and growing alongside the burning ache in your core. The sounds you both made, the way you moaned, the desperate whines she let out as she watched you climb higher, it was all background. Center stage were those blue eyes, heavy and burdened.

One climax, then two. Your legs gave out, the two of you collapsing in the bathtub. You kissed hungrily, devouring her tongue, her lips, her breath. As her thigh made contact with your cunt, hers pressed against the complimentary thigh. And as you rocked together, you felt that grief.

The small little stuffed animal she kept in her bedroom, the books she had on her shelf. The way she left all of her socks inside out to ensure she didn’t put them on with a hair inside. The nose scrunch, the awkward bug-eyed look she sported most of the time.

“Please stay.” you whispered, your hands splaying over her back.

Juliette leaned down, her forehead pressed against yours. One loud whine and she came undone. Her body slouched over yours in the bathtub, the shower going cold as the water pounded down around you. Juliette’s breathing evened, nose finding that familiar crook in your neck and just nuzzling.

Tags: @ilovehotactresses @marvelwomenrule @midnight-lestrange

#jules nichols x you #jules nichols x reader #ilovehotactresses #reblog

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ilovehotactresses · 21 days ago

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Youve got to be fucking kidding me

My drunk purchase guys…

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ilovehotactresses · 1 month ago

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bitch

Sunlight (Trick or Treat #1- Kinktober)

Lady Jessica x Fem! Reader

Summary: A quiet day in involves reminiscing and slow, devoted sex.

Kinks: Erotic lactation, sensual coupling.

Warnings: This is a trick or treat fic, so you might be in for more than you've bargained for. Read at your own risk, any kinks listed are the only kinks in the fic.

A/N: (See the bottom of the fic).

Word Count: 3.9k

Since the Holy War had begun, there were few places that felt untouched by the tragedy. Untouched by the despair that drew places and people into bitter vigil. All of Arrakis felt hollow, years of battle making the ever present sun almost ghostly. The sun no longer warmed your skin like you remembered it had on your first visit to the land of sand and spice. There were a few places that held onto memories from before Arrakis, places carefully crafted to remind the occupants of better, slower times. The quiet that had come before the storms.

Walking into Jessica’s chambers was like walking into a room at the old Atreides fortress on Caladan, so well constructed was the sentiment. The walls were lined with dark blue tapestries depicting waves and soft seascapes, each handmade and meticulously crafted to imbue that nostalgia. The floor was made of wood. It had been imported for a pretty penny, but it was real wood. Paul had done it for his mother when the fortress was being built. He’d done a lot for her, and it was clear from the craftsmanship of the room how much he loved her, how much you all loved her. The walls were exposed stone, artificially weathered to be smooth and inviting. It wasn’t the dark stone of the porous boulder that Castle Atreides had been carved out of, but it was a good substitute. And it smelled clean. Not stuffy and overpowering like the rest of the Fremen sietches, grainy and polluted by sand and sweat. Most beautiful of all was she, long brown hair falling down her back in soft waves as she read a book. Blue eyes scanning the text, lips pursed in her signature way. She looked good. Relaxed.

“Jessica.” you smiled, settling beside her on the couch.

Her eyes locked onto you, recognition devolving into tender affection.

“Lover.”

Her arms were thin, but sculpted, and they cradled your body with soft reverence. The fabric of her dress was expensive, another luxury awarded to her by her ever-devoted son. One glance up and it was like you were back on Caladan again. Jessica’s face no longer bore the markings of the Fremen ritual, the markings that you’d memorized and traced on so many sleepless nights. She was no longer a Sayyadina, she no longer carried that burden, thus her face was free of such markings. The demotion hadn’t affected her, to what you could tell. She would always carry the burden of the Reverend Mother’s knowledge, that much she seemed to accept. And maybe that was why she didn’t need the duties, she had enough with Alia and Paul. Enough memories to keep her occupied for as long as she could bear them. But in this moment it was clear she wasn’t reminiscing, rather she simply existed in the moment. She almost hummed with soft energy. It was a beautiful thing, while it lasted.

“I’ve been reading up on the tribes in the South. Paul has refused to let me see the death tolls, but I fear so many have been-” Jessica spoke, spiraling softly.

“Jessica, that’s not your concern.” you dismissed her, cupping her face.

It was smoother than you remembered, but still littered with those soft freckles. Her face contorted into a soft frown, and her blue eyes didn’t land on you for some time. Cutting her off in the midst of one of her soft monologues wasn’t something you did often, but you did it frequently in recent months. She was no longer a Reverend Mother, she didn’t carry those burdens, she wasn’t meant to.

“It was once.”

You nodded, gently guiding her into her lap. She bent like a reed in the wind, resting into your comforting embrace. All of the little burdens she carried on her back, endless worries her mind created… You hated it. The Jessica you loved should never carry such troubles.

“I was a lot of things.” Jessica finished, staring blankly at the far wall.

“Jessica, I want you to focus on something else.” you firmly spoke, leaning forwards to kiss her.

Her slow descent into depressive spirals was often contagious, so it needed to be stopped. She let out a startled sound as you kissed her, eventually melting into your advances. Her lips were soft and warm, but a little stiff. The distraction was old, a trick she was used to by now. But it caught her every time, causing her arms to droop, the muscles in her shoulders to go lax, even her breathing evened. Jessica’s tongue was wet and dexterous, if not a bit clumsy. But her hands were soft and warm against your cheeks, her nose brushing yours in that familiarly comforting way. And that was what broke your inhibitions, the need for propriety and distance in your love. Her hair felt like silk as you ran your fingers through it, her lips sweet, breath tinged with the smell of coffee. Every soft stroke of your cheek, the small little inhalations of breath she gave in between your sweet caresses of tongue and teeth, it reminded you of simpler times.

You focused on a particularly bawdy memory as you continued to kiss, one that inspired mood. A hot summer as your lady’s handmaid, the slow descent into nakedness as the two of you fought to cool off in her humid yali. The rise and fall of her breasts, how gorgeous she’d looked postpartum, a year or so it had been. And the smile she’d given, the flicker of amusement in her eyes as her finger cocked forwards, gesturing you to the bead of milk sliding down her breast. It had all been sweet, a forbidden delicacy partaken in during a moment of weakness on both of your parts. A minor relapse into the human; the selfish and carnal.

“Suck, yes.” Jessica gasped, tangling her hands in your hair.

You remembered how the warmth of her breast had seeped into your face, more insufferable heat. Sweat dripped down your back, mirroring the sweat that dripped between her boobs. Salty and invigorating. Nothing like the bead of milk that landed on your tongue. You remembered how sweet it had been, how rich and… How Jessica’s.

“God, they’re so heavy, Alia isn’t weaning properly.” Jessica breathily complained, holding up her other breast to attempt to cool herself off.

