DWP Halloween Special - Handy, Chapter 1
FYI: Don't worry I'm also busy with the final chapter of "Ever After", it's half way done and I will definately finish it this weekend!
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Title: Handy
Rating: NC-17 (well, not yet)
Pairing: Andy/Miranda
Prompt: Based on a prompt by pradaschroma about Miranda “accidentally” grabbing Andy’s breast.
Summary: Miranda is having a bad day. And then it gets worse :-O
Warnings: It’s a Halloween Special!! Craziness ensues!
Disclaimer: I don’t own The Devil Wears Prada. I only play around with our favourite characters because it’s entertaining and no profit is being made.
A/N: At first I wanted this to be a short little crack-fic but once I started writing I felt that it needed more depth. So by giving it a thorough base I’m hoping that once the Halloween craziness has subsided, that which has been built between our two heroines, will remain.
Like my other story, this has not been beta-read. I try to proof-read and edit what I write by myself but English is not my mother tongue, so tread with care. ^_^
Chapter 1
Miranda Priestly pushed through the door into the busy New York street. What a disaster! The new Holt collection was hideous. She had not seen a single garment that she could feature in the December issue. The models might as well have worn the newest Wallmart rags. And those purses? Atrocities! They had looked like roadkill on a sling. She looked around for her car but there was no sign of the silver Mercedes. Great, was everyone trying to piss her off today? She was close enough to run her hands through her short, white hair in exasperation, but as usual, she balled it all up inside and calmed her outer appearance.
The door behind her opened and her first assistant Andrea Sachs stumbled out. “Miranda! I called Roy, he’s just a few blocks down...” But the older woman interrupted by holding up her hand. “Bore someone else with your explanations. It is beyond my comprehension why my car cannot simply be here when I need it.” It didn’t matter that she had just stormed out in the middle of a showing and had sent her driver off on another errand earlier. She knew it wasn’t Andrea’s fault either, the girl was actually very competent. Miranda sighed and firmly clutched her purse. She detested waiting, it was a waste of time. She was certainly not going to spend endless minutes standing on a filthy sidewalk.
Without a word she spun on her heel and began walking down the street, the clacking of heels behind her indicating that the girl was following. She was Miranda Priestly, editor-in-chief of RUNWAY, the number one magazine in the fashion world. If everyone around her was about to implode from their own uselessness she just had to take matters into her own hands. Her four inch Prada heels bore into the concrete as she swiftly cut through the throng of pedestrians. People actually looked up startled and moved out of her way. She snarled as she pulled her black Chanel trench coat tighter. Everyone feared her, just by laying their eyes on her. She knew she radiated command, it kept her safe, it made people keep their distance. It especially came in handy when having to do such demeaning tasks as walking down a New York City sidewalk on a cold October afternoon.
“Please spare a coin,” a hunched old woman in dirty clothes stepped in her way, forcing her to come to an abrupt stop. Miranda tilted her head to the side in displeasure and glared at the person in front of her through her Prada sunglasses. She had absolutely no patience for this today. The old woman opened her mouth in a toothless grin and held an empty palm up to Miranda. “Please spare a coin.” The smell of urine and other street filth wafted toward the editor and she wrinkled her nose and turned her face away. This day could not possibly get worse. She stepped around her with a sniff and continued down the block, hearing the old woman mumble something inaudible after her, probably a rude remark or an insult. Miranda rolled her eyes. People.
“Miranda,” her assistant tried to catch up to her. “Roy is here.” She spotted the Mercedes pulling over right beside her and she did not even wait for the driver to step out. Before she could reach for the door handle herself, though, Andrea had already rushed forward and stood to hold the car door open with a friendly smile. Well, at least some people still did their job. Miranda sighed as she elegantly glided into the back seat and removed her glasses. Her assistant quietly slid through the other door and was already busy on the phone, calling in an order to Starbucks. Coffee, that sounded good right now. Miranda glanced over at the girl. Andrea knew her so well.
The car pulled into New York traffic and Miranda turned her head to look out at the world traveling by. She was glad for the isolation of the car as she watched the hordes of badly-dressed office workers beginning their journey home. She really could not understand ordinary people and their uninspiring lives. Andrea’s phone rang and the girl answered quickly, speaking briefly but efficiently with the personal assistant of Lagerfeld about their meeting next week. Miranda inhaled deeply. At least Andrea kept things running smoothly.
