"Bare" - The Devil Wears Prada
Posted nowhere else.
Title: Bare
Author: Nia
Rating: PG-13
Show: The Devil Wears Prada (movie)
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Spoilers: The whole damn thing.
Summary: "She has seen you bare in many ways: no makeup, no husband. But you have never seen her naked, not truly, and all you remember now is black lashes and fringed hair, that mouth the color of sorbet."
Bare
Of course she still has the key. Of course she knows your schedule; she slept, breathed, lived that schedule for nearly a year. She lets herself in and leaves something on the table. She is nearly silent, nearly invisible. She learned quickly, just as she promised, and you are not supposed to be home.
You lean over the railing. She is at the bottom of the stairs. It has been one week since you saw her on the street.
She has seen you bare in many ways: no makeup, no husband. But you have never seen her naked, not truly, and all you remember now is black lashes and fringed hair, that mouth the color of sorbet. Glossed. When she looks up, she is plain-faced, much younger.
Of course she comes when you call. There is something she still wants from you. Approval. Attention. A reason why she waved. You invite her, as much as you invite, into the bedroom.
They think you don't know the lengths they go to, these girls, the preparations they make. As if those lashes are natural, those lips just shining, those bodies born that way. As if magazines spread themselves across your desk every morning. No, you can imagine the bustle of these girls, running, every one of them terrified of you. You can imagine what they look like beneath it all: the washed faces, the small, sleepy eyes. The expanses of skin behind wool and rustling silk.
You touch her clothes, but you don't undress her yourself. You tell her to do it. Hold out your open palm. Take it off. Let me see. And the jacket is in your hand, and the blouse, down to the bra and panties--which are exquisite, and, you're sure, from the March issue. She certainly learned quickly. She pushes back her hair.
One day she was in the car beside you, painted, and the next, she was outside your tinted window with her hair falling around her face. And you could not touch her if you wanted to.
You are standing in your bedroom, both of you, and you slip your hand into her panties the way you touch couture. You feel the fabric, its texture, and then its complement: wetness on your fingertip. She holds your shoulders for stability, then it is her forearms against you, then her forehead touching yours, her naked chest shivering against your breasts. Her lips are just shining. Her cheeks are just flushed. Then her face is hidden--you feel breath on your throat, feel her thighs squeeze your wrist, and as you wonder how she is still standing, she cries out, maybe a laugh, maybe not. And then she is quiet, panting, and still holding you.
Everyone wants to be us, you said. Not me. Not you. Us.
You are rich. You are powerful. And she is very, very free.
Title: Bare
Author: Nia
Rating: PG-13
Show: The Devil Wears Prada (movie)
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Spoilers: The whole damn thing.
Summary: "She has seen you bare in many ways: no makeup, no husband. But you have never seen her naked, not truly, and all you remember now is black lashes and fringed hair, that mouth the color of sorbet."
Bare
Of course she still has the key. Of course she knows your schedule; she slept, breathed, lived that schedule for nearly a year. She lets herself in and leaves something on the table. She is nearly silent, nearly invisible. She learned quickly, just as she promised, and you are not supposed to be home.
You lean over the railing. She is at the bottom of the stairs. It has been one week since you saw her on the street.
She has seen you bare in many ways: no makeup, no husband. But you have never seen her naked, not truly, and all you remember now is black lashes and fringed hair, that mouth the color of sorbet. Glossed. When she looks up, she is plain-faced, much younger.
Of course she comes when you call. There is something she still wants from you. Approval. Attention. A reason why she waved. You invite her, as much as you invite, into the bedroom.
They think you don't know the lengths they go to, these girls, the preparations they make. As if those lashes are natural, those lips just shining, those bodies born that way. As if magazines spread themselves across your desk every morning. No, you can imagine the bustle of these girls, running, every one of them terrified of you. You can imagine what they look like beneath it all: the washed faces, the small, sleepy eyes. The expanses of skin behind wool and rustling silk.
You touch her clothes, but you don't undress her yourself. You tell her to do it. Hold out your open palm. Take it off. Let me see. And the jacket is in your hand, and the blouse, down to the bra and panties--which are exquisite, and, you're sure, from the March issue. She certainly learned quickly. She pushes back her hair.
One day she was in the car beside you, painted, and the next, she was outside your tinted window with her hair falling around her face. And you could not touch her if you wanted to.
You are standing in your bedroom, both of you, and you slip your hand into her panties the way you touch couture. You feel the fabric, its texture, and then its complement: wetness on your fingertip. She holds your shoulders for stability, then it is her forearms against you, then her forehead touching yours, her naked chest shivering against your breasts. Her lips are just shining. Her cheeks are just flushed. Then her face is hidden--you feel breath on your throat, feel her thighs squeeze your wrist, and as you wonder how she is still standing, she cries out, maybe a laugh, maybe not. And then she is quiet, panting, and still holding you.
Everyone wants to be us, you said. Not me. Not you. Us.
You are rich. You are powerful. And she is very, very free.