She looked positively miserable. You both were. The sun penetrated everywhere, and you swore it wormed its way into the Fremen sietch. She was carrying too much fluid. That was bad. Storing it in your body was a temporary measure, one that would help Jessica. Her fingers tangled themselves in your hair, aided by the sweat of your scalp. Sweat everywhere, sweat and milk. You gulped down the first mouthful, the embarrassment of such a debaucherous act fading as you tasted the unforgettably delicious commodity that was her milk. Jessica’s back relaxed while her grip on your hair tightened, urging you forwards. The coming and going of others outside of Jessica’s yali hadn’t concerned you, neither did the threat of a hungry Alia. All that mattered was the soft pull and release of nursing, of nutrients, of passion.

This memory inspired mood.

The bed beneath you was cool, the internal arrangements of the rebuilt stronghold of Arrakeen were far more accommodating than her yali had been. Some nights you managed to feel a chill. Those were the nights you didn’t spend with Jessica, the nights where you weren’t tangled in her arms, trying to match the rise and fall of her chest as you slept.

Jessica was atop you, breathing heavily as you aligned your thigh in between her leg and hers in between yours. It should have alarmed you, how quickly the two of you devolved into such passionate entanglements. But this was the way you were designed, after all. This was the Jessica you remembered.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” Jessica admitted, beginning to rut against your thigh desperately.

Sunlight streamed through the upper window, filtered by layers of tint. It was beautiful, and it covered Jessica’s body in a gorgeous glow. Of their own accord, your fingers began to trace each vertebrae of her spine, providing gentle stimulation to Jessica’s rutting.

“You’re not very receptive.” she teased. “I’m doing all the work, it’s very rude.”

Your eyes snapped up at hers, and you understood the hidden challenge.

“Oh, I’m not very receptive?”

Jessica shrieked with laughter as you rolled her onto her back. You began to tickle her, starting behind her neck, then down her abdomen. Each little tickle caused her body to twitch and convulse, arms flailing uselessly as she gasped and giggled. Her neck craned upwards, face growing pink like the cherry blossoms of your home world. Her eyes sparkled with laughter, each little gasp causing her entire body to vibrate with contagious joy. She was beautiful like this, a magnificent creation of soft edges and hard foundations. It made you forget the evil of the world, the tragedies of the starving, the fate of the dying.

And then she began to moan.

“Oh… Oh… Oh!” she gasped, eyes rolling shut as the tickling turned erotic.

All thoughts of melancholy, the inner guilt you carried on your shoulders at all hours of the day faded. Sisyphus was granted the momentary relief of falling, of sliding down the hill with his boulder before the toil began anew. That was the hold Jessica had on you. One sweet, muse crafted moan and you were set free from the realities of your environment. You ducked your head down, tasting the salty sweat that dripped down her sternum, like all those years ago. She’d long since weaned Alia. Her breasts sat small and firm against her chest. Sure, they had once been larger, more inviting, but they were still pretty. The change surely didn’t stop you from leaning forwards and capturing one.

Her nipple was soft and warm between your lips, as soft as the sounds that fell from her lips. Jessica’s hands drew over your back, fingernails digging into your skin just ever so, leaving their mark. You would leave your own mark, teeth softly nibbling at her nipple until it grew puffy and engorged, until her whines grew insistent and upset. Soft kisses and licks soothed the flesh, and her moans returned, breathier and husky. A subtle dance of teasing and torturing, one the two of you knew well.

“Other side.” she sighed, though her voice lacked the commands that had made up every word during her time as a Reverend Mother.

You complied slowly, pressing kisses to her sternum, taking a moment to feel her heartbeat against your lips. The beat was solid and familiar, one that momentarily distracted you. Only momentarily. You continued on, trailing kisses under her breast and wrapping your lips around an already stiff nipple. There was no milk to be had, no burst of sweetness, but there was the memory. You began to suckle, your hands splayed over her ribs as you worked, rolling the nibble in between your teeth, not half as rough as you’d been with the first side. Jessica sighed, adjusting her grip on your hair to slowly massage your scalp. Sensual, loving, comforting. You looked up, seeing the column of her neck elongate as she threw her head back in a moan that reverberated up from deep within her core.

It was temporary, this particular attention. One sharp tug from Jessica, hand and your kisses trailed lower. The path was slow, you took your time to nibble at each of the defined valleys of her abs, flexing at your attentions. They almost stuttered in response to your soft kisses and nips, like the fluttering of bird wings. Her skin was less flavorful here, unaffected by the sweat that clung to her chest. You took a moment to savor her touch, tracing your tongue into her belly button to elicit a sweet giggle from her. The smiled you shared subverted the passion momentarily. Love made lovers, after all. She was perfect, soft and oh-so remarkable. Your mouth trailed lower.

The pubic hair that snuck up from her pubic bone was slightly damp, carrying a certain musk. It was different. She’d changed since she’d stopped feeding Alia, since she’d purposefully allowed menopause to set in. It hadn’t affected her sexual appetites, though. Yet. Another reason to savor this moment.

“Hand me that big pillow.” you murmured, kissing the crux between her torso and hip, nibbling softly at the divot there.

It was addicting, finding new places to love this woman, to honor the force that was Jessica Atreides.

Jessica obeyed your soft command, but in her own way. A thick pillow smacked across your head, and your chin hit her pubic bone. You both yelped in discomfort, and the two of you shared a glance.

“Stupid.” you glowered.

“Shut up and eat my pussy.” she retorted, giving an embarrassed smile.

You lifted your hands in mock surrender, slipping the thick pillow beneath her hips. It raised her up and did a lot for your neck. But you weren’t going to give her what she wanted just yet, oh no.

Taking a deep breath in, you leaned forwards starting just above her knee. Soft kisses working from her inner thigh up to her outer labia drew out the sweetest whines from her, and it gave you time to acquaint yourself with the new smell of Jessica. It wasn’t bad, just different. But her skin was still fun to nibble, and nibble you did. Jessica tangled her hands in your hair, pulling and jerking impatiently. She began to mutter under her breath in Chakobsa, a remnant of her past, you supposed. It didn’t bother you that she was cussing you out in a language you didn’t have true proficiency in, what bothered you was that she wasn’t moaning.

“Baby, what do you want?” you spoke, letting your breath hit her inflamed pussy.

Jessica’s breath hitched, and you swore her eyes dilated as she felt the first sliver of true stimulation. But that indicator of arousal was overshadowed by the curl of her lip as you refused to lean in further.

“Get to work, or so help me, I will do it myself.” she huffed, face red and upset.

“Empty threats.” you giggled.

It was enough teasing, really. With agonizing delicacy, you placed the tiniest kiss on her clit before parting her labia with your fingers. The smell hit you then, and you didn’t wince at its unfamiliarity; you wouldn’t dare. You dove in, as was instinct, and began lapping fervently at her fluttering entrance. The reward was the softest, sweetest moan she’d given that evening. It spurred you on further, until you were lost in her, lost in the sounds she made. Grunts, gasps, moans. All interspersed with the taste of her, the constant tugging of your hair. Her pubic curls tickled your nose, the smell of her sex concentrated.

