#miranda croft x reader

[danisnotmyname]

Summary: Chance encounter with a stranger that leads one thing to another.

*** “You know, there’s a difference between having a smart mouth and being smart.” “I’ve had enough lectures,” you answer defiantly. “Oh, but you are asking for a lesson,” the stranger purrs, “aren’t you?”

#miranda croft #miranda croft x reader #need i say more #the flight attendant #listen #i can explain #inspired by irl events

[mickey-gomez]

Miranda Croft | Reader

ONE SHOTS 

SERIES 

HEADCANONS

Taglist link here

#miranda croft x reader #miranda croft #the flight attendant

[glossyybabie]

thrill ride

Summary: Miranda does surprise dates just a little too well.

Warnings: NSFW. Kinda a little dub!con. Just one brief use of the word “bitch”. Kidnapping (?). Mention of murder (non-graphic). Bondage. Miranda does her own thing, really.

Word count: 1317

Notes: I feel like I should apologise for allowing this to exist, but I won’t. These are just horny 2am thoughts compiled into a cute lil fic. Apologies.

A silent plane was definitely something you'd never experienced before. It was just the two of you, and the pilot hidden away from view and earshot in the cockpit. The incessant whirr of the engines was the only thing keeping you remotely sane.

You shifted in your seat to find a more comfortable position for your shoulder, since your wrists had been bound behind your back with something plastic that dug into your delicate skin painfully.

"You didn't have to kidnap me," you said, the first words either of you had uttered in the last half hour. "Usually people just ask other people out on dates."

Miranda looked up at you from the butterfly knife she was polishing. "If I didn't, you might've said no."

You raised an eyebrow at her. "We've been dating for months now. If I said no, it would be for good reason, for fucks sake."

"I tried to do one nice thing," she muttered with an eye roll. She placed down the cloth she'd been using, and you tried not to dwell too much on the fact that it was covered in blood. "Fuckin’ hell, last time I'm doing that."

"Where are we going?" you asked.

You made to stand up, but were held down by your wrist restraint, which appeared to be attached to the soft leather chair you'd been placed in when Miranda had kidnapped you taken you out on an impromptu date. On the plus side, other than the mark you'd undoubtedly have on your wrists for a few days to come, at least the plane was nice. Not everyone could say their psycho killer partner had access to a private jet.

"You know, I figured you'd enjoy Tokyo," she responded casually. "Just a couple weeks."

Your mouth moved, but it took a moment for any words to come out. "I have a job, Miranda! I have a shift tomorrow!"

"About that, I didn't kill your boss," she stated.

"Why would you kill my boss?"

"He's an asshole," she answered. "And I said I didn't kill your boss. And this isn't his blood I'm cleaning off my knife." She narrowed her eyes at the blade and ran a fingernail through one of the ridges, presumably removing any residue left over. "Nope."

You sighed heavily. "And why am I still tied to this chair?"

Miranda shrugged. She seemed smug with her handiwork too, thoroughly content with the state she had you in. "For fun."

She stood up slowly, stretching her spine in the process and tucking her butterfly knife away in her coat pocket with the ease of a professional. You couldn't do much to move or recoil as she leant over you and slid a leather gloved hand into your hair. Her right knee was resting against the seat, pushing your legs apart.

"The least you could do is thank me." She yanked hard at your hair, forcing your head back as she murmured against the curve of your ear. "I'm taking you out for a few weeks, and I killed the boss you hate."

"Didn’t you say –" You immediately stopped talking and winced the moment her grip warningly became firmer, unable to see anything but the ceiling. "Thanks. Best date I've been on." Your voice left you as a strained mutter. "What a thrill ride."

“You never shut that mouth of yours, do you?” You felt her hand slide beneath your skirt to the apex of your thighs and exhaled breathily. “Now, stay fucking quiet. The pilot’s on the other side of that wall.”

You opened your mouth to ask why, but your question was answered as soon as Miranda’s hand successfully curled around the waistband of your underwear and tugged the garment down and off your legs entirely. She was still holding you securely by your head, which restricted movement a lot more than you’d initially imagined it would.

“Miranda!” you hissed, pointlessly attempting to reason with her. “We are literally on a plane right now! Normal people don’t fuck their girlfriends on planes!”

Miranda hummed in thought, almost as if she was contemplating your words, but then you felt a gloved finger slide along your vulva. She lowered your head enough to make eye contact with her and held up the finger, the leather glistening with your arousal.

She smiled tightly. “But I think you want me to, right here, don’t you?”

You felt heat rush to your face. “Um . . .”

“So like I said,” She finally released your head, but not without one final yank that left a dull pain across your scalp, and pushed your skirt up to your hips, “be a good little bitch and stay quiet.”

You braced one of your feet against the seat, prepared to use the sole of your shoe to push yourself into more of an upright position, but it was as if Miranda was always one or two steps ahead of you. She caught you by your hip and held you in place, which only left your shoulders twisted behind you at such an uncomfortable angle.

Your eyes were only briefly closed as you pathetically struggled to find a position that kept your upper body more comfortable, but by the time you opened them again, she was kneeling between your legs with her mouth over your clit.

You whimpered under your breath, eyebrows furrowing together. You briefly opened your eyes, gaze darting around in search for any kind of CCTV the pilot could have access to, but once Miranda’s attentions increased, tongue swirling around your folds, you found yourself very much beyond the point of caring.

Keeping yourself quiet so as to not draw too much attention from the pilot was much easier said than done. Your breaths came out in short, shallow gasps, hips involuntarily jerking in their place.

Her hands curled around your bare thighs in response. The leather felt cold against your exposed skin, and nearly painful as her fingers dug into your flesh the more you fidgeted and writhed in your seat. You groaned under your breath, your vision already turning hazy.

Your climax took you strongly, and the quietest you could keep yourself was a breathy moan, muffled as you leaned your head forward against your bent knee and jerked in place. The seat beneath you felt just slightly damp, which left your bare legs feeling mildly cold once Miranda finally pulled away and her hands moved away from your thighs.

The aftershocks still pulsing through your body, it was difficult to do much as Miranda picked your underwear up from the floor and balled it up into her fist.

She leaned over you as she reached for your wrist restraints. “Alright?” she asked nonchalantly.

“U-huh.” At this point, with the way she was bending over your head, you were practically talking at her boobs rather than her face. Not that you saw it as much of an issue. “Good.”

Your arms were freed with a sharp click. Immediately, you began to stretch your shoulders out and watched as she tucked her knife back into her pocket. The combination of zip ties and duct tape that had been holding you in place fell to the floor by the foot of the chair.

Miranda suddenly grabbed you by your chin and tilted your head upwards sharply. Her thumb pulled down your bottom lip — she was grinning. “Aren’t you a picture? And by the way,” She held up your underwear and sat down, “I’m keeping these.”

You raised an eyebrow at her and sat up, shimmying your skirt back down to where it had been before in a poor attempt at modesty. “Why?”

“Because,” she retorted. They were still gripped almost proudly in her hand. She propped her feet up on the seat adjacent to hers and, with a wink, used her finger to beckon you over. “Get off your arse and come here. We’re not done yet.”

#the flight attendant #miranda croft #miranda croft x reader #reader insert #tfa #can't say i'm sorry for this #enjoy <3

[smartycvnt]

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Ruby (SPN) x Reader

Ada Wong x Reader

Rowena Macleod x Reader

Charlotte Flair x Reader*

Dean Winchester x Reader

Dick Grayson x Kryptonian!Reader

Felicity Smoak x Reader

Toni Bevell x Reader

Jackson Avery x Reader

Amanda Rollins x Reader

Sam Winchester x Reader

Rita Calhoun x Reader*

Sara Lance x Reader*

Rhea Ripley x Reader*

Laurel Lance x Reader

Bruce Wayne x Reader

Becky Lynch x Reader*

Adam Copeland x Reader

Jill Valentine x Reader

Jason Todd x Male!Reader

Billy Gunn x Daughter!Reader

Kevin Nash x Reader

Lexis King x Reader

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Casey Novak x Reader

Elizabeth Donnelly x Reader

Tommaso Ciampa x Reader

Steve Austin x Reader

Carlos Oliveira x Reader*

Alex Wesker x Reader

Alex Danvers x Reader

Aspasia x Deimos!Kassandra*

Mother Miranda x Reader*

Andrew DeLuca x Reader*

Jill Valentine x Reader

Steve Austin x McMahon!Reader*

Hook x Reader*

The Undertaker x Reader

Lara Croft x Reader

Callie Torres x Reader

LA Knight x Reader

Grayson Waller x Reader*

Austin Theory x Reader

John Cena x Reader

Jill Valentine x Reader*

Christian Cage x Reader

Bela Dimitrescu x Maid!Reader

Alex Danvers x Reader*

Lexie Grey x Reader

Jack Perry x Reader*

Randy Orton x Reader

Danhausen x Reader

Billy Gunn x Reader

Ash Williams x Reader

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Peacemaker x Reader

Nick Amaro x Reader

Maya Bishop x Reader

Jason Todd x Reader*

Elizabeth Donnelly x Reader

Hookhausen x Reader*

Lexie Grey x Reader

Jennifer Jareau x Reader*

Jill Valentine x Reader

Billy Gunn x Reader*

La'zel x Reader

Lexis King x Reader

Ash Williams x Reader

Steve Austin x Reader

Ruby (Ash vs Evil Dead) x Reader*

Billy Gunn x Reader

Diana Prince x Reader

Olivia Benson x Reader

Kara Danvers x Reader

Kara Danvers x Reader

Danhausen x Reader

Orange Cassidy x Reader

Matt Jackson x Reader*

Randy Orton x Reader

Laurel Lance x Reader

Brienne of Tarth x Reader*

Ellie Williams x Reader

Adam Copeland x Reader*

Larissa Weems x Reader*

#in progress

[mementomori-demimonde]

Old Wounds

Hidden Scars: I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI.1 / XI.2 XII - XIII - XIV - XV - XVI - XVII - XVIII - XIX - XX

Bonus Chapter (21):

Three years ago, you broke up with Miranda.

