Felt Gay And This Was The Result

Felt gay and this was the result

In The Eyes Of God - Part V

, and you cradle God in yours arms.

Mother Miranda x Reader/OC

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

You stare at him.

Benjamin.

The lifeless body.

There’s another body next to him. It’s yours.

The you that you leave behind, wide eyed and innocent, her blood-splattered face staring up at you with fear and betrayal as you cling to God.

You feel like the villain as you leave her there on the floor, this other you, weeping over the body of a man she doesn’t really know. But warm, solid arms cradle you away from her, bringing you comfort -bringing you love, as you are whisked away in a blur of feathered blackness.

You don’t even notice that you are somewhere else when the blur fades away, face still pressed against warm, soft robes, slender arms still embracing you, caging you in.

Caged. 

That’s how you feel. 

Suddenly disgusted by the situation, you struggle against the confines of your captor, bringing your hands up to press on her chest, to push her from you, to create some distance.

She doesn’t fight your struggling for more than a single moment and then the arms drop you, letting you topple to the wooden floor below. You wince sharply in pain as your elbows whack the lacquered maple, breaking your fall. Tears spring in the corners of your eyes. 

Mother Miranda strides away into the room, leaving you to see where you’ve been brought for the first time. Glancing around, your brows furrow at what you find. 

It’s a small living space, quaint with wooden floors and walls, much nicer in quality than the villagers’ homes. 

It would be cute… if it wasn’t damn near uninhabitable.

Vials and beakers are strewn about the counters, lost amongst the stacks -or rather, haphazard piles- of papers, diagrams, scrawled notes, and x-ray images. Small bits of surface that aren’t covered in science paraphernalia or odd looking trinkets that you’d also seen scattered about the village are covered in a thick layer of dust, except where there are finger streaks from where something had been snatched off the counter. The windows are covered in filth, both inside and out, and any possible seating space has been overtaken by… well you’re not entirely sure what that stuff is.

For a moment, you forget about the dead man you left in that cabin, the blood splattered all over your face, the horrible pit in your stomach.

“...Are you a hoarder?”

You can hear the pitter patter of rain starting on the window.

From her position at the far end of the room with her back turned to you, Mother Miranda lets out a half-confused, “what?” before she turns to regard you and your question finally registers. Her eyes roll.

“Don’t be silly, I have more important matters to attend to than cleaning.”

Oh, she has the audacity to be annoyed?

After what she just put you through?

Your brows furrow and you stomp to your feet. The priestess looks up from the paper she’s holding and tilts her head at your slanted eyes. With finesse -her movements are always so damn coordinated and smooth- she tosses the paper on the counter before stalking towards you, an amused expression on her face. 

“Do you have something you’d like to share, little crow?”

Your lips involuntarily purse a little in anger at how she seems to be taunting you. She stops a few feet from you and raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“I feel like everytime I have an encounter with you, I’m surviving the encounter with you.”

Her eyes flash and you can’t tell if it’s amusement or frustration. Neither probably bodes particularly well for you.

She takes another few steps forward, studying your face as she does and once again it makes you feel vulnerable. Naked. Like she’s reading your soul directly. She stops when she’s merely inches from you and it reminds you just how much taller she is when you have to tilt your chin up to meet her gaze.

“You know what I think, little crow?” Her voice is low, and it provokes the image of a feral cat crouching in the weeds, preparing to pounce. “ I think you like it.”

Your breath freezes in your throat. How dare she.

“No-”

“I think…” she continues, her eyes flaring as she stares intensely into yours, “you are impossibly bored, and that you enjoy surviving.”

“...That’s not-”

You can’t move. You order your mouth to open again, to protest, but it doesn’t.

Her head tilts again, slowly this time as she regards you. Her teeth begin to show as a small, dangerous smile pulls at the corners of her lips.

“I think that’s why you enjoyed befriending cannibals at the castle you were imprisoned by.”

You finally get your mouth to move.

“I’m not…” You mumble to a stop, your mouth still moving, but your voice seems to have checked out early.

Well.

It’s not your worst argument ever.

“And it’s why you enjoyed your evening,” she gestures to herself, wrists bent with delicate fingers pointed at her chest, “with a woman who was going to torture and kill you.”

Her smile widens satisfactorily as you run out of your stellar counter points. She leans back from where she’d been drifting closer, her expression smug. Her eyes float slightly down and a single hand comes up to wipe a speck of blood from your cheek, reminiscent of when she’d done the same after slitting Anabelle’s throat.