“Please! Yes… Right there, deeper.” Jessica huffed, desperately grinding her face against your mouth.

Every undulation of her hips, every cuss word, both known and foreign that fell from her lips was proof of your success, the pleasure she was feeling. Your jaw ached, your nose moved from side to side as she ground her clit against it, but the feeling was worth the mild discomfort. No, the experience was worth the sensation. Jessica, your poor, sweet, tortured Jessica, thighs rippling as she clenched every muscle in her leg, abs rising and falling in time with her frantic breaths, nipples as hard as diamonds… It was a sight to remember.

“Close, so fucking close… Oh.. OH!”

Her thighs clamped around her hair, and the threat of suffocation was one you shoved down in practiced disinterest. What mattered was holding her steady, holding her hips down so she didn’t buck too violently, rolling your head side to side so she could continue to grind her clit against it as your tongue plunged inside of her spongy canal. Her back bowed, head falling backwards in a tender curve of ecstasy. What mattered was her pleasure, the long moan that reverberated off of the walls, the sighs of relief as she slowly came down from her orgasm. Every muscle in her body went lax. You didn’t bother savoring her taste. Not this time, not when she was sprawled so organically in your bedsheets.

The world went still, and you just observed Jessica. The slowing rise and fall of her chest, the way her pelvis rested contentedly above the thick pillow beneath her hips. Sunlight streamed through the small windows above, bathing her in golden light. Your hands trailed up her stomach, you felt the softness there. Her ribs were hard and defined beneath the skin, and you traced over them, trying to recall if this too had changed. Her eyes flicked upwards, a confused pout on her face. The sun made this look natural too.

The desperate way you crawled upwards and embraced her wasn’t quick enough to subvert your grief, or the rising despair that crawled up with bile from your throat. It wasn’t the intimacy that triggered your cognitive dissonance, nor the underlying truth of Jessica’s lack of tattoos and minimal scars, it was the cognitive dissonance of seeing her so human.

“Jessica, come here.” you managed, wrapping your arms around her desperately.

Her eyes landed on you, and you tried to press your ear to her heart, trying to hear the soothing beat. It was firm and comforting, and it took away the ache for just a moment, but as soon as you buried your face in her neck once more, you could no longer fight the truth.

Jessica didn’t smell like Jessica.

And of course she wouldn’t. This wasn’t Jessica. Not really.

For all the months Paul had spent painstakingly creating the various pieces of the thinking machine, what he had never been able to get right for you, or anyone else, was the way Jessica had smelled. There was no way to capture her smell, after all, Paul had taken one mold and several scans of her body initially, but she’d been buried soon after. There was no one in your small inner circle that could bear seeing her face slowly fade from color, body growing bloated as the hot sun of the desert began to accelerate the natural decay of flesh. Paul was a genius, and he’d worked several miracles getting the machine to perform so faithfully. But as beautifully as the machine could replicate her laugh, her smile, the way she could flush and respond to stimulation, it couldn’t mimic her smell.

“...God, I miss you so much.” you whispered, fighting the urge to cry into its shoulder.

If you listened intently you could hear the whirring of the gears as it tilted its head, reaching up to stroke your hair in soft, too familiar gestures.

“I’m right here.” it whispered.

“No. Not really.”

The machine hugged you tighter, as you reflected. Its creation had been a blatant violation of imperial law, creating and shaping a machine that not only resembled a human mind, but attempted to mimic the mind of a woman long since lost. A crime such as this could have the machine dismantled and Paul under further fire, but Paul had been as heartbroken as you. As desperate.

“... I have her memories. Paul managed to give me those. I remember you. And I feel things for you.” it whispered, wiping the tears from your eyes.

“It’s not the same.” you sniffled, sitting up.

You pointed to a spot on her right arm.

“She had a birthmark right here. Small, like a bit of wine dropped and stained the skin a purple-brown.”

The machine blinked up in confusion at you. Such things could be fixed, and easily. A small bit of paint, and it would look more like Jessica.

“I know. I remember.” it said, voice soft and artificially intoned.

“You’re not her.”

The machine looked to the side for a moment, an imitation of the human process of collecting one’s thoughts. It was convincing, but from this angle you could see the way its eyes changed, the optics zooming in and out of the various possessions Jessica had around the room as it “thought”.

“No. Not completely.” it agreed.

It took all of your willpower to refrain from slumping into the bed. The thinking machine reached for you, manhandling you into the cuddle Jessica had so often put you in.

“I know this.” it said, voice hopeful.

You shut your eyes, stroking the back of her head. It was solid, but not quite her head shape, so you avoided the gesture most of the time. That was another thing Paul wasn’t able to replicate in addition to the minor scars and birthmarks. You were adding those as you remembered them, but the rock that had smashed her skull ruined any hope of an authentic reconstruction.

“Was she in pain when she died?” you whispered, pressing your face into her neck again.

It was a question you asked often, and the machine’s response was never dissimilar. You wondered if it had been programmed, or if the moment had been quick enough for Jessica to not ruminate on the sensation of her skull being cracked open by a rogue Sardaukar.

“No.” the machine said simply. “Not the physical pain you think of. She thought of you. And Paul, little Alia. And Caladan.”

I shut my eyes, sniffling once. A hand came up to cradle me closer to it. Caladan. Jessica’s Caladan with the sea echoing off the cliffs and rain battering the metal roofs.

“We did the right thing, burying her there?”

The machine paused, gauging your mental state. It was capable of lying, you knew this. You’d caught it in lies several times, faux pas Jessica would never partake in. But you could tell that this answer was truthful.

“Yes. You did.” it answered, tilting its head to press its nose in your hair.

You shut your eyes, taking a deep breath in. The room really did look like Castle Caladan, and you could swear for a moment that Jessica’s personal touch had been here. Perhaps it had slipped out of you when you picked out different decorations, when you’d placed trinkets that she would have enjoyed here and there. You pressed your ear to the machine’s artificial chest, listening to the heartbeat until you could believe it to be real. Until you were with Jessica again. It was a slow, exhaustingly long process to descend back into denial, but you did it.

You shoved this moment down into your mind, into a box with other memories you wanted to forget. Finding Jessica dead in the sand, taking her hand and feeling it cold for the first time. Those awful things. But right now her hands were warm, and they cradled your face just as they had always done so. You looked up through teary eyes, and the eyes that looked back were without the stain of melange. Against your hand now, that was where you felt her heartbeat, the slow animation of life. The dimming light of evening blurred her features even more, and the warmth of her body became pronounced as the room rapidly cooled.

She didn’t speak a word as the two of you lay curled together in her large bed. Her arms never left your body, and the soft puff of breath upon your cheek lured you in further to the oblivion of sleep.

In and out. In, out. In. Out. In… Out…

Jessica’s breathing evened.