Or, to better say, three years ago, Miranda broke up with you.

After escaping Victor’s grasp and embarking on the flight headed to England, Miranda thought it was best for the two of you to be constantly moving around.

She easily procured fake IDs and documents and, as Mrs. & Mrs. O’Brien (so lame that you loved it), you checked in the most expensive hotels and made a mess of the room, only to be off the next day. Every bill was paid and the staff generously tipped, even though the money didn’t certainly come from your pockets as you didn’t have any: you found out it was fairly easy to transfer money around and trick the systems; at least all those hacking software lessons had proven useful, though you weren’t up to anything illegal - it was a matter of survivance, that was what you told yourself. 

Life was wild and exciting, every morning you were someone slightly different while remaining the same, every night you got lost in the scent of her, only to be woken up by her fingers exploring your body.

Miranda was never satiated. And while it was only a matter of sex, before, there was something addicting, now, that flickered between the two of you.

It was something you thought was unbreakable. Something so rare to be born in such a hostile condition that it would be so hard to kill that nobody would even try to.

You thought.

Miranda lit up the day you reached Glasgow.

You could see her eyes gleaming, you could see her sharp fangs shining at the pale light of the sun as she dragged you around, showing you this and that, telling you about her childhood while turning a child herself, innocent and carefree and happy enough to be pulling you in and kiss you in the middle of the road.

You stayed in Glasgow for five months after that, because she thought you were both safe.

You decided to rent a small apartment next to the theater because, apparently, Miranda loved the theatre and you loved discovering things about her just as much as you loved watching her glow as she watched the show and the people acting or the orchestra playing.

You even convinced her to take yoga classes and, except for a couple of smashed glasses when she thought a waiter was ogling you, and an exploded pillow when her football team lost to the rigors, she seemed to have learned how to manage her anger pretty well.

Even her part-time job as a dog-sitter helped her keep her calmness, even to balance with the frustration she would accumulate during her other job as a consultant; of what, you never worked it out completely, you simply knew it was something to do with finance, probably internationally. Miranda didn’t like to talk about it excessively - the pay was good, she seemed satisfied with it - so you let her be.

As for you, when the first opportunity came out, you accepted it right away: as a receptionist of a luxury hotel, you had a fair amount of working hours, perfectly timed with Miranda, and you were able to bake breakfast for the both of you, pack your lunch boxes and be back before her to prepare dinner when Miranda didn’t surprise you, instead, with some take out and a lit candle.

She uncovered a nice, unexpected side of her, but sometimes she still was the scary old Miranda, even when it wasn’t necessary, to your opinion.

Whenever she acted bad, you served her a banana on a plate instead of a nice dinner you baked, to commemorate the first meal she had you eat. Miranda would pout, eat the banana in silence, and ask for forgiveness between the freshly cleaned sheets. This worked the other way around too, of course, with the exception that she enjoyed herself a little too much, sometimes, prolonging the punishment to something more than just a banana for dinner. Either way, everything was solved in bed. Not that you complained about this method, of course.

You thought you couldn’t be happier; but you thought you could never be any less happy either, and, of course, you were wrong.

It was a casual question you blurted out without much thought.

One night, you were watching a cheesy movie on tv, just for the fun of hearing her complain while she had her legs slung over yours, silently demanding for cuddles she would never admit to be requesting. As the couple on the screen kissed and cried happily, you said “have you ever thought about marriage?”

Miranda froze. You tried to explain that it meant nothing in particular, it was just conversation, but something in her eyes had changed.

She never answered the question.

Days went by and you could tell that something had painfully shifted between the two of you.

You tried to take it back, make her forget with some rough nights, just like she used to like it, but nothing worked.

Miranda wasn’t the same.

And then, one morning she was simply gone, without a single explanation. 

After twelve days of waiting, you made peace with yourself that Miranda wouldn’t be coming back.

You started to hate everything you loved so quickly that even going out in the streets and hearing all those people talking Scottish made you sick, so taking the next decision wasn’t too hard, after all: you told Cecilia to mind the tabby cat Miranda pulled out a stray dog’s jaws and brought home for you to heal, vacated the apartment hotfoot and accepted the job as head manager of the hotel subsidiary in Rome, Italy.

 After a few weeks, you realized the change was exactly what you needed: Rome was amazing, you like the people and, most of all, the food. You even decided to join a gym so you could keep eating the delicious meals the hotel chef cooked for the staff and when the weather was good, you went for a run, early in the morning, enjoying the sight of the city lazily waking up. Late in the night, before going to bed, you would flick your tear-drop-shaped dagger and put it in the top drawer in the nightstand, only to wear it the next day, because now you felt naked without its cold blade pressing against your leg. You dropped the habit of wearing it on your thigh - it wasn’t practical with your work attire - but strapped to your calf or pocketed inside your boot. You hated yourself for it, but it couldn’t be helped. You tried to convince yourself it was just in case you had to defend yourself - it was sensible since you had to walk by yourself most of the time.

All things considered, you fit in well.

Your apartment is good, with a nice view on the Tevere, the pay is almost double the one in Glasgow and you can allow yourself some treats, from time to time, whenever you feel too blue to stay in the apartment by yourself.

You contemplated the idea of getting a pet for a time, but you decided against it since that too would awaken sour thoughts.

You tried to date for a while, but nobody was enough.

Nobody compared to her.

Despite everything Miranda did to you, her memory was latched to your brain like a plague.

It still is.

Sometimes, only some heavy drinking can get her out of your head.

 You weren’t on duty tonight, and while you’re coming back from a peaceful stroll, your colleague calls: there has been a great fuss in the hotel; he tells you about ambulances and police cars hurrying with the sirens blaring to arrest some psycho that attacked a woman in her room. A guy was shot, but you don’t register much about the events, nor do you ask for further information, eager to drop the argument and avoid some unpleasant memories rising in your mind. Guns, people attacking other people, blood… It’s all in the past.

Hurrying up the stairs and fishing in your purse for the keys, you barely notice that the door lock is slightly scratched.

You don’t pay attention to it, nor the way your key slides inside the hole, until you step inside your home, pawing at the switch, and the light doesn’t work.

Immediately, all your senses turn on, your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness, your ears eager to capture the smallest sound.

It’s the hair on the back of your neck that puts you in alarm. Rising for an imperceptible breath of wind, they notify of the imminent danger.

The next thing you feel is a strong arm wrapped around your throat, and a warm body pressed against your back.

The attacker clearly knows what they’re doing, but you do too.

Everything she taught you is stuck in your brain, branded on your bones.

In a flash, you lift your dominant leg just enough to grab the knife.

You plunge it into your attacker’s thigh without hesitation.

She - it’s a she - grunts in anger.

The hold of her elbow softens, her arm slides from your neck, her body moves abruptly from yours as she limps away, leaving you alone and scared, but in complete control of yourself.

“My, my. I am getting sloppy.” The voice sends chills down your spine. It’s warm, it’s smug, almost amused, and familiar. Terribly familiar.

Your heart, despite yourself, throbs painfully.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes from your lips.

“Good.” She says, “very good, m’eudail.”

Whatever doubt you might’ve had, now it’s completely gone. It’s not your mind playing tricks, associating a familiar event with a lost person, this is happening for real. Running away from England to another country, taking a new name, a new identity, rebuilding your life almost from zero has served you nothing: she still has found you.

“Miranda?”

Three years.

Three years you haven’t heard from this woman.

Three years you’ve tried to push it out of your head.

Three years of pretending it was just a nightmare.

Three years and she’s back as if it’s nothing, standing in your apartment like she owns the place. She does, in a way. Miranda still owns you, in the first place, whether you like it or not: it’s not your choice to make. Until Miranda decides to let you go, you’re hers. It’s inevitable. And you know, you feel it in your guts, that Miranda will never let you go.

Some exchange rings, some jump over an old broom; your ‘until death do us part’ was a carving in the shape of an M - not on wood or marble, but on flesh - and you wonder how could she be so scared of marriage in the first place if she, too, has made a promise for life.

She comes into the light pouring in from the windows: it’s sunset, and the streetlight has just been lightened up.

Like it’s no big deal, you watch her bend down and wrap her fingers around the handle of the knife and, with a quick motion, she pulls it out from her wounded flesh with minimum bleeding.

With a wince, you notice that her trousers are already stained with dried blood, mixing with the fresh one.

She straightens her back and bares her teeth into a crooked smile, her split lip glistening with droplets of crimson. It looks painful. She doesn’t seem to mind one bit. Her cheekbone is blooming with blue and purple, her throat bears a sore line around. Miranda wears her bruises as if it was makeup, proud and confident. And, oh, so beautiful like the night before she left.

You can’t help but feel concerned, which only adds to your frustration: you shouldn’t care about her, you shouldn’t feel so strongly about the blood running down her chin - she probably deserves it, and more - but you do care.

You watch her, powerless, as she stumbles toward the couch and lets herself fall unceremoniously on top of it, grunting as her bruised body slackens against the soft pillows. Her shirt is stained as well, her knuckles scraped.

“You’re beaten up.” You dumbly point out.