“That man drugged, trafficked, and sold you to a woman he knew would likely kill you. For money.”

That conflicting feeling returns to rumble in your chest as you picture Benjamin’s corpse on the ground, twitching as blood poured from his neck.

You hear a whistle as the wind picks up, a storm brewing in the village outside, and the rain patters louder.

“It was wrong to kill him.”

Are you convincing her? Or are you convincing you…?

Mother Miranda scoffs and her hand on your cheek slides back until two fingers are tilting your chin up to look her directly in the eye.

“Tell me, little crow, who’s to say what’s right and what’s wrong?”

Your brows furrow and you open your mouth to set her straight- to say ‘um, I don’t know, the law? The collective human concept of morality?’

But no sound comes out.

Her face is closer now, that sweet breath fanning your face once more as she continues.

“That man would have kept trafficking- dooming innocents such as yourself. Is it not good to have killed him to spare the many?”

Well now, that’s an interesting point. 

Deep down, you know she doesn’t really care about that, but does it matter if the greater good is still achieved?

Her hand slides forward again to cup your jaw. Her face is close.

Boy, her eyes are such a pretty blue…

“Tell me, sweet little dove,” Her voice is low and warm, and it does dangerous things to your heart. And your… well, lower than your heart. “Did you enjoy it?”

You notice tiny flecks of darker blue towards the inside of her eyes and you find yourself transfixed by them. And her hand is so soft and warm on your cheek. And her breath is so sweet against your face.

And…

…and there was a part of you that liked it. Just like how you liked it when she killed Anabelle.

It made you feel special. Powerful.

“...Yes.”

“I know.”

Her eyes are boring into yours now and you swear she’s nearly vibrating with the intensity she holds. Her voice is nearly a whisper, dark and full of heat.

“You know how I know all of this, my dove?”

There it is. My. That one little word you’ve come to love so much. It might be your favorite word in the English language.

Are you vibrating with her? Feels like it…

The tension between you is thick enough to cut through, and her voice comes out as a strained hiss when she finally answers her own question.

“Because we are the same.”

Oh.

Oh, her lips are so soft under yours, and the little squeak she just let out is too damn adorable.

Wait.

When did you get here?

(Who cares?)

You’re not sure who moved first -it all happened so fast, you crashed together so hard. It hardly matters now, though, as your hands cup her cheeks, holding her face to yours, as her tongue dominates yours in that firm way you remember from a week ago. Her one hand is still glued to your jaw, holding you just as close as you’re holding her, and her free hand has snaked down to your waist to squeeze and pull you into her.

You feel a pressure creep up against your neck, those delicate fingers wrapping around the column of your throat, giving a light squeeze, and you can’t hold back the low moan it pulls from you. You can feel it vibrate against her hand, and good god.

The two of you stumble sideways as Miranda leads you vaguely in a direction -you hope she knows where you’re going- neither of you willing to unglue your mouths from each other. Your shoulder smacks into a door frame and you know it’ll bruise, but you don’t even feel the pain as your feet chase after hers into a different room.

Your back makes contact with a wall and you glance to see a large bed next to you, but your eyes flutter back shut as the hand on your throat tightens, applying more pressure as the fingers that were on your waist slide down to dig into the meat of your thigh, hoisting your leg up to wrap around her hip, and boy, you are glad there’s wall behind you because your. leg. is. a-wobbling.

It’s all heat and tongues and teeth and Miranda pressing you into that wall with her hips, her nails biting into the skin of your thigh under your skirt and it all just feels so fucking good.

You are hungry. 

Starving. 

You are absolutely famished for her, and you wish you could wrap your teeth around her entire body and swallow her whole. Consume her.

Breaking from the kiss, you keep on hand cupped along her jaw as the other snakes down underneath her arm to slide up her back, fingers splaying along her shoulder blade, and you drag your lips to her jawline, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along her soft skin. 

Mother Miranda sighs above you.

Fuck.

You tilt your head down to the junction of where her shoulder meets her neck and sink your teeth into her, grinning when her response is to huff and yank on your leg, bringing your center more snuggly against her hips.

You are a woman absolutely possessed. Your mind flashes back to a week prior- the first time you entered that room- the first time her teeth made contact with your skin. The thrill, the fear, the heat.