<---->

A/N: This will be the only gut-wrenchingly sad fic of Kinktober. THis was a very dirty, mean trick, and I apologize to my fellow Jessica enthusiasts. Stay tuned for week three for a far more sexy and fun Jessica fic.

Tags: @ilovehotactresses @marvelwomenrule @midnight-lestrange @rosiesthehat

#rebecca ferguson x reader #lady jessica x reader smut #ilovehotactresses #reblog

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ilovehotactresses · 1 month ago

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Pirates Do Pilates- Kinktober Week One

Ilsa Faust x Fem!Reader

Summary: A mission gone awry leads to a cramped hideaway in a vent. What could go wrong?

Kinks: Forced proximity, sex in tight spaces, pussy eating, 69, squirting, forced muffling.

Warnings: This is a Kinktober fic and just pure smut. If you read this as a minor, (and I see that you've read it by checking the age in your bio following your like) YOU WILL GET BLOCKED!

A/N: Starting off Kinktober with a bang ;)

Word Count: 2.9k

Reblogs and comments are encouraged and appreciated!

In the cramped, stale air of the vents, Ilsa’s breathing echoed grotesquely, sliding off of the walls in wet puffs. Your breaths were as raspy as hers, lungs burning as you tried to quiet them. Every puff of air traveled down, skittering off the walls and potentially giving away your location. Taking larger, slower breaths was better than trying to force anemic, barely there whisps of air like Ilsa. The risk of being detected for the sound of your breathing was minimal, there was no sense trying to force oneself to be quiet. Ilsa’s breathing got heavier, more painful sounding. You couldn’t blame her, this position sucked. The mission had required sneaking into a russian outpost to steal away a blueprint for the next big weapon of mass destruction. It was boring, basic, and otherwise uninteresting. And it went well. That was until one of your tools had tripped a detection alarm. Who puts lead in a wristwatch anyways? Climbing into the vents was a last ditch effort to stay safe, but you’d both entered it differently.

Your coverage to escape detection was a slab of concrete about six feet wide and three feet tall. Behind it lay your hiding spot. The concrete blocked a section of the air vent, thus making your position undetectable by thermal cameras and metal detectors. Being trapped in a vent together for a mission wasn’t ideal, and it would’ve been bearable. That was if you hadn’t entered the vent like you had. Ilsa had done the sensible thing, climbing into it head first, face down. You’d swung your legs in so that you were on your back. The maneuver was so quick that neither of you noticed the problem until you were trapped in that small space, her knees on either side of your head and her face inches from your crotch. Both of your bodies had to stay behind the block, and this is where the trouble began. Being the senior agent on this mission, Ilsa had the responsibility of teaching you to learn from your mistakes, but in this moment she was the one suffering for them.

You could hear her breathing getting worse as she continued holding a plank to avoid touching you. It was professional, and courteous, but she’d been at this for at least fifteen minutes, and the strain was obvious. Wheezes and gasps came more frequently, making it clear just how tired she was. Speaking was deadly in such a noise conducting space which left morse code as your way of communicating.

“D/O/W/N.” you tapped out on her thigh, firm enough for her to feel it through her oppressive leather leggings.

Ilsa didn’t comply. If you had been able to see past her ass, you would’ve watched her vehemently shake her head, determined to push through. There was no pushing through this, she was exhausting herself needlessly. Again you tapped out a command.

“D/O/W/N B/R/E/A/T/H L/O/U/D.”

Ilsa muttered a small curse, a sound made detectable due to the metal of the vents. It didn’t echo as far as it could have, but the both of you tensed as the sound slithered away into the vent. Her abdomen began to tremble, breathing growing louder and more punctuated as she fought a losing battle. Ilsa’s stubbornness would get you both killed, it didn’t take experience to see that. Pressing down on her hips caused the plank to crack, and she slumped atop your body. There was no noise of protest, just slower and more controlled breaths as her tired abs were given rest. She didn’t dare move, and you didn’t either. It was uncomfortable, your view was the dim outline of her ass against metal, but it was temporary. Both of you laid without comment, balanced grotesquely like a yin-yang. Minutes passed without interruption. Heat grew between you, the weight and material of your leather bodysuits conducting and roasting you both in the claustrophobic space. Sweat trickled down your brow, and again you heard her breathing worsen. There was no way to access your own zipper in this position, her body covered yours and the position kept Ilsa’s inaccessible to herself.

“H/O/T C/L/O/T/H/E O/F/F H/E/L/P” Ilsa tapped your thigh, just as you were sure you were going to be boiled alive in your gear.

The heat was mutual, it seemed. Taking in another big breath, Ilsa mustered the strength to lift herself off of your body. Your hand fumbled in between your bodies, groping around depressingly until you found her zipper, pulling the suit open. The angle made it impossible for you to grab your own zipper, so Ilsa intervened, reaching under her body and roving around your chest with her fingers until she found the zipper and yanked down. Desperate rustling ensued as you both tore off the leather, leaving only your loose undershirts. You swore you saw her skin steam, and it clicked just how hot she would have been, trying to maintain a plank in that jumpsuit for as long as she had. It made the endeavor all the more commendable, and the feeling of air on her skin must have been twice as liberating. The vent echoed as Ilsa sighed, slumping atop you again.

“P/A/N/T/S” she lazily commanded.

The pants should come off too, you silently agreed. Reaching for the zippers on the sides of her calf was easier, and you were able to completely rid each other of the garments without much maneuvering, except for raising the hips briefly. Again she sighed, resting her head on your thigh as air caressed her sweaty skin. Neither of you gave much of a shit about being in tank tops and underpants around each other, not when you’d both been minutes away from cooking. You’d been in worse straits, but the immediate relief of discomfort made this one memorable.

A peaceful silence filled the vent, and the two of you simply relaxed, waiting for the search to stop. The security below was good, but not good enough to discover, let alone guess where you’d hidden away. The two of you were persevering enough to stay camped out here until they gave up the search and blamed the disappearance of plans on an intern. The facility light below turned off, leaving the vents in total darkness. Lesser agents would’ve scurried away at this moment, but Ilsa knew better. She’d taught you better. The two of you weren’t out of the clear yet.

Ilsa’s breaths felt more pronounced now, the rise and fall of her chest and the weight of her body on yours felt striking in the darkness of the vent. The more you focused, the more you could feel her breath ghosting over your thighs, sweaty head pressed lazily against the curve of your hip. In any other context this position would’ve been exciting, but this was your senior mission partner, and thus there couldn’t be anything sensual about it. Sure, agents were notorious for hooking up when on long term missions like this one, but never once had Ilsa ever made a move on you. Private lives weren’t on the table for discussion, so you’d always assumed she had a reason to refrain from hooking up. She was pretty, experienced, and probably more than acquainted with living a double life. Physical proximity blended with emotional distance made your relationship all the more befuddling. You’d both caught each other masturbating in the shower on several occasions, but it was never discussed. The door was just closed, and you waited until the other was done before you returned. Agents did what they had to do to stay sane on missions. That included never speaking about what they did to stay sane.