She lets out a dark chuckle and lolls her head back. Your eyes are drawn to the rhythmic movements of her throat as she swallows. You can almost taste the iron inside your own mouth - how many times she’s kissed you after a training session, how many times your sweat mingled with hers when you wondered if you were fighting or fucking.

It all felt so long ago and, still, it hurt like it was yesterday.

“Tried my best, but you can’t expect the featherweight to win against the heavyweight without a significantly favorable weapon. He was just a bigger psycho than me: came out on top, in the end.” Miranda murmurs, a smug expression deforming her features. “Victor, on the other hand-”

The name has your head spinning. His ugly mouse-face comes to visit on the blurry surface of your mirror every time you shower, the rough lines crossing your back are a distant yet a painful reminder of those days of imprisonment, confined in that small room with Miranda, uncovering her past, her job, her boss and his despicable ways. Those marks hurt, but not as much as it hurts the one on your left shoulder - not until now.

“You’ve gone back to work for him?”

After all you’ve been through, after all the pain he inflicted, after she promised to have him killed because he took it out on you, Miranda decided to still work with him. Betrayal didn’t even compare to what you felt.

How many things can change in three years? You lived a lifetime in two months, since Miranda kidnapped you. Three years, right now, are an eternity.

Miranda’s smile drops. Her blue eyes wander aimlessly around the room, stopping in a dark corner. They aren’t focused, but it’s easy for you to see the regret blaring in her lost gaze.

“It was what I am,” Miranda murmurs, her voice emotionless, “it was the only thing I knew.”

There’s a pregnant silence between the two of you. It feels like forever before you move your first step toward the couch, your gaze fixed on her as if you were trying to control a snake about to snap its vicious attack.

You know Miranda won’t move, not to attack you anyway, but you’re cautious when you speak.

“You’re talking in the past tense.”

“He’s dead now.” Miranda breathes out heavily. Her voice almost overlaps yours, as if she’s completely zoned out, not listening at all, unaware of her surroundings, as impossible as it seems. “I killed him, gave him what he deserved.”

The sheepish look she gives you is the sparkle that lits your flame. It doesn’t matter if Victor is dead now, the memories still haunt your dreams, and Miranda has gone back to work for him.

You feel cheated on, betrayed, and you still don’t know what she wants from you. Frustration builds up from within until you feel like exploding.

You would smack her and shake her by her shoulders if she wasn’t so bruised - and if she’d let you, of course, before succumbing to her strong arms and be stopped by force.

“Miranda, why are you here?” You would ask her to leave, tell her you can’t stand her sight… if only that was true. Angered beyond words by her persistent silence, you walk to her with heavy steps, until you’re in front of her, for the first time, towering her small figure on the couch. She looks frail, harmless, submissive, but you know she’s not any of those things. “Miranda-”

“Shut up.”

You don’t know how she’s managed that - if she’s pulled you down by the collar of your shirt, or hooked her fingers in your belt, or even hit the back of your knees with her foot - but you’re falling right onto her, like the controlled destruction of a building, collapsing right where the demolition expert planned. You try to catch yourself with one hand on either side of her head, fingers clawing the soft pad of the back cushion, even if it’s not necessary: of course, Miranda has caught you first.

Although ‘catch’ is not entirely correct. Her greedy fingers are grabbing your head, pulling more than supporting, and before you can realize what’s happening, her lips are on your mouth.

Oh, God, how much you missed her.

It’s not a nostalgic kiss, she’s not asking for forgiveness or awakening long-lost memories. Her lips are urgent, almost aggressive.

It’s like those three years never went by, as if a lot of things never happened: this one isn’t Miranda, but the mysterious woman who kidnapped you in the alley; she’s back to that unhinged creature that tortured you in the most pleasant ways, who turned a cage into paradoxical heaven where wrong was right and the pain was pleasure.

Too easily you fall back into the addicting spiral that bound you to her. You’re completely at her mercy, once again, with no power nor will to pull yourself out of it. Despite everything, you want more of her kisses, you want more of her touches, you want more of her, no matter if she’s rough or brutal - something of Miranda is still better than nothing.

Hungry hands travel fast from your face to your neck and, for a moment, you prepare to hold your breath thinking she will wrap her fingers around your throat to have you squirm in her lap, desperate for air, just to assert her total control, but you’re wrong. Miranda doesn’t stop: she paws possessively at your breasts, teasing your nipples through the coarse fabric - you hate a little how your body seems to react regardless of your mind, answering to her touch in all the right ways.

You always take minutes to remove your uniform, Miranda hasn’t taken more than one to leave you in your undergarments, confused and wondering if you were actually wearing something before she claimed ownership over you and your body, like always, like she was entitled since the beginning.

Her mouth travels fast, in tow, she nibbles and lavishes, sending electric sparks to your core.

You don’t dare speak, afraid that the spell will break, that you’ll wake up from a dream even though you don’t remember falling asleep, even if it feels real, so real, almost too real that you can’t bring yourself to renounce it.

The tip of her nose tickles the valley of your breasts when she kisses her way down your stomach and belly, her nails scratch dully at the small of your back, pulling your knickers down in one move.

You’ve never noticed how chill your apartment can be. Or maybe you’ve never been so hot before, within these walls.

Her mouth knows exactly where to tease you, her tongue touches all the right places and only in the right ways. Her body remembers everything, and at the same time, it feels new. She tastes you, pursuing the depths of you, almost as if she wants to drown right there and then.

Bare and vulnerable, you don’t even perceive the typical powering position on top of her; Miranda is always on top, also when she’s not.

You can only arch over her as she draws a hurried orgasm out of you, leaving you raw and trembling, your mind spiraling from contentment, nostalgia, and a deep sense of guilt and then back again, when her tongue doesn’t stop until she isn’t satisfied with a second climax, and a third.

It’s easy to lose count when Miranda is having her way. It’s easy to get lost and losing track of time and of yourself, it’s easy to set aside everything to chase her with your hips, desperate for everything and in everything.

She doesn’t allow you to catch your breath when she’s done. You barely catch a glimpse of her when she pulls away, working her jaw to relieve the soreness that has surely set in her muscles, but her eyes are elusive, disappointing you when you hoped to look at her and find the woman you know.

It’s just another confirmation that she is still somewhere else, at least in spirit.

You’ve learned to know her strength, despite her petite size, and yet you can’t prevent the surprised gasp that escapes your mouth when she pushes you off of her and into the couch on your front, so fast that you gape at the pillow below.

You struggle to adjust your head and tilt it to the side when you feel her climb on your thighs, her ripped legs grabbing yours with vicious force when she lowers herself, and despite being fully clothed, you can feel the heat from her core right below your bottom, where she sits.

You swallow in anticipation, shiver when her nails rake at your skin, and then, then everything stops. She pauses.

You feel all the tension leave the room like the fog lifting from the streets.

Her legs are looser when she shifts lower on your thighs, her hands are softer when she glides her fingers up the small of your back and they linger, for a moment too long, across your shoulder blades.

You want to say something, even say her name again, listen to your own voice calling Miranda while still striving to breathe, wearied by the pleasure her skilled tongue has brought you. But as soon as you take a small breath to speak, a startling weight on your back knocks the air out of your lungs.

You take a moment to comprehend that Miranda has leaned on the top of you, her chest rises and falls rhythmically against your back, her breath tickles your left shoulder and you blink at the fact that her cheek is probably resting on her carved initial, and not just by chance.

You mentally count three seconds in, three seconds out. Her warm breath sends shivers down your spine.

“Had to find you.”

It’s a murmur, barely a whisper, so small you even doubt you heard it for real or just in your head.

“What?”

You try to squirm from below, eager to watch her face, read in her eyes if she’s making fun of you in the cruelest of ways or not. Her voice has tricked you on many occasions… or not. Maybe it was her eyes. Maybe it’s better for both of you if you can’t cage into each other’s eyes.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, relax your muscles, stop your hands from scrambling in the purchase of a steady surface to push yourself up and Miranda off of you.

It’s better this way: she won’t talk, otherwise.

“Thought I could do it.” She sighs, her lips move on your skin, leaving a moist halo around her lips. “Thing is… that I could.”

“You’re talking about-”

“Glasgow.” She snaps. You feel her clenching her jaw tight. “When we lived together.”

“You’re scared that you could live normally?”

Silence.

“You don’t understand.” She huffs. “People like me can’t usually walk away whenever they please and forget about their pasts.”

“But you did.” You retort. “We were fine.”

Miranda chuckles. It’s a bittersweet one, and it ends quickly.

 “I was doing fine before you came.” She clarifies. It clarifies nothing, but you don’t dare to interrupt, fearing she’ll just walk away for good. “There’s a reason why so many have failed. No one was able to ruin me while I ruined them. No one was you.”

You can breathe easily now that Miranda has rolled off of you.

You turn to your side quickly, eager to follow her with your eyes and make sure she won’t take the door and never come back after such a declaration. Rare have been the times you’ve heard Miranda talk in such ways and you can only imagine what is the prelude for: something fatally bad, or something impossibly good.

In the forced darkness of your apartment, the blue of her eyes glows at the dim reflection of the streetlights.

Her voice echoes in your head.

When you initiate the kiss you’re surprised she doesn’t pull back. She doesn’t even complain. She doesn’t grab your face or the back of your neck, she doesn’t claim the lead.

It’s startling, and it’s a foreign sensation you’re not used to, at all.

You barely register the soft rustle of fabric as you chase her taste and mingle it with yours.

And then finally you feel her hands on yours, her slender fingers reaching for yours and sliding almost perfectly in between, like pieces of a puzzle.