She was right. You had enjoyed it. A fucking lot.

You drag your lips up to the shell of her ear. “I bet those little maids never even tried to touch you, did they?” 

“No.” Comes the answer. It’s low. It’s dark. It’s husked. It is everything to you.

“Mmm, what a shame…” you murmur and tug lightly on her earlobe with your teeth, “you’re a masterpiece.”

A growl reaches your own ears and your head is slammed back against the wall. The hand that had gone slack against your throat clenches, squeezing tightly as the priestess’ eyes meet yours, her pupils so blown there’s only a thin ring of blue around the edge. 

A shiver runs up your spine and you bring your own hand up to wrap around her wrist, holding her hand firmly against your throat. 

Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare. The hand tightens and she lets out a breathy, “Fuck.”

Pressing into her hand, adding to the pressure, you lean closer, desperate to feel her lips on yours again. Your vision begins to swim a little as she cuts off your circulation. 

Hey, if you pass out, you pass out.

Miranda grins wide and dark, the sight of her pearly white teeth exposed reminding you of a wolf baring its fangs.

Your leg wobbles once again, and the blonde leans in, her lips brushing yours, almost giving you what you want, what you crave. 

“Look at you… so weak for me, and I haven’t even put you on your back yet.” She husks, low and sultry, and you whine, your hand digging into its hold on her shoulder to attempt to keep yourself upright.

She releases some of the pressure on your throat, allowing your blood to flow, and your vision to clear. You start a whine when she releases your leg back to the ground, but it’s cut off when she slots a knee between your thighs, and a broken moan is torn from your throat instead as she presses deliciously up against your core, her hand sliding around to grip a fistful of the flesh of your ass and pull you into her.

“That’s it, my little dove. Moan for me.” She commands, her voice ringing out through the room as she pulls her head back to watch you, her eyes drinking in your expression, drinking in the state of you as you begin to roll your hips against her thigh. 

The hand on your throat slides down to grip your hip, helping pull you back and forth, forcing you to move faster, as her mouth attaches to your neck, hungrily nipping and licking down your throat. 

Holy shit, she’s strong. 

Her hands are literally moving your hips for you, and when she jerks her knee up higher you almost yelp at the pressure. It’s so much- it’s too much. The pressure is damn near painful, but you literally cannot change it as her hands force you down hard against her leg.

Your shirt is ripped off, buttons flying and scattering across the wooden floor and you don’t even know how since both of her hands are still yanking you across her thigh and her mouth is making sure your entire neck is one giant purple mark. 

Her mouth descends, lips dragging down until they are at the top of your breasts, and when you tilt your chin down to look at her, you see her staring up darkly at you through her eyelashes before she sinks a bite into your soft, sensitive skin making you cry out, tossing your head back into the wall again.

The back of your head is going to bruise like a goddamn peach.

A familiar coil is tightening in your abdomen and you whimper as she works. She sucks where she bit, ensuring a nice, large mark will bloom before she slides back up to press her lips against the shell of your ear. “Such a nice canvas for me to paint on.” She purrs, nails digging into your ass as she works you towards your high. 

You don’t fight it this time. You wouldn’t be able to. There’s no room for argument.

“You’re going to cum for me, sweet dove.” She commands into your ear. “You’re going to give in to me.”

That tightening in your stomach is intense, you’re painfully right on the edge, already overstimulated even though you haven’t cum yet. Your hands paw at her, trying to anchor yourself as you shoot higher and higher.

“Now.”

Holyshitholyshitholyshit-

Your orgasm hits you like a semi-truck as you launch over the edge, screaming her name out like a prayer, though your voice is definitely sinful. White hot pleasure sears through you as wave after wave of painful pleasure crashes over you, and your body trembles in her hold, her arms wrapping around you to bring you up flush against her as she grinds her knee up into you, prolonging your high.

A pathetic whine bubbles past your lips as she continues to press her thigh up against you, adding to the shockwaves coursing through your entire body. She’s silent, as you come down from your magnificent high and you shiver when, after a few moments, you feel rather than hear a low growl vibrate against your face where it’s tucked into the crook of her neck.

Her hand slides firmly up along your back, up your neck, into your hair, where her fingers curl and grasp a tight fistful of hair. 

“Little dove…”

Oh. Her voice is downright sinfully low.

Your head is yanked back as you’re both spun around.

“On your knees.”