The vents were getting colder now. The heat of her body and metal beneath your back kept you insulated enough to hardly feel the chill. Her breathing grew shallower as she relaxed, making the breaths against your thigh more conspicuous. There was a new smell in the shaft too. Earthy, sharp, even musky. You couldn’t tell if you liked the smell or not, it was just odd and all encompassing. Even if you tilted your head in the attempt to dispel it from your nostrils, you couldn’t. The next several minutes of distraction consisted of trying to guess what it was. The distraction was only so good, and soon your awareness returned to your own sensations.

Ilsa’s breath was ghosting over your inner thighs more regularly as she waited, soft puffs of air curving down, sliding over that intimate flesh just below your panties. Soft, barely there caresses, teasing the tiny hairs, tickling them and drawing your awareness exactly where it definitely should not be. The sensation was driving you up a wall, igniting an inescapable conundrum of conscious feeling in your mind. Not only was it aggravating, your body was responding to it. Toes curling, goosebumps erupting, and worse, a distant throb in your pelvis. As you processed the first sensation of wetness against your panties you knew you were screwed. From front to back, side to side, posterior to anterior, and from the top of your head down to your big toe. Screwed.

Sure, it was pitch black, and there was no way she could see, but fuck, her face was right there. In this twilight where senses were heightened by the lack of other stimulation, there was no way she wouldn’t smell something. The smell from before was getting stronger as your breathing got heavier. It was everywhere now, and as you tilted your head up to figure out where it was coming from, the tip of your nose found its source. Slightly damp, musky, and definitely biological, you realized too late what you had been smelling, and you realized that your breath had tortured Ilsa as much as hers tortured you.

“Hey-” Ilsa shrieked at the contact, cutting herself off with her hand as the sound echoed down the vents.

Below, the sound of boots was heard hitting the ground in rapid succession, following the echo of the vents right below where you and Ilsa were hiding. Your breathing accelerated, and that too became acutely obvious in the sound-conductive metal shaft. In a moment of panic, a desperate attempt to muffle your breaths, Ilsa pressed herself down, muffling you with exactly what had been the cause of this faux pas. Her pussy.

All you could process, all you could feel was Ilsa’s panty covered cunt muffling your breaths, bearing her pubic down against your chin, skull pressed against the metal vent. Your nose was covered, and you desperately opened your mouth, breathing through the cloth of her underwear to gather enough air to function. You were muffled, but at what cost? Every single breath taken in was mingled with the smell and the subtle taste of her arousal. Ilsa’s breathing was just as obvious as yours had been a moment earlier and as the bootsteps drew closer, Ilsa, whether out of spite or tortuous ingenuity, buried her face against your pussy. Not a single wisp of sound was heard in the vent, clumsy footsteps and distant shouting erupting as the scouts lost their trail. The two of you lay there, breathing around the other’s fluttering sex. Minutes passed like this, the insufferable torment of the most mild stimulus conceived against both of your aching pussies, leaving the both of you in a purgatory of almost-sensation.

Your senior mission partner, whether out of wisdom or madness, (you couldn’t be sure), was the one who broke the tension. Ilsa’s tongue darted out, tracing the subtle lines of your labia with her tongue through your panties. Slow, delicate patterns, machinations of desire causing a delicious tension to form in your very center. The moan of relief you delivered was muffled by her pussy, but she squeezed your thigh viciously regardless. The message was clear: You had to be quiet. Not a sound, not a gasp or a whimper. The price of deliverance was steep, but there were ways to pay it forward. You were kinder to Ilsa than she was to you, pulling her gusset to the side before you traced her gaping entrance with your tongue. Her smell was inviting, now that you could identify it. The lack of light made the experience purely tactile and olfactory, occasionally audible if you moved your tongue or lips clumsily enough to cause a squelch.

With every soft lick, Ilsa’s cunt fluttered, winking open and closed, beckoning you further. It was a soft feast of flesh and tongue, your lips delicately tasting her arousal as the two of you descended deeper into madness. (Or bliss).

Ilsa, motivated by your soft stimulation, pulled your panties free of your thighs, leaning down and rolling your clit between her lips and tongue. The hard points of her teeth dug in around the flesh of your clitoris, the nerve brushing against the sides as her tongue rolled it in tantalizingly slow circles. Though she couldn’t speak, deprived of all noise except the rush of air in and out of her nose, her body spoke, begging for more with soft flutters, flirtatious drops of arousal, and most overtly, by the press of her hips down against your face.

Her hips danced in slow circles, rubbing her clitoris into your mouth as your nose pressed against the wet ridges of her opening, spearing it open and closed with wet plops of air as the rocking continued. Every lick was rewarded, every devout act of passion returned. Her hands dug into your thighs, using the muscle as leverage to push her hips down and face forwards again and again and again. Your arms found purchase around her hips, fingers tracing the dimples of venus that rested just above the curve of her ass. The delicate rocking continued, you both cradling the other as the debauchery continued.

Every cant of her hips made her smell more prominent, her taste more concentrated, the warmth of her flesh more noticeable until you were drowning in it. Your lips latched to her clit, tongue rolling over it in a tender, infinite figure eight. Ilsa followed your example, dragging the both of you closer to a release as she spread your labia open to deliver a firmer suck to your engorged clitoris. The wet sounds that filled the vent weren’t subtle, the threat of discovery still remained ever present, but what mattered to you both was finally, finally getting off. The scouts had left this room anyways, and if they were going to kill you it’d better be after the two of you climaxed.

The soft rolling of Ilsa’s hips evolved into regular circles as she delighted in the pull of her clit in and out of your mouth as you suckled fervently. She returned the favor with the laps of her tongue, fingers tugging your clitoral hood back entirely. Her breath wooshed over your entrance as she nipped and sucked at your clit, teasing the coil of release higher and tighter until your legs clenched painfully. The action was deceptive, Ilsa orgasming first. She breathed heavily out of her nose as her cunt violently fluttered around your nose. Whatever plans you had to enjoy the moment were ripped away by her desire to share the moment. She took out all of her pleasure on your poor clit, suckling so violently that your body throbbed from your pussy, up to your neck and back down to your toes as your body trembled in a violent attempt to stay quiet. White stars exploded around your eyelids, arousal dribbling out of your hole and urethra as your body felt stimulation through every angle. You kept your mouth against her cunt, muffling yourself lest a single sound escape.

The moment faded away, leaving the two of you heaving for air, as close as you’d ever been. Neither of you could handle another, remaining limp and breathy as you processed your highs.

Rest wasn’t available to agents, even post-coital. Ilsa’s watch vibrated, alerting her that an exit had opened up. Scrambling for clothes, the two of you managed to slip on about half of your suits, crawling out of the vents and slipping through the facility as fast as humanly possible. Your legs wobbled, her knee almost gave out. It was a high in itself, escaping with her like this.