She swallows your breathy moan.

You haven’t expected your hands to be drawn closer to the warmth of her body. She lets her fingers move to your wrists, she lets them loop around the protruding bone there - she doesn’t squeeze, she doesn’t pull nor push - leaving your pads free to roam over her stomach, through the small crack of her shirt, gliding over the taut skin of her abdomen. You feel new bumps, new scars perhaps.

She squirms when you push a little too hard against her hip bone.

Or, maybe, she doesn’t exactly squirm.

You feel her adjust, raising her pelvis off the couch, but not to ease discomfort.

Your fingertips slip easily beyond the band of her high-waist trousers.

Miranda doesn’t move.

She’s even stopped the kiss, letting you decide.

It’s an open invitation - a request, perhaps - to touch her, properly, like you’ve been asking, for weeks, silently, before you decided to voice your thoughts and your feelings. 

Everything went downhill from there.

Your breath catches, the long-awaited moment feeling so terrifying, now, that you can’t bring yourself to just stop thinking and follow your guts, your innermost desires, to claim what has been denied to you for so long.

Miranda wouldn’t have hesitated. She didn’t hesitate to take when she wanted and could.

Thing is, you’re not her.

You pull away from her in a blink, your fingers tingle with unsatisfied electricity when you hide your face in your hands.

“Miranda.” You growl. Your voice comes out muffled from behind your palms. You’d want to yell at her, berate her, but it only comes out desperate, you sound on the verge of crying. Maybe you are. “What are you doing?”

Her hands are touching your wrists again. She’s gentle. More than she’s ever been. She forces you to unpeel your hands from your face.

In the dim light from the streetlights, her eyes shine again. They seem full of unshed tears, but you don’t want to fool yourself with dull illusions that don’t belong, with every possibility, to either of you.

Miranda doesn’t talk. You know it, you can see it, there’s a whole universe of things she’s dying to say, and still… she doesn’t speak.

You let out a shaky breath, sit lower on her legs, your gazes locked.

“Miranda, what’s your point?” You try again, softer this time.

She opens her mouth to speak then, only to close it soon after with a frustrated sigh.

You can’t endure more of it. You’re too spent to keep playing.

Miranda speaks only when you push yourself off of her, trying to stand up.

“My point is- I’m done.” She huffs out a disbelieving chuckle as if it’s the first time she’s told that, to herself even; the first time she’s truly grasped the idea and made it final. “I’ve got tons of money now and I can leave it all behind.”

“Miranda-”

“We can leave it all behind.” She corrects. One of her hands slithers to the small of your back, pushing you down to keep you near. It’s confident but for the first time, somehow, it’s not possessive. “Start over, for real.”

You swallow a mouthful of sand. Your head is spinning. You even wonder if something has possessed Miranda’s body and has turned her into some normal person who is actually repentant and is willing to start over.

How much can a person change in three years? Does it also apply to Miranda? The rules of mortals apply to such mysterious creatures like her?

You’re about to ask for a moment when you hear a distinct mew.

“What the fuck-” You startle, snapping your head toward the kitchen. It’s hard to see, but there’s definitely something on the counter. A box, maybe a crate. With something furry poking out. “You brought the cat?!”

Miranda’s lips are crooked into a sheepish smile when you look back at her.

“Please?” She whispers. Her voice is velvety against your lips, so close you could answer with a kiss. “What do you say?”

Maybe you will answer with a kiss.

Maybe.

#miranda croft x reader #miranda croft #tfa #the flight attendant #fanfiction #reader insert #ao3 #archive of our own #bonus chapter #complete #four lines #hidden scars #old wounds #michelle gomez

[mystichealerfromhell]

Hi u should write soft Miranda/reader 🥺

You ask, I deliver 😎

Just Enough

Summary: some banter, some smooching, miranda being cute and overthinking. use of “darlin’” also she threatens to kill you but definitely doesn’t mean it 🥺 ao3 link here

“Ken” is scots for “i know”, “aye” is yes.

You’d just arrived home and hung your coat up at the door. You weren’t sure what to expect upon entering; Miranda was… unpredictable, to say the least. Sometimes you’d find her already there, other times she wouldn’t appear until some ridiculous hour of the night. She never explained, never told you where she’d been. It was better that way, she’d said, safer.

“Miranda?” you called out. Silence.

Well then, that answers that question, you thought. A little disappointing - you’d been hoping she’d be there - but ultimately not a surprise. Resigned to a night at home alone, you kicked your shoes off and padded towards the sitting room. You were not, then, expecting to be grabbed from behind. A strong grip pinned your arms to your sides, leaving you completely trapped and at the mercy of your assailant.

“Slow today, darlin’,” she drawled. “Have you not learned anything from me?”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but couldn’t stop the smile growing on your face. This was a game Miranda had been playing with you for a while. She had this weird idea that everyone should be adept at close combat - as if that was a skill set normal people had - and when she’d found out you weren’t, she’d taken it upon herself to show you the ropes. According to her, your peripheral vision was abysmal and your tendency to zone out during mundane tasks was amateurish. As such, she’d been making a point of showing you how easy it was for someone to sneak up on you. She’d said it was practical, an opportunity for you to learn; you thought it was just her way of being protective.

“Did you ever consider that maybe I want you to catch me?” you ask, turning your head and trying to catch a glimpse of her.

“Might not be me next time,” she replied, finally releasing her grip on you and taking a step back.

You turned to face her. Her hair was loose, falling around her shoulders, and you felt the urge to twist a strand of it around your fingers. She’d come home with a small cut on her temple the previous week, but you were pleased to see it was now almost entirely healed. You catch her eyes and smile.

“Hi,” you said softly.

“Hi,” she echoed, tilting her head. You took a step towards her before looping your arms around her neck.

“Missed you.”

Her nose scrunched in disgust, “Fuck off, why’ve you always gotta be so sappy?” Nevertheless, her hands now rested on your waist.

“Mm, sorry,” you feigned sympathy, “it’s true though.”

Her eyes rolled as you tucked her hair behind her ear. You grasped her chin, turning her face slightly so you could get a better look at her injury. Miranda hated you fussing over her, but you couldn’t help but worry a little.

“That’s looking better,” you hummed. “Whoever did that’s got some nerve. Imagine hitting a face like that.”

“Ken. Bastards.”

You let your hand drop, settling your arm back over her shoulder. Your eyes scanned her face, trailing over every sharp angle. You did love to admire her, but the opportunities to do so weren’t as frequent as you would like. Unable to help yourself, you pressed a kiss to her cheek. She scoffed at you, but you could see her fighting a smile. Miranda pretended to hate affection, but it was mostly a front; she just didn’t like to be vulnerable.

“You finished for the day?”, you asked her.

She hummed noncommittally. “Aye, suppose. It’s not like I’ve got to clock in, is it? I’m kind of at liberty to pick my own hours.”

“Good. I wanna cuddle.”

The way her face dropped was borderline comical. “Get fucked.”

“Maybe later, if you’re nice. After cuddles.” You were pushing your luck, but she was just so fun to tease.

“Get absolutely fucked, you know I don’t do that,” she said, eyes narrowed.

You leaned towards her, letting your eyes drop to her lips for a moment. Your nose barely touched hers before you backed off, just enough to maintain eye contact.

“I’ll make it worth your while…” you tried.

“I could kill you,” she began with a low voice, “in under ten seconds, in about six different ways.”

You bit your lip, “Wish you would.” She huffed out a laugh.

“Unbelievable.” Her eyes shut as she sighed in resignation. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope!” you smiled.

“Fuck sake…”

You could practically pinpoint the exact moment the last of her resolve crumbled. Her eyes met yours once more, and you thought she might protest again. Instead, she wordlessly cocked her head towards the sofa. You grinned at her before pulling her forward to kiss her once, twice, a lingering third time. Your fingertips grazed over her cheek and you hummed in satisfaction. Pulling away, you smiled again and released her from your grasp.

As you walked away from her, Miranda finally allowed herself to smile, shaking her head lightly. She wouldn’t admit it, but you had somehow wormed your way behind all her walls and defences. If she thought too much about it, it scared her; she was well aware that she wasn’t always the easiest person to get along with, and her lifestyle was dangerous. She knew you were her Achilles heel; if anyone wanted to get to her, they’d do it through you. Realistically, it would be safer for both of you if she just disappeared. But…

Fuck it. Who was she kidding? You’d softened her edges, just a bit. Just enough to make her keep coming back, enough to make her want to stay, and, okay, maybe she wasn’t completely opposed to cuddling on the sofa. It’s not like anyone was there to see her anyway, her reputation was fine, she could afford to just… drop her mask, for a while.

“Miranda?”

She blinked. You were waiting for her.

Stop overthinking.

She followed you.

#miranda croft x reader #miranda croft #tfa #the flight attendant #my posts

[pinkblosmx]

I Love You

A/N: I am soft for Miranda so what happens when you tell Miranda you love her?

“Miranda um it would be great if you could take my calls, answer my texts just” You stop and sigh heavily “please talk to me. I’m sorry if I did anything wrong and if it’s about the tv I’m not mad just I miss you.” You leave a voicemail on Miranda’s phone, it had been a few days since you told her that you loved her and now you were regretting that decision as when you woke the next morning she was gone, didn’t even leave a note, just upped and left.