A bolt of lightning shoots down your spine and you drop to the floor so fast you wonder if you’ve cracked your kneecaps.

Or at least you would wonder if you cared at all.

You don’t.

You stare up at her through your eyelashes as you reach for the hem of her robes to pull them up, fumbling only for a moment when you find there are four layers to her robes.

Truly, far too much.

You disappear under the fabric and slide your hands up the outsides of her legs as you press your lips to the insides, dragging them from knee to hip on each leg.

You can’t see her from under her skirt, but you can feel her eyes boring into you as you finally reach the apex of her thighs, uninhibited by any sort of undergarment. A hand reaches under the fabric to tangle in the strands of your hair as you press a kiss to the sensitive skin you find there. Leaving you and her legs now exposed to the air.

When you look up you can see her staring down at you like a true predator and it sends a thrill through you.

“Tell me, Mother Miranda..” you whisper to God as you stare at her, your hands squeezing her outer thighs, “is this true worship? Or is it sacrilege?”

Her hand grips your hair tighter.

“Worship.”

(Then let us pray.)

That hand twists as you give one long lick along the outside of her core. Your clit throbs at the taste of her, at the way her nails scratch your scalp, at that slight jerk of her hips against your mouth. You repeat the action a little harder, again and again until you are overcome with a need to feel her jerk like that again, and you point your tongue to press in.

Her thighs clamp around your head and fuck does that fuel you as you work your tongue in and out of her, moaning into her heat to add to the vibrations.

If this is worship, you’re going to make sure she hears your prayer.

Her back arches away from where it rested against the wall and you can feel how she tightens around you, wrapping so deliciously against your tongue. 

“Do not- fuck- do not stop, dove.” She bites out breathily and you keen at how you’re able to make her lose her composure. Desperate to feel her lose complete control, you rip your tongue out of her to wrap your lips around her clit and suck. Hard.

You want her to see stars.

You want her to see her own damn God.

Her hand is so tight in your hair, you might lose some. Her thighs are gripping your head so hard it might crack. Her hips jerk against your mouth as she holds you to her, cutting off your ability to breathe as you hear her breath hitch and a wave of wetness coats your chin.

It’s glorious.

You give rough licks to her clit as she rides out the waves of her orgasm against your face, only stopping when she tugs your hair to pull you away from her. When you look up you can see her neck flushed, her chest heaving with breath, her eyes soft as they look down at you, and you feel your own softness come over you as you get another glimpse of the human inside of her.

She’s so beautiful.

Her hand releases its grip in favor of stroking your hair down where she bunched it up. The moment is so tender that you feel uncomfortable- like you don’t know how to handle a human Mother Miranda- so you take the opportunity to slowly stand on wobbly, sore legs, bringing your face to hers. 

That look is still in her eye, and funnily enough it feels alien because of the fact that it’s just so human. She seems so young like this- so vulnerable, and you feel like you’re seeing the panther’s soft underbelly.

Slowly. Carefully. Like you’d approach a small, woodland creature- you lean closer until you press your lips devastatingly gently to hers, your hands reaching up to softly cup her face. 

It truly surprises you when you feel her kiss you back, and for a moment you wonder if this has all been another one of your dreams since she kisses you so tenderly it feels like it might be someone else entirely. 

“My dove.”

The words are whispered out against your lips and it sends a shiver down your spine, not from the usual arousal, but from something else. Something soft. 

The wind outside shifts, and you cradle God in your arms.

Sooo I may have lied a lil bit and drew some more resident lover stuff but I swear I’m working on ever after high stuff now I’ve finished this!!

Translating the eah style to my own style has been interesting and may take me some time to build my confidence in it, I’ll still share my progress n sketches w yall as I go tho (((:

What if I became homophobic?? WHAT'S HOW THEY ARE MAKING ME FEEL.

"I wish I could just hate you."

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

*Deep breath* MIRANDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I wanted to draw her for my fic but this is easily the best thing I've ever drawn I think.

Wasn't all that happy with my previous two drawings so I decided to switch things up a bit. Halved my default brush size, discovered the airbrush tool for shading, and lastly, studied @vivi-llain's art of miranda for the coloring and some more inspiration (you should go check her out too)

Anyway, enough yapping, go check out the fic that inspired this drawing if you're here anyway please :)

Daily reminder that Mother Miranda was supposed to be carried ON A THRONE. I consider myself robbed.

LIKE AJQHWVWIWIWBSBAB