←→

Inside the safehouse your high continued. Giggling like school girls and playfully shoving the other out of the way, the post-mission high had never been so dizzying. You were both tearing off your clothes, desperate to be the first into the shower, to wash the sweat and fluids off. She was a mean fighter, dragging you onto the floor by your half-off undershirt, you snagged her ankle so she fell on her front. Even as you achieved victory, the coldest, most heavenly burst of water raining down over your flushed skin, she still wasn’t done fighting. Slipping in the cramped stall, Ilsa manhandled you out of the way, pinning you to the wall as she scrubbed her face under the showerhead.

“Bitch.” you snarked, slapping her ass

“Yeah, well you squirted on my fucking face.”

The two of you stared at each other in silence, water thrumming against the shower walls as you both processed.

“... Am I supposed to apologize for something you enjoyed?”

You both erupted in giggles again, limbs and suds tangling together as you took turns scrubbing the other clean of your fun. What was October without a budding romance?

Tags: @ilovehotactresses @marvelwomenrule @midnight-lestrange

If you want to be added to my tag list for Kinktober (or generally), please let me know!

#YUMMY!!!!#rebecca ferguson x reader #ilsa faust smut #ilsa faust x reader smut #ilovehotactresses #reblog

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ilovehotactresses · 1 month ago

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gay

Iola’s 2024 Kinktober Trick or Treat

Guide:

Every week I will put out a short, smutty blurb following the schedule listed out. All of them will be kinky, all of them will be unabashedly smutty. I will also be putting out three ‘Trick or Treats’, which could go one of two ways ;) Thank you for joining me for my first Kinktober, stay nasty!

Week One

Ilsa Faust- Pirates Do Pilates!

Trick or Treat One

Week Two

Juliette Nichols- Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall, Who’s the Biggest Slut of Them All?

Week Three

Riza Stavros- Invasion in Uranus

Trick or Treat Two

Week Four

Reverend Mother Jessica- I Put A Spell On You, (And Now You’re M-)

Week Five

Rose the Hat- Has the Phantom Got Your Femoral?

Halloween Trick or Treat

Reblog to help spread the word!!

#kinktober 2024 #ilovehotactresses #reblog

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ilovehotactresses · 1 month ago

Note

Hay poopie

hello litte pissdrop

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ilovehotactresses · 1 month ago

Note

Hello dingleberry

hello shart

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ilovehotactresses · 2 months ago

Note

SWEDE CHAPPELL ROAN STAN

IKEA knows whats up

#bully rae #ilovehotactresses #ilovehotactresses answers asks

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ilovehotactresses · 2 months ago

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SO HOT.

nothing's gonna hurt you, baby.

Pairing: Rose the Hat X Reader

Word Count: 4k

Tags: smut, oral (r. recieving), blood kink, reader has magic!

Summary: A distant voice fills your mind, you go and find it.

Author’s Note: I read somewhere that book!Rose has a deep fascination with blood, I tried to add it a bit here! This is also on my AO3!

“You’re a special little thing, aren’t you?”

The voice comes from all around you. The teasing words swim through your brain, creating a mist between your ears that you can’t shake. It may be the whiskey that’s making your vision go blurry, but seeing as you haven’t even finished half of your share, you’re close to believing that you’ve become drunk on that voice.

“The special ones always taste the best.”

You lift your nose from the glass you’ve been nursing for far too long, now uninterested in the drink entirely but too shameful to return it to the bartender. Drinks come rarely, dangerously, now, yet are completely necessary to keep your mind, your power, at bay.

“Come and find me.”

She’s going to make you work for it.

You haven’t done the workin quite some time. You’re lucky enough to not remember the last time it happened. You’re not entirely sure how it happens. All you can hope is that your longing to put a face to this mystery voice will jumpstart your brain into action.

You shut your eyes, focusing on the smooth jazz humming from the quartet in the far corner of the speakeasy. Their faces begin to fill in behind their instruments, blue eyes and suit jackets blurry, yet still enough to form a picture in your mind’s eye. Then come the bodies of slow dancers, a few women clad in fringe dresses clinging to mustachioed men who cling to their drinks.

Your spectral being guides out the room, through the secret bookshelf entrance and back into the hobby of the hotel where the speakeasy hides. You glance around, bodies forming from lumps of fuzz as you move through the room, trying to focus on any discerning features, any mischievous smirks or knowing glances. You pay no attention to the men, of course, but you do take the time to note a few of them with particularly expensive watches that you stow in your mind for later. None of the women sitting in the hotel lobby seem at all evil enough to match the sultry voice still lingering between your ears, so you move on, weaving through hallways and, eventually, up the master staircase.

There’s no chance that you’re going to spend hours searching through every last room that the hotel has. You were desperate to meet this mystery woman, but not that desperate. She’d leave her room soon enough. You’re ready to give up her search, let her come to you if she wants, but—

“You’re getting closer…” The voice teases again, her voice mockingly low, a hint of a moan behind her tongue. You focus harder, trying to pick up on anything that might lead you in her direction. Then, you grab it. Cars honking in the distance, voices of people, But the voices are too muffled, she isn’t on the street.

Your eyebrows furrow, you grip the glass between your hands so hard you fear it may shatter. It’s been too long since you’ve let your astral body subtract from your own like this, and the minute amount of alcohol flowing through you is rendering you a bit wobbly.

The voice disappears.

You think, for far too long, so much so that you fear you look utterly ridiculous, sitting at a bar with your eyes shut, gripping your glass like a mad woman.

Then, it hits you.

The roof.

Your ghost snaps back into action, ascending the many floors of the hotel in a heartbeat’s time. To use a heart’s beating as a measurement of time is fruitless, as your own is beating so quick that it’s impossible to count them. You feel the flutter in your chest as you fly through the door, and there the owner of the voice sits.

She flicks her head around, surely feeling your presence, and you only see the shockingly beautiful face before your soul returns to your restless body. You rise from your chair in a start, racing out of the bar and into the hotel with the speed of a rabbit. Your desperation to find this woman has been satisfied, but now you’re overcome by an insatiable need to truly stand in her presence. You don’t think your eyes have ever graced a woman so alluring, with such wild hair and the piercing eyes of an owl, which, if you recall, had the littlest shimmer of a glow to them.

By the time you’ve made it up the stairs, knees weak and chest heaving, you feel a sudden block standing in your way. You take a moment to let your breath catch up to the rest of you, fiddling anxiously with your skirt as you consider all of the ways that the woman behind this door could be dangerous. She was certainly just as powerful as, if not more than, you, if she was able to get inside your mind, the mind so built up with fortitude and yet so deeply dilapidated by your own drinking habits, that you were barely able to gain control of yourself.

You didn’t even know there was anyone else like you in this world. You always knew there was something special about you, since the time when you were quite young and found yourself able to spy on the entire neighborhood from the comfort of your little pink canopy bed. The skill raised a mischievous little girl, and an entirely heartbroken young woman.