You throw yourself on to the couch and look at where the tv used to be. Miranda had picked it up and thrown it to the floor after a phone call with Viktor didn’t go her way and unfortunately you weren’t home to help her calm down so the tv got the brunt of her anger. When you got home you found her sitting on the couch with a glass of scotch in hand, looking at the broken tv, it wasn’t the first time it happened (it was actually the second) and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last and you should of been annoyed, mad but seeing Miranda sitting there with such a sad expression, her eyes seemingly ready to cry.

You couldn’t be instead you sat next to her, bringing her into your arms for a cuddle. Miranda put her glass on the coffee table then snuggled into you. You sat there in silence for a few minutes before asking if she wanted to get a take out. Later that night, to be precise before you fell asleep, you told her that you loved her and when you awoke she was gone.

You look at your phone, it hasn’t even been five minutes and you want to so much call, text her but you don’t want to be so damn clingy but you miss her.

Miranda looks at her phone again, at it’s place next to her on the motel’s outdated couch, seeing another voicemail from you. She sighs sadly as she finishes her glass of scotch, wiping the tears from her eyes, leaving you hurt but in her line of work love is dangerous and she wouldn’t risk putting your life on the line for loving her. She poured herself another scotch, drinking some before looking at her phone. Maybe this voicemail would be the ‘I hate you! I never want to see you again!’ one. That would hurt the most but Miranda knew breaking up was for the best for both of you. She took a large sip of her drink before playing the voicemail.

She wells up at hearing your voice for the first time in days but keeps listening as you think you’ve done something wrong.

You haven’t done anything wrong, you’ve done more than anyone has. She thinks as tears prick her eyes and threaten to run down her already wet checks and then she laughs heartily as you bring up what happened to the tv and quickly feels her heart break at hearing you miss her.

“Fuck” She says in a defeated hoarse voice as she quickly drinks the scotch not wanting to spend another moment in the rundown motel.

Hours pass and you begin to wonder if Miranda was going to block your number or maybe get a new phone and completely forget you the latter one being the most hurtful. She wouldn’t would she? You go to continue your thought but you hear a sudden knock on the door, you sigh with annoyance, not really wanting to deal with anyone today but you suppose you better get it over with.

You push yourself off of the couch and walk to the front door, taking a breath for whoever and whatever they wanted before opening the door.

“What ca-” You stop immediately at seeing Miranda standing in front of you, on one hand you’re overjoyed to see her on the other your heart breaks at seeing that she’s been crying.

“I um, I’m not great at this whole love thing but I hope I haven’t fucked up what we have and I brought your favourite cupcakes.” Miranda’s voice is hoarse as she holds out a box of cupcakes. You gently take the cupcakes quickly placing the box on the small table where you keep your keys and random stationary. You nearly jump on to her as you hug her and she hugs back, her strong arms holding you as close and tightly as she can.

“You haven’t fucked it up just please don’t disappear again. Ever. Please.” You plead, slightly clinging to her afraid that she’ll vanish from existence. She places a sweet kiss on the top of your head.

“I promise.” She whispers and she lets you cling to her as you finally smile.

#miranda croft x reader #i love writing soft Miranda

[isis-astarte-diana]

Tetchy

Summary: “Tetchy tonight, Mandy.” Miranda pushes your buttons. You push back.

Warnings: NSFW. M(iranda)IHOW. (I need a new acronym! Why does everyone’s name have to start with the same letter?) Mildly dub!con, possibly. Knifeplay with bad BDSM etiquette. Violence. Painful sex (at this point, I don’t know if I can not write it). Semi-public sex(?). Name calling. One (1) use of Daddy, but it’s in jest. Very dodgy relationship dynamics, including references to stalking. Also, I make some non-sexual references to peeing, because it’s a stakeout and I think about these things.

Word Count: 3057

NB: It has come to my attention that there is some serious brat erasure in my smut. Can’t have that, can we? Also this is the first time I’ve been able to write a normal human person and I’ve had a lot of fun with the playful dialogue and the swearing. Sorry. And, uh, I’m sticking with darlin’ for Miranda because every single time a Scottish woman has called me darlin’ I have combusted slightly.

“Would you stop showing off?”

Miranda shoots you a sideways glance, her gloved hand never pausing in its relentless manipulation of the butterfly knife. She wrinkles her nose and flashes a contemptuous smirk. “Am I showing off?”

“You know that you are.” Once more, the swish, the click, the endless rhythm to her frustration. “And the noise is doing my head in.”

“Noise?” Swish. Click. Swish. Click. Your fingers twitch into a tense fist. “What noise would that be?”

Huffing, you turn away from her, staring out of the passenger side window into the gloom of the multi-storey car park. The car is shrouded in darkness, the nearest fluorescent light sputtering with a sickly greenish glow a good few yards away. “I had so many better plans for tonight.”

“No you didn’t.” Swish. Click. You wish that she would cut her fucking hand, but the glove would take the brunt of it and she’d probably just carry on out of spite. “I know what you’ve been up to, darlin’, remember? No secrets here.”

You can feel her eyes on the back of your neck now, and the reminder that she watches you shouldn’t have a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, but it does. There’s something of a thrill to knowing that every part of your day, however tedious - buying a coffee, crossing the road, wandering around a bookshop without choosing anything - is now a performance. Miranda does not like to be out of the loop; and, admittedly, coming home to find a bag of your favourite muffins - the ones you’d eyed in the coffee shop before deciding not to treat yourself - or a copy of the book you’d almost bought waiting for you on the kitchen table is, bizarrely, rather sweet. 

Sweeter, now that you’ve given her a spare key to the flat after having to call the landlord for the third time in less than a month to explain that the lock on the front door had been mysteriously damaged yet again.

“They’re obviously not coming,” you mutter, unabashedly petulant. “Can’t we just go?”

“We’ve barely been here half an hour.” Swish. Click. She sighs, sounding far more annoyed with you than anyone who’s being as irritating as she is has any right to. Swish. Click. “Fuckin’ hell, give it a bit longer.”

“Right. Fine.” Your jaw clenches. Desperate for any excuse to get out of the car and away from her, you snap, “I’m going for a piss.”

When your fingers loop into the door handle and wrench it slightly too hard, nothing happens. You try it again. A mechanism inside the door judders and grinds with a tell-tale noise and you whip around to face her. She’s staring straight ahead, through the windshield and into the dark, with a smug look in her eyes.

“Did you put the child locks on?”

Miranda has the audacity not to laugh while she plays with the knife and says sternly, “safety first.”

“Very fucking funny.” You eye the button in her door that controls the lock. You could reach it, quite easily, but doing so would mean sticking your hand into the blur of the swinging blade. “Open it.”

She doesn’t even look at you. “Nah.”

“Open it, or I’ll scream.”

“Go for it.” It’s toneless. “Anyone comes, I’ll kill them.”

You scoff. “No you won’t.”

“Might do.” She says it like you’ve dared her. “Would serve you right. You’ve been getting on my tits all night.”

Your voice is an indignant squeak. “I’ve been-?! Fuck, alright.” Folding your arms, you snort, “maybe you should put one of your tapes on, babe.”

It’s a low blow and you know it. She falters, just for a second, before starting up the infuriating pattern with the knife again, even quicker now. “Don’t.”

It feels dangerously good to see that you’ve had an effect. “Oh, you’re so scary.” Turning back to the window, you point out, “you’re just like one of those dickheads in a meeting who won’t stop clicking a pen, you know. Always fucks me off. Always just makes me want to-”

You can’t finish the thought.

With serpentine speed she’s grabbing a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back until you’re staring up at the soft grey ceiling of the car. Your hands find the locked door handle, the seat cushion, holding onto them with white knuckles to keep from slumping across the handbrake from the force. You’re twisted awkwardly in your seat, your back aching in protest at the angle, but you can’t suppress a laugh.

“Something funny?” Her voice is low as she brings the knife around in front of you so that you can see it. A loose strand of her hair tickles your forehead when the flat of the blade comes to rest over your exposed throat.

It’s cold, and smooth, and you can just barely feel the sharp edges of it. Breathless for more than one reason, you tease, “tetchy tonight, Mandy.”

“Oh, don’t call me that, darlin’.” She presses harder, hard enough that you can feel your pulse where it touches you. This position puts some pressure on your windpipe so that it’s distinctly uncomfortable. Still, you push on.

“Don’t call me darlin’, Mandy.”

“Think I’ll call you what I fuckin’ like, you mental little bitch.” She pulls on your hair again and you mewl at the wash of prickling pain across your scalp. “Take your pants off, then.”

The words inflame you, but you’re not finished playing, not after spending half an hour with her deliberately pushing your buttons. Echoing her, you sneer, “nah.”

“Please yourself.”

Before you can react the knife is gone and she’s pushing you forwards, letting go in time to send your forehead smacking into the passenger side window. It makes light burst behind your eyes. You swear under your breath, rubbing the impact site with one hand.

Behind you, her door opens and closes.

You barely glimpse her through the windshield before she’s wrenching your door open and reaching for you, fisting the front of your dress in one gloved hand, tugging hard enough to make the fabric dig into your skin as she hauls you gracelessly out of the car and to your feet. You almost bang your head on the doorframe, so sudden is this assault.

“I can-” you cover her hand with yours, trying to ease up on her grip. “I can stand up on my own, for fuck’s sake, get off me-”

“Or what, you’ll scream?” She flashes the knife again, teeth glistening in her mirthless grin to match it. “Thought we’d been through that already.”

You offer some perfunctory resistance while she shuts the door and manoeuvres you around to the back of the car, but the heady thrill of finally having her attention dulls your attempts to escape her hands. In a moment of bravery you reach for the butterfly clip that fastens her hair back and yank it loose. It must hurt - it’s supposed to hurt - but she just laughs.

“You’re such a pain in the arse, d’you know that?” Supple leather wraps around your wrist and your left arm is twisted brutally up behind your back. You grit your teeth to withhold a cry. “That big mouth’s gonna get you into trouble one day.”

Even as she turns you around and pushes you down over the boot of the car, the impact knocking the wind out of you as the hairclip falls to the ground with a clatter of plastic on concrete, you manage to bite back, “that’s the idea.”

Outside the semi-security of the car it’s bitterly cold and black as pitch. The smooth surface of it chills you to the bone and makes you shiver; this, though, is nothing compared to the tremor that runs down your spine when she leans down to cover your back with her chest, loose hair brushing your neck, lips close to your ear.

“Are you gonna shut up or do I need to teach you a lesson?” She punctuates the words by slamming her other hand down on the boot of the car where you can see it, the knife still gripped tightly in her leather-clad fingers. The sight of it makes you push back against her, shifting your arse as provocatively as you can with her pinning you down like this.

In the whiniest, most abrasive voice you can put on, you retort, “are you gonna take your belt off, daddy?” 

“You’re fucked in the head.” It’s nothing short of a snarl, her hand tightening around your restrained wrist, but there’s no shortage of affection in it. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I turned your arse bright red, right here, while you cried and begged me to stop.”

“You think fucking highly of yourself,” you scoff, weakened by the thought that she might actually do it. “Why don’t you suck it and see?”

“Because I’m not in the mood to play your games, darlin’.” She leaves the knife there, within reach of your free hand, while she tugs the hem of your dress up past your hips, and picks it up once more when you’re bared to the waist save for your underwear. “I’d rather play one of mine.”

Your squirming stops when the blade slides under the fabric of your knickers, tight to the outside of your thigh. It doesn’t cut you, but it scratches, and it disturbs you to know that she isn’t even looking while she does it. “Do not cut my pants off,” you warn, aiming for stern and falling short.

“Think I will.”

“This isn’t porn, Miranda, I paid good fucking money for these and I will be so pissed off-”

You cut off with a furious groan when she does it anyway, the material stretching away from your skin and then fluttering loose with the motion of the knife through it.

“You’re such a bitch sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Seamlessly she changes hands, one still pinning you down, the other now going for the opposite side of your underwear. “I need to try harder.”

She slices through the other leg, her gloved fingers brushing your thigh when she snatches the fabric up into her hand before it can fall to the ground. Her task complete, she retrieves the knife and finally, finally closes it, slipping it back into her pocket. Her leg slides between yours, the cotton of her trousers pressing insistently up against your vulva in a way that almost makes you forget your displeasure.

“Shame.” She clicks her tongue. “I liked these ones.”

You writhe against the boot of the car. “So did I!”

“Say your goodbyes, then.” Once more, she leans down, proffering the fabric now clutched in her gloved hand. “Open wide.”

You jerk away, but not quickly enough, and she stuffs your ruined underwear into your mouth, pushing it deeper with her fingers until you almost choke on it. It’s not a merciful gag - the material steals the saliva from your mouth, and the taste of your own arousal is thick on your tongue;  while the sound of her messing around with the knife is infuriating, the sight of it never fails to affect you.

“Much better.” She covers your full mouth with her hand and gives your face a painful squeeze. You cough weakly around the fabric. “Bet you taste good, don’t you?”

Your face heats under her hand at the words.

Miranda almost tugs your shoulder clear from the boot of the car when she pulls back, straightening up once more, still holding you down by your twisted arm. It’s starting to ache. Her other hand squeezes between her thigh and your own, palming you without care or ceremony, and you grip the edge of the bumper with your free hand for stability. The touch makes your legs quake.

Even with the leather of her glove smeared with your arousal, it still burns when she presses two fingers inside of you.

You cry out into the gag, arching your back, hand slapping down on the car boot with enough force to make your palm hurt. She knows that you hate this, that however slick and supple the leather might be it’s still not fit for this purpose. The thickness of the glove broadens and blunts her fingers, turning the familiar invasion clumsy and rough. With a soft chuckle she pushes them deeper.

Your eyes prickle with tears from the sensation. There’s something unnatural about it, the leather dragging at the delicate membranes of your cunt like this, but being filled and stretched around her fingers still makes your walls throb and tighten.

“Not your favourite game, is it?” Her voice is low. You shake your head emphatically, whining into the makeshift gag. She soothes you without softening. “It’s alright, it’s alright. I’m not gonna hurt you much. Not if I don’t have to.”

You sniffle pitifully and twist under her hand when she slowly withdraws.

“But you do deserve it.”

The upthrust is punishing, lifting your hips with its force, making your abdomen clench as her fingers slam into the patch of nerves at the front of your walls. Your legs twitch, tensing, trying to escape the assault. Your neglected clitoris throbs in time with your pulse.

“D’you want me to stop?”

Without even thinking about it, you shriek a muffled sound of disagreement into the gag, shaking your head again. She laughs.

“Didn’t think so.”

The rhythm she takes up is slow, but no kinder for it. She makes a point of putting her weight behind her wrist every time she fills you, so that even when the dull discomfort of the leather is eased by the slick arousal flooding your cunt the ache never quite goes away. All the while she holds you down, trembling in the cold and the unforgiving dark, dry mouth stuffed with fabric, breathing in the taste of your own desire.

“Touch yourself for me.” Something dark stirs in her tone. Her breaths are heavy, a reassuring indication that she’s enjoying this in her own way. You obey immediately.

This, too, is awkward, wriggling your hand under your hips where she has you bent over the car, and your wrist is trapped between your stomach and the edge of the boot. Your fingers are freezing from the exposure when you finally manage to press them to your clitoris, shock making your walls draw tighter around her fingers as she fucks you.

You overcome it quickly enough.

It doesn’t take long to drag yourself over that edge, your fingertips working frantically against the flesh that feels scalding in its wet heat. She manipulates you from the inside, crooking her fingers skilfully, never easing or faltering in her pace until you howl and stiffen underneath her. Huffing desperate breaths through your nose, biting down on the ruins of your underwear, you come apart with a flood of sensation that has your legs quaking and cramping where they hold you up.

“There you go,” she murmurs, when you finally fall limp against the car. “Good girl.”

She lets go of your arm, letting you stretch out the tightness left in the muscles there, and withdraws her fingers from your cunt with only a pitiful mewl of displeasure from you. You reach up to weakly tug the mess of fabric from your mouth.

“I’m still fucked off at you,” you manage, but it’s hoarse and breathless. “My favourite pants.”

“I’ll buy you more.” She snatches the damp fabric from your hand and uses it to wipe her gloves clean before balling it up in her fist and shoving it into her pocket. “No sense in letting them go to waste. Could be a long night.”

“Take your gloves off next time.” You wince when you straighten up, feeling sore and empty where she’s opened you with her fingers. Hastily you straighten your skirt. “You know I don’t like that.”

“Seemed like you liked it well enough.” Still, she catches the middle finger of each glove in turn between her teeth and drags her pale hands free of the leather. The gloves, too, go into her pocket. “You alright?”

“Fine.” It’s terse, and she frowns, cupping your cheek with her warm hand. When she meets your eyes there’s a carefully measured tenderness in her expression.

“Seriously, darlin’. Was that- was I a bit much?”

If you didn’t know her any better you would say the question was a challenge, but her eyes are crinkled at the corners with genuine concern and you nuzzle into her hand. “No,” you admit, twisting your fingers into the lapels of her jacket to pull her in for a kiss. “Never.”

It’s a good kiss, particularly after the sharpness of the game, her fingers sliding into your hair with affection far removed from the way she’d pulled it earlier. She wraps an arm around you to tug you into her chest, calming your shivering body with her warmth, but the other effects of the cold and the recent orgasm make themselves known with a vengeance and you laugh into her mouth when you pull away.

“I do actually quite need a piss now, though.”

Miranda snickers and lets you go. With a tilt of her head she indicates the dark corner a few feet away from the back of the car. “Go on then.”

You snort with disbelief. “Fuck off.” Raising an eyebrow, she folds her arms and leans back against the car. A smile tugs at her lips. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m not letting you wander off at night with no pants on. Anything could happen.”

"I wouldn’t have no pants on if you hadn’t ruined them!”

“Funny, that.” Her tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek as she rolls her eyes. “Now hurry up, it’s freezing.”

“You have a coat on!” Reluctantly, you glance around yourself, but the place is deserted and you have no doubt that it’s seen far worse. She watches with a smug smile as you wander into the corner. “Right. Fine. Turn around, then.”

Her boots shift on the concrete when she settles against the car, lifting her chin defiantly. “Nah.”

“Of course.” As you start to tug the hem of your dress up once more, you mutter, “god, I hate you.” 

Even so, you can’t stop smiling.

#mine #nsfwork #miranda croft x reader #is that a tag yet??? #it is now

[beyondconfessor]

Ambitious

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Miranda Croft/Reader

Summary: Miranda's come to collect something from your boss' office, that is until she discovers your most recent purchase. 

N.B.: this is pure porn. Somewhat dubious consent, featuring size kink, knife play and female ejaculation––because what’s a fic from me if a woman doesn’t squirt?

You were a receptionist to a dance studio in the low-end district of downtown. While your boss was on leave, she asked you to pick up a few things on the weekend. It’d been a simple request, could you please, please take the books and drop them off at the accountant.

No big deal. The streets were quiet, allowing you to park out the front of the studio.

Before the errand, you went to pick up a present for yourself. The dance studio sat across from a sex shop. Given the late hour, there were no clients or work colleagues to see you walk into the building and come out with a discreetly packaged present in a plain bag before you slipped back across the road to the studio, unlocking the front door.