Your delicate brain was now wracked with prescient visions of your own death, but that subconscious need to wrap your arms around this mystery woman, to know all of her stories and to count the trinkets in her hair, took control of your hands and opened the door onto the roof of the building.

“Well, hi there.” She grins, her eyes hungry, but the rest of her face as sweet and caring as a mother’s.

You shakily take a few steps forward out of the shadows and into the moon’s cool glow, the small porch light on the roof flickering a few times before diminishing. You can’t help but wonder if it’s something that she’s done, if she’s read your mind and felt your discomfort in the flashing, put it out for you.

“Don’t worry. Nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby.” She coos, outstretching a hand. She’s definitely sensed your discomfort in her presence, but anyone with a trained eye would mark your fidgeting hands and shaky breath floating in the cool night air.

You swallow hard before taking a shy step closer, then another, until you’re sitting by her side before you can think to even do such a thing. She sits on the ledge of the roof, legs dangling over, threatening to spill out onto the alleyway that’s at least fifteen stories down. You force your eyes not to look down as you take a similar seat, but keep your legs on the concrete of the building’s roof.

“Don’t be frightened.” She hums, her lithe fingers raising to twirl in your hair. Her breath is warm against your cheek, marred by the smell of starvation and cheap wine, but it’s far from a scent you’d turn away from. You find yourself leaning ever closer to the woman, entranced by the woman’s soft voice and divinely pointed nose. You’re so very close to her, yet the words that you’re begging to say, the questions you yearn for answers to, refuse to leave your throat. It feels as though she’s wrapped a sly finger around your vocal cords, allowing only a few needy whimpers to pass your lips.

“My name is Rose.” She purrs, her fingers gliding against your jaw, tilting your head each way so that she may see the fullness of your cheeks under the rising moon. You try to do the same to her, to take in each feature of her face, but you’re so entranced by her glowing eyes, that you can’t seem to pull yourself out of them. “And you, little one… You sure are something.”

You can only blink back at her, body feeling weak below your heavy shoulders. You try to conjure up words of your own, try to introduce yourself, but you can’t. And you’re sure she’s already been through each ridge and valley of your mind, so introductions won’t be necessary.

Rose practically has full control of you now, and before you can fight back, she has you pinned to the ledge, back flat against cold stone, her muscled arm positioned by your head so that you can’t fight against her. You can only wiggle, but the hand that lays flat against your stomach keeps you still, allowing no more movement from your body. You feel tears prick your eyes, try to fight them down. You’re not so much scared of the woman above you as you are terrified of your possible fall from this roof, but your previous prescience hadn’t outlined such a death, so your tears subside.

“Don’t cry, sweet thing…” She purrs, lifting a hand to the flat-brimmed hat taming her wonderful curls, producing a thin needle from its body. “This won’t hurt a bit. Well, it will, but you won’t be alive long enough to feel the pain.” Her voice is impossibly calming, and it tricks your brain into trusting her, into falling victim to her body’s heat and her lulling tone, sending you into a meditative state, your body going limp below her.

“Get off…” You’re able to force out, though it’s just above a whisper, and she’s either not heard you or chooses to ignore you, because Rose’s hand is unshaken as she points the needle to your eye, daring to press it in further. But she’s taking her sweet time, feeding off of the fear in your eyes, enjoying the sight of your flushed cheeks and hooded lids, the way you’re completely subservient to her every move.

“I said, get off!” you yell, and the power of your voice is enough to fling the predator off of you, sending her straight back into the brick wall behind her. You scurry off of the ledge, finding safety on the floor of the roof, curling into yourself as you gaze upon what you’ve done. Nothing like this has every happened before. The astral projection, the visions of the future, those were all frequent experiences. You’d never so much as moved something an inch with your mind, so to throw a grown woman a couple meters into the air… it brought a new shake to your fingers.

She lay against the brick wall, blood dripping from her nose, eyes shut as though unconscious, but you could still hear her breathing, still feel a life force beating through her.

“I’m…” You stutter, standing to check her wounds. Though the woman was about to kill you, you felt a sympathy for her tug at your heart, so though you keep your distance, you still hope she wasn’t too badly hurt. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know I would… That anything like that would happen…” Your voice is breathy, stuttering over your words, and the fear returns when she stirs, sits up, stares at you.

But it’s not fear, and she can feel it. You’re not scared of Rose. Not in the typical meaning of the word. You feel an invisible string tying you to her, a deep-rooted need for her that dares you to step closer, and you do.

“I was right. You’re powerful, aren’t you…” There’s a smirk on her lips when you bend to kneel by her side, her hands returning to your face, forefinger swiping at the blood pooling on your cheek, from her long needle swiping your flesh. She grins at the glossy liquid, slides her own finger against her tongue, accepting your blood against her tastebuds, eliciting a sigh from the flavor she’d so dearly missed. “You’re not scared of me, are you, little bunny?” Her smile is downright starving, as she shifts to sit on her knees, towering over you once again.

You think for a moment, pensively chewing on your lower lip, but ultimately shake your head in response. She must be aware that despite your rushed blood flow and dilated pupils, it’s not in fear that your body reacts. It’s in intense attraction. An attraction that Rose feels, that she reciprocates, that she acts on. She wraps her arm around your neck, not squeezing, only stabilizing, holding you steady as she peppers a few rushed, sloppy kisses to your cheek, greedy for the taste of your blood, greedy to feel the warmth of your cheeks against her undead lips.

“Rose…” You groan, your hands finally tangling in the hair that you so desperately wanted to grip into since first laying eyes on the woman. “I have a room, downstairs…” Your voice is replaced by moans when the woman moves her attacking kisses from your cheeks to your jaw, her teeth grating against the sharp bone there, surely leaving redness in her wake.

“Take me there, special girl.” She grunts in return, allowing herself a few more kisses to your skin before standing, pulling you up on weak legs forcing you in the direction of the door. But you don’t make it far before you’ve thrown yourself onto her once again, placing a few hungry kisses of your own to her lips, tasting your own blood on her tongue, gripping her waist so hard that you nearly leave the ground. She laughs into you, picking you up so that you may reach her height more appropriately, pressing you hard against the exit door, laying you flat against the cold metal of the door.

You pull away, hands playing with the small metal trinkets braided into her hair, tugging her head back as well. “Not here.” You whisper, voice small but still carrying the resolve needed. You couldn’t risk being seen, even though it was nearing the middle of the night, and you were on one of the highest buildings in the city, that fear of being caught still nipped at you.

Rose relented, pressing a kiss to your forehead before placing you back on the ground, allowing you to lead her back to your hotel room. The walk is short, but you find it prolonged by the aching between your legs, by the way Rose walks a few paces behind you as to not raise suspicion. Though you’re sure you’ve raised enough suspicion just from your appearances, you with your hair a mess and your eye makeup running, Rose with the marks of red lipstick smudged around her mouth. But you don’t care, you like the feeling of being so scandalous.