Flicking on the lights, you went to the back office, placing your discreet bag onto the desk before you searched the filing cabinet behind the desk. The plan was to take the books, set them in your car and then drop them off on Monday before you made your way back home to unwrap your present with a glass of wine and whatever fantasy you felt like.

You didn’t hear the door open, nor did you hear the steps of the new occupant entering into the studio. It was only when you found the books and set on the desk that you gasped, seeing the woman standing in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, the studio’s not open,” you advised.

“Oh, I’m aware,” she said, and then smiled at you. “You must be her receptionist. I’m Miranda.”

Miranda, you’d heard her call through a few times, each time letting your boss know, and no matter what was going on, she’d always taken the call. It didn’t matter if she was in the middle of class or on a lunch break, if Miranda rang, your boss answered. She was beautiful, you thought, but also frightening, taking up the entire space of the doorway despite her small frame.

“I’m––“

“I know,” she said. And then she was stepping through the doorframe, her eyes drawing around the room. “Your boss should have left something for me. You haven’t seen it, have you?”

“Ahh…” you swallowed, feeling cornered between the desk and the filing cabinet. “Did she say what it was?”

“Just a box,” she said softly, and her eyes drew down the length of your body as if she had thoughts about searching you before she turned her eyes continued looking over the room. “Perhaps it’s this?” she inquired, stepping towards the bag you’d set on the desk.

You went to disagree, but before you get the first word out, it was too late, she’d opened the bag, pulling out the rectangular box.

You flushed and looked away. “That’s, umm, that’s mine,” you said.

“Ohh, ambitious are you?” she asked, looking it over, making no attempt to act embarrassed. Somehow, it was worse watching her eyes light up as she turned the box over to read its side. “No expense spared. Quite a girth on it, my, my.” She looked up at you and you felt your whole body electrify under her stare. It was ambitious, but you’d wanted to try something bigger.

“I think we should give this a go, hmm?” she said.

“Excuse me?”

Her eyebrows rose, mouth quirking, “Give it a go,” she said again, eyes firmly on you. “Don’t be shy.”

“I––“ you felt a half-dozen arguments rise in your throat, but she just stared at you and the words seemed to die away. “I don’t know you,” was all the came out.

Miranda stepped closer and all at once you were pinned between her and the filing cabinet, “You know me,” she said, and then you watched as she pulled out a butterfly knife, the click, switch in the air as the blade revealed its self. You eyes watched the knife, chest rising and falling as it came closer. “I’m Miranda,” she purred. “You always answered my calls with that lovely voice of yours. At the very least, we’re acquaintances.”

There was an argument to be made there.

“Have you ever fucked an acquaintance?”

You couldn’t press back any further as the knife drew closer, touching against the button of your shirt. “I…umm,” your mouth felt dry, feeling the button press firmly against your skin. “N-no,” you answered.

“There’s a first time for everything. And, it’ll be fun,” she said, a patronising expression as she nodded, tongue pressed between her teeth. “Right here, in this studio. We could even do it in front of the mirrors.”

Your eyes fluttered, the image filling your mind. It was wrong, it was so very, very wrong. But something low in your belly flickered. “I can’t,” you said.

“You can,” she said, and you feel the knife press, cutting underneath the button. It popped off, dropping to the ground. “Oh, don’t get upset, I only want to play. Wouldn’t you like to try this out? I can be very…encouraging.”

Another button popped, pattering to the ground and your breath came in a slow, deep inhale as your bra was revealed. You felt a hand rest on your hip, holding you steady, as the knife’s tip came to touch against your sternum, dragging down to the front clasp of your bra.

Your eyes flicked to hers, and then you were lost in the blue of her irises, feeling the blade twist underneath your clasp until the bra was snapping undone. You gasped, feeling the weight of your breasts drop and then the knife was making its way down, drawing over your skin, down your abdomen, popping buttons as she pleased until it was all undone. “That’s not a no,” she said.

You’d forgotten to speak. You should say no. She might even listen.

But did you want to say no?

“I…”

“You,” she echoed, the Scottish lilt prominent as she said it, and you found your eyes dropping to her lips, watching as they tugged into a smirk.

“I don’t have a lube,” you said.

She laughed.

You heard the swish, click of the knife disappear into her coat, and then both of her hands were on your hips. She turned you around, facing you to the filing cabinet, and then she tugged off your shirt and bra, dropping them to the ground. Her mouth was hot on your throat, teeth nipping before sucked at the point where your neck met your shoulder.

It was dizzying, exciting. You moaned and whined at the pleasure centralised on your throat.

And then her hands grabbed at your bare breasts, squeezing them in her gloves. “Oh God,” you whined, clutching at the metal drawers. There was a noise of rocking metal, of your moans, and then you could feel one hand drop away from your breast before it was popping the button of your jeans, undoing the fly.

She slid underneath the elastic band of your underwear. And your eyes flew open. This is really happening, you thought.

There were so many red flags. So many things to tell you to try to get out and run, but as Miranda kissed and bit at your throat, one hand squeezing at your breast as the other stroked over your vulva, you found it difficult to focus on what you should or should not do. It was easy to lose yourself in how good it felt.

The hand in your underwear stroked long and firm, as it did, you rolled your hips, feeling your breath come out in heavy pants. Her fingers slid over the entrance, teasing before it drew up to the clit and then back down. It would hurt, you realise, if she entered you like that, but you didn’t care, you just wanted those hands to keep stroking you like that.

You wanted them inside of you.

“I don’t think the lack of lube is going to be a problem,” she said with a laugh as she pulled away.

Her absence was cold and you felt the chill of the room wash over you before you exhaled, turning on your heel to face her. Realising how bare you were, your hands coming up to hide your chest.

“Oh, no, don’t do that,” she said, knocking them away. “I think we’re more than acquaintances now, don’t you?”

You let your hands settle at your sides, fingers curling and uncurling as your flush underneath her gaze.

“Asked you a question,” she reminded, and there’s something dark in her voice.

“We are,” you agree, and your eyes draw up, watching the expression soften back into amusement. There was a pause and you bit the inside of your mouth. “What…what now?” you asked.

“Eager, are you?” she asked.

You flushed. “No, I only meant––“

“It’s okay. I’m sure when you picked up the box, you were thinking about how long it would take to get home before you stuff that inside of you.” She tilted her head at you, eyes drawing down slowly this time, and you felt your chest rise and fall with a low drawn breath. “Take ‘em off, then.”

“What?”

She pointed to your jeans. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

You nodded, scrambling and pulled your shoes off, socks following before you went for the pants.

“Uh!” she commanded, “Wee bit slower. I want to enjoy myself with this too.”

You watched as she settled to lean against the desk in a lazy stance, smile widening before she gestured for you to continue.

“Oh…okay,” you agreed and your thumbs looped around the waist of the jeans and slowly tugged them down, before awkwardly stepping out of one leg than the other.

“Those two,” she said, pointing at the cotton underwear.

“Of course,” you agreed and slid them down your legs too. The air was cold and in the cotton, you could already see a wet spot from your arousal. It was noticeable from your vantage point, which meant that it was noticeable from hers.

A flutter flew in your belly as you looked up at her, hands going to cross in front of you before you settled, setting them at your sides.

“That’s a gold girl,” Miranda said, and then she was turning, grabbing the box. “Out here, then.”

Your hearted thudded. You were leaving your clothes behind, heading out of the office into the dance studio. Your feet pressing from carpet to the smooth, polished floor. In the centre of the room, you stood still, waiting as gooseflesh broke out over your skin.

She paused by the side of the room and her eyes looked at you, amusement in them before she pulled out her dagger and cut through the box.

The toy was removed. It was bigger than you expected, wider and you felt yourself grow nervous as Miranda examined it.

There was a suction base to it and you watched as her eyes drew around the room, across its floors and its many mirrors, before she chose a spot where the two walls convened. The mirrors were smooth, lined against the perpendicular sides, so you had a full view of front-facing self from multiple angles.

The toy was set down, its suction base sticking to the floor and she looked up at you. Eyebrows quirking as she nodded to it. “Well, go on then,” she said. “Show a girl what you can do.”

Shyness overcame you as you looked at the toy and its reflection against all the mirrors. In the reflection of the mirror, you could see your flustered expression staring back, the warm of your skin, despite the chill of the room. You stood, nervous, anxiety pulling at you and you watched as Miranda’s expression went from amusement to annoyance, and then slowly grew to inpatient in the spans of thirty seconds.

“On your knees,” she barked.

You obeyed, scrambling before the toy and dropping to your knees. And then she stepped behind you and in the reflection you watched as her eyes narrowed, her hands coming to rest on your shoulder.

“Well?” she said, her fingers digging into your shoulders.

You drew in a breath. “It’s…big.”

“It is, but won’t you be pleased with how well it’ll fit once it’s inside of you?” You nodded, biting your lip. “Good girl. Now get to it, show me how well you can ride it.”

On your knees, you shuffled forward and felt your hand grasp the toy. Even in your hand it was big. It seemed too big. You were almost certain it wouldn’t fit.

You pressed your hips forward, feeling it knock against your pubis mound before your lifted them and then settled until you felt the head of the dildo press against your vulva. Your eyes looked up and watched as Miranda stared back, eyes sparkling as her face otherwise remained impassive.

You rolled your hips and tried to press down on it but stopped as you felt it pinch, the opening of your vagina resisting to it. It was too big, you needed to work up to it. “I can’t,” you told her, shaking your head. “It’s too big, I––“

In the mirror, Miranda rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” and her hands pushed at your shoulder and you slid deeper onto it, crying out.