It's a matter of milliseconds from your entrance in your hotel room to your body hitting the bed, Rose holding herself up over you, your hands gripping the patterned tie that dangles from her neck. You’d at first missed the look of her menswear, the dark of the roof turning her into a blob of darkness below the shoulders, but in the light, you appreciate her clothing choices. She looks impossibly dapper, wearing the suit better than any man you’d ever met. You use the tie to bring her down over you, to connect your lips once more, enjoying the feeling of Rose’s warm tongue collecting your blood once again. Her fascination with blood is a spectacle to you, such an strange thing that’s not unbecoming of her, that, if anything, matches her odd spirit, her magical eyes. You find it incredibly attractive.

Rose drags her kisses down your neck once again, moving so that you may remove the drop-waist dress, throw it into pile on the floor. She sits back, looms over you, loosens the tie and unbuttons a few of the top buttons of her shirt before throwing her jacket to the same fate as your dress. Though she’s pinned you down, her hips over yours, keeping you flat against the mattress, you still wiggle below her, hands reaching up to grab at her belt, undoing it as best you can with shaking hands.

Her smirk is ever resting on her face, tongue swiping over her lower cheek when you lift your hips to rock into her own, her hand once again lowering so that you cease your movement.

“How pretty.” She purrs lowly, her voice still as low and seductive as it had been in your mind. Her lithe fingers toy with the lace of your underwear, tugging at it gently, enjoying the hitch in your breath as she does so. She enjoys your excitement so much so, that she leaves your underwear on, and instead returns to your top half to tease your already red skin. Rose does allow the removal of your matching bra, however, undoing the clasp with ease before discarding it to an unknown location, her eyes only focused on the curve of your breasts. She chews on her lip, as though trying to hold herself back, to remind herself that you’re a delicate little thing, that she must be gentle. A very difficult thing for a beast such as herself to remember.

When you’ve groaned her name enough times, tugged at her pants hard enough, Rose finally lets herself at you, fervently wrapping her lips around your nipple, her mouth’s moisture dripping onto you, rough hands roaming your body, eventually finding your other breast to tease the nipple there. Her hips buck against your thigh, and you rise it so that she may straddle it fully, and you moan when the feeling of wet cloth presses against your bare skin. She rubs against you as if in heat, as if the taste of your blood has sent her into a daze.

Your hands rest atop her hat, the vintage velvet material impossibly soft against your fingers, yet those fingers yearn to feel her hair, so you lift the hat an inch or so to remove to from her head entirely. Rose’s head snaps up, her eyes shining a bright, nearly blinding, white light, her brows furrowed.

“Don’t.” is all she says before returning to her work at your chest, and though you huff a little at the order, you accept it. She has so much more experience in this world than you, so even though you’re upset by the inability to muss her hair, you accept her demand.

Her kisses soon move down your stomach, her indulgent smile all too pleased when she finally reaches your thighs, and you toss your legs over her shoulders, allowing her to stake claim over your heat. Rose nudges her head against the soft skin of your thigh before sucking at your skin, leaving her signature red marks there. You’re growing impatient, and you know that the pool in your underwear has grown incredibly large.

Rose confirms your suspicions when she pushes the lace material to the side, a low laugh erupting from her before her tongue swipes a long line through your wetness, collecting all of your taste into her starving mouth, eyes glowing impossibly brighter from the taste. She lets out a series of curses, but you don’t hear them, for a moan of your own has encapsulated the room, you voice louder than it has ever been in your life.

“You taste of whiskey.” She purrs against your skin, her voice sending a vibration though you that sends your head flying back into the thin pillow beneath you.

Rose takes another moment to enjoy the sight of you from this angle, and as much as you enjoy her overindulgent personality, the beautifully awe-filled expression on her sweet face, you’re growing impatient, even more wet, with each moment that passes. You squeeze your legs around her neck, tugging her down so that she may finally do what you’re both begging for.

The older woman drops her head, her lips attaching to your clit, smooth, rhythmic movements to the bundle of nerves forcing your back off the bed, your hands returning to lay on her hat, desperate to tug on the hair there. She must hear your mind’s desperation, must have changed her mind in the high of your taste, for she removes the hat, careful to place it beside you on the bed, not daring to let it touch the ground. You want to thank her, but when you finally do sink your fingers into her incredible curls, one of Rose’s own skilled fingers slides into you, curling so that another series of moans flies from your lips.

“Rose—” Your voice is strained as you rock your hips against her mouth, fingers tugging on her hair, hard enough that you should be able to pull her off of you entirely, but she is so focused on her tongue’s movement that not even the hand of God could pull her off of you. You try to praise her, to tell her how good she’s making you feel, but all that comes out are a series of curses, and judging by the way she’s already read your mind so many times this evening, you don’t need spoken words to communicate with your lover. She knows exactly what you need before you even register your need for it, and slips a second finger into your cunt, dipping her fingers in and out of your warm body with quick motions.

You groan her name many more times, your hands flying out of her hair and over your face when the tightness forms in your stomach.

Rose, ever clairvoyant about your own emotions, picks up her pace.

“Come on my tongue, my darling.” She says without speaking, her voice filling your mind once again, creating that brain fog that had so drawn you to her in the first place.

You do as you’re told right away, your muscles tensing up before falling weak against the cheap hotel mattress. You still hide your face beneath your hands, fingers able to feel your heartbeat through the flushed skin of your cheeks. Rose is gentle, yet entirely selfish with her next movements, her tongue swiping up all of your wetness, making sure that she’s stolen all of your taste, licked you clean, before she moves to lay next to you on the bed. She forces your hands away from your face, caressing your cheek gently, lightly laughing at how red you are. Rose thoroughly enjoys the sight, as the warmth of your cheeks is a dear reminder of how much life you possess, a stark contrast from her own flesh, which, though it is still tan and freckled from time spent in the sun, is growing sad from the lack of nutrients, from her centuries spent walking the earth.

You crawl on top of her, pressing a kiss to her lips, reversing your role and pinning her down with your own hips this time.

“You are so special.” She whispers as you gently unbutton her shirt, your body fueled by a craving to see just how low her freckles trail. You gaze up to her when she speaks, fingers ceasing their movements when she lifts a hand to cradle your chin. “Such a special girl deserves to live long.” She purrs, drawing you back down for another longing kiss. When you rise from it, head tilting to the side in curiosity, she simply shakes her head, pulls you back down so that your head rests on her shoulder, where you lay calmly, ears searching for a heartbeat that never arrives. “I have a plan for you, sweet girl. You’ll need to rest.” Her voice is heavy when it enters your eyes, your eyelids drooping almost immediately. You don’t notice the way Rose places her hat back on her head, only fall into a deep slumber, only relying on the rise and fall of her chest.

#omg #THANK YOU FOR WRITING A ROSE FIC #THIS WORLD NEEDS MORE OF EM #rose the hat #ilovehotactresses #reblog

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