“No!” you told her, feeling your walls push it out as you dropped backwards, behind the toy. “No, it’s too big, I can’t do it. I was too ambitious, I can’t. I can’t!”

“Shh,” she hushed, a sudden softness to her down as she crouched down behind you at eye-level. “It is big, but you just need a helping hand.”

“I don’t think––“

“Come here,” she said, and you watched as she sat back on her behind you, tugging onto her lap. “Spread your legs for me,” she coaxed, and her gloved hand slid down between your thighs, her head nuzzling at your neck.

You drew a breath, feeling your heart pound in your chest before you open your legs.

“Wider now,” she said, tugging one leg as far as your muscles would allow. You did the same with other, looking into the mirror at how open and spread you were. “There’s a good girl, now…watch,” she growled the last word and your eyes fluttered, hips rocking as in the mirror, you watched one gloved hand slide up your thigh as the other came to hold over your breast.

And then, like before, she was squeezing at your breast as her fingers stroked over the vulva and up, circling your clit. Her eyes holding yours in the mirror as you focused on her hands, watching as she stroked and circled and teased, pinching at your clit hard enough your hips jerked before she slid down.

It felt good, and then you watched as the gloves stroke over the opening, still sore from being pushed further onto the toy. “See,” she said, and you watch as the two fingers slid inside of you. They were firm, rough, but it didn’t stretch you out at the toy had. Your hips rocked, eyes fluttering but not closing as you watched yourself get fucked.

And then a third finger slid inside. You gasped at the pressure, but still, she stroked slow, easing inside of you and you exhaled at the fullness, feeling a wave lap low in your belly (though you noticed her deliberate neglect of your clit).

“Let’s try another, shall we?” she asked and you nodded, watching as her pinky finger drew and pressed against you. You tensed, vaginal walls tensing, but she pressed firmer, slowly inside of you. You felt stretched, tight around her fingers, and you hissed a breath. And then you exhaled, feeling her pump inside of you once, twice and then a third time, a low chuckle coming from behind you as she watched your body respond.

“I think we’re ready now,” she said, and then all four fingers slid out at once.

You whimpered, feeling the emptiness from their absence.

“Keep your legs spread,” she warned, reaching to grab at the toy.

You nodded, biting back a whimper as she pulled the toy from the ground with a sucking pop and then it was sliding against you.

Rocking your hips over it, you felt the head draw against your vulva and you couldn’t deny you excitement growing low in your belly. Perhaps it would work, perhaps it would just feel tight.

She angled the toy’s head and your hips paused, heels digging on the floorboards as you felt it press against you.

It was still too big, too tight. And you whimpered, trying to pull away.

“Stop squirming, you haven’t given it an honest go,” She said, and the hand on your chest dropped around your waist, holding you firm. “Try it,” she said, and the look she gave you made your tremble. It was a command and you would obey.

You watched the toy press again, and you pushed with your hips, pressing firmer onto it. The toy slid inside of you, your body tight as you gasped, squirming against her as if to pull away.

“I-I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” she said, pressing it deeper. It hurt and bit your lip. But there was a part of you enjoying it. It was barely an inch in and it felt good despite the pain. You nodded, and she pressed firmer, her smile widening in the mirror as she pressed it deeper and deeper, and then you gasped, mouth falling open as you realised the entire toy was inside of you.

“I did it,” you exhaled, and then you felt as she began to slide it out––before sliding it back inside. Your toes curled, heels digging as you whimpered, feeling the tightness expand and pull. It was big, it was so big, but you gasped, feeling a tightness forming low in your belly.

“Aren’t you a good girl,” she said, and then she was sliding it back and forth, again. First slowly, and then her pace increased until she was well and truly fucking you with it.

Your eyes closed, head falling back against her shoulder as your back arched, hips rocking––your body was growing accustomed to its size and the tight, stretched feeling was good.

You panted, and then gasped, and then through half-lidded eyes, you watched as the hand around your waist slid down to circle at your clit. “Oh!”

“There we go,” she said. “See how good you look.”

In the mirror, you were a performance, pornographic in how spread-out your legs were, how your body bounced over the toy, head tilted back against her shoulder. As the dildo slid out, you could see the lights reflecting on the arousal that dripped down its shaft.

“Say my name.”

Your mouth parted and then your moans were filling the dance room, echoing its walls. “Miranda,” you said, watching your hips rock over the toy.

You caught her eye in the mirror and watched as stared back with unabashed hunger, circling your clit, filling you up with the dildo. “You’re mine now,” she said, “No one will ever fill you up as I did.”

Biting your lip as you bit back a whine, you nodded. “Miran…please,” you whispered, feeling her pace increasing, your clit was pulsing underneath her touch, your body squeezing and tensing. You dropped back against her, pressing deeper and firmer onto the toy with each stroke. “I think…I….”

“Are you going to come for me?”

You nodded.

“I want you to watch. Watch as I make you come for me,” she said and you watched as her teeth bared in the mirror, eyes staring not unlike a wolf before a hare.

The climax built and then you were crying out, watching your mouth gasp open, chest rising, hips rocking forward as you clenched, muscles pulling and convulsing until a sudden gush of wetness squirted from between your legs, spreading out, on the ground and against the very bottom of the mirror.

The toy was pulled out, the hand dropping away from clit as you gasped, your knees falling shut as you felt the tremors rumbled through you, before they drew away too, leaving only a hum drawing through your body. “Would you look at that,” Miranda said, her voice filled with mocking surprise. “You really did enjoy yourself.”

You felt the heat wash over your body, a sudden shyness overtaking you as you tried to scramble out of her lap, but she held you firm, setting the toy down before she spread your legs apart again in the mirror.

She was admiring her work, of the wetness that coat your thighs and down onto the wooden floor. A hand reached out and stroked against you and you whimpered, pulling away at the sensitivity of the touch. And then you watched as she let go, allowing you to slide off her lap as she rose to her feet.

She cleaned her hands on her coat before adjusting the lapels. You watched as she seemed to check herself over in the mirror, fixing her hair before she smirked down on you. “That was fun,” she said. “But I’ll be taking those books now.”

“Books?”

“Mm. We need to check over the finances. Make sure everything’s in order,” she said. “But I’ll be seeing you soon, sweetheart. I think that toy would look lovely in your mouth, don’t you?” And then you were left in your wet spot, watching as she went to the office, grabbed the books and left the studio, with only a passing smirk and a tip of her head.

The air was getting cool, and when the door slid shut, you rose to your feet and took the toy, making your way back to the office where you dressed (your shirt now ruined) and set the toy and its box back into the bag. You needed to clean up the mess, but you sat down first in the office chair, drawing in a breath and then exhaled, feeling the soreness in your vagina ease.

Miranda. You felt the name hum through your mind as hunger grew low in your belly. You hoped against all logic that you would see her again, already imaging the weight of the toy on your tongue.

#miranda croft #reader #miranda croft x reader #the flight attendant fanfic #I know #reader insert

[missylilithstardis]

Miranda Croft x reader masterlist

Disclaimer: I have not written any of these fics. I will update it whenever I can

Safety On NSFW

Tetchy NSFW

Ambitious NSFW

Welcome invasion NSFW

Hers NSFW

The Quickest Way NSFW

When the Cat's Away NSFW

Cupcakes NSFW

you have magic on your lips and it tastes divine NFSW

Blowing Off Steam NSFW

Be My Little Whore NSFW

Repayment NSFW

I Feel It Coming

I can own you NSFW

A Stressful Day NSFW

Delayed NSFW

@periwinklekitten NSFW

#miranda croft x reader #miranda croft x reader masterlist

[galentines]

Rated E, Miranda Croft/Reader

Hi this is the first time I’ve written reader fic and it’s also the filthiest thing I’ve written. I love Miranda Croft nation.

#the flight attendant #Miranda Croft #Miranda Croft x reader #fic!

[danisnotmyname]

Chapters: 4/4 Summary: Number one, the intruder makes no attempt to fight you.

Number two, you stare down, and find that you’re sitting on Miranda’s pelvis.

#miranda croft #the flight attendant #miranda croft x reader #michelle gomez #fluff and smut #hurt/comfort #jealous miranda #soft miranda #*insert bet you thought you'd seen the last of me gif*

[mickey-gomez]

Link above for my taglist, for anyone who is interested. 

#law and order svu #the flight attendant #the l word #the l world generation q #homeland #rita calhoun x reader #alex cabot x reader #casey novak x reader #rita calhoun x casey novak #calvak #alex cabot x olivia benson #cabenson #miranda croft #elizabeth keane #criminal minds #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #the morning show #laura peterson

[themamayaga]

I’m gonna work on a Miranda Croft x reader fic in the next week. I finally have the desire to write again.

#miranda croft x reader

[darktweet]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Flight Attendant (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Miranda Croft/You, Miranda Croft/Reader Characters: Miranda Croft, Reader Additional Tags: reader has a death wish, Sassy Reader, Mistress/Pet, sex on an alley, Kink, Light BDSM, Spanking, Miranda is a tag on itself, BDSM Summary:

It’s 4pm in the afternoon when a woman in a long purple coat and fancy sunglasses enters the bank. You are just making an average payment but your eyes get distracted by her and follow her every move...

Needless to say, things heat up quickly.

#Miranda croft #miranda croft x reader #fanfic #sue writes #the flight attendant

[mementomori-demimonde]

*gay screaming over the end of four lines*

#four lines #hidden scars #miranda croft #miranda croft x reader #fanfiction