Her eyes travelled along the sidewalk when she all of a sudden noticed the old woman from earlier staring at her, following the car with her eyes. How could she possibly see her? The windows were tinted. But those eyes seemed to burn right into her and then she spread her toothless mouth into a smug grin. Miranda turned her head to keep looking but as soon as she blinked the woman had disappeared between a throng of people. Miranda leaned back into the seat and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She was losing her mind. She really did need that coffee.
Back in her office she was on the phone with Patrick Demarchelier, the proofs from the Ralph Lauren shoot spread across her desk. She made clear he understood what she thought about model number 2, with the blond curls and the bored expression on her bony face, and then hung up. She was getting very picky lately with the girls they hired for photo shoots. Many of them looked empty, without vibrancy. And too skinny. Miranda sniffed. Right. Now she was getting concerned with the eating habits of fashion models. She shook her head. No she did not really care how they ate. She only cared about her work, about aesthetics.
She rubbed her fingers against the base of her neck. For some reason she did not find skinny models aesthetically pleasing. She had never thought about it earlier, it had not even entered her mind. What had always been important were the clothes. So why did she all of a sudden notice that the models were... lacking? There was nothing wrong with them by the standards of the fashion industry. An industry she herself had greatly influence over the past two decades. Miranda exhaled sharply. She was indeed losing her mind.
Andrea walked in with a big paper cup of Starbucks coffee and placed it quietly on the glass desk in front of her. “The girls called. Their arrangements for tonight are confirmed and Roy will pick them up at seven.” Miranda nodded and reached for the coffee. That’s right, tonight was the Halloween party at her twin daughters’ school. She would not see them before she got home and they had sleepover plans at one of their friends’ houses. She took a slow sip from her coffee, enjoying the burning sensation of the steaming hot liquid as it ran down her throat. Her assistant stood before her, hands clasped behind her back. “Was there anything else?” she asked with a smile, her large brown eyes shining with the urge to please.
“No. That’s all.” Miranda dismissed her and turned her chair around so she had her back to the door and could gaze out into the early evening New York skyline. She dreaded the thought of returning to an empty house at night. It was only a few days since her third divorce had been finalized but Stephen had moved out the moment he had filed for it. While she was in Paris for Spring Fashion Week. He had not even had the balls to do it in person. Miranda thought back to that day with a shudder. He had ordered his lawyers to phone her when she was getting ready for another obligatory dinner. She was about to get dressed when the finality of yet another failed marriage had hit her.
Miranda Priestly married for convenience and companionship. Her first husband had been a good friend, with useful connections and they had spent a few enjoyable years before his infidelities had been plastered in the gossip magazines one too many times. She was not as much bothered by his unfaithfulness as by him not being discreet enough. Her second husband had been the perfect father, and Miranda’s life had been greatly enriched by the arrival of her daughters. She would never change a thing about that. When husband number two had grown tired of her, or rather, as he had put it, “found his soul mate” in a twenty year younger secretary, Miranda had let him go as well. Not without making sure her twins would still have him in their lives, though.
Stephen had been promising. Miranda had envisioned him as good father figure and they had shared a common interest in French romantic composers and wine. However Stephen had taken his interest in wine too far. Only a few months into their marriage he had begun to arrive home intoxicated, and he was not a peaceful drunk. Miranda brought the coffee back to her lips when she remembered their many fights. He had blamed his alcoholism on her, saying she had emasculated him. That he always stood in her shadow, and that she did not treat him like a wife should treat her husband. They had fought frequently and Miranda knew it had taken its toll on her daughters.
She swirled another sip of coffee around in her mouth and swallowed, thinking back at one particular fight when Andrea, second assistant back then, had accidentally walked in on them. Miranda had been so shocked and embarrassed to have the girl see her not have control in her own home that she had tried to sabotage her the next day by giving her a seemingly impossible task and the threat of failure turning into immediate dismissal. Andrea, however, had excelled, providing her daughters’ favourite book manuscript before its actual publication and not only winning a spot in the girls' hearts but also earning Miranda’s respect. It was a week later that Miranda had learned from the twins that they had sent the assistant up to stop her and Stephen from fighting.
Andrea was more or less connected to her divorce from Stephen. When Miranda had received the news in Paris and allowed her mask to fall, crying over the failure of providing stability for her daughters, Andrea had walked in and seen her. Seen her without make-up, eyes red, wearing nothing but a thin bathrobe. It was the girl’s apparent compassion and the fact that she did not once judge her boss, that had helped Miranda pull herself together and continue with the evening and the rest of fashion week. Even after she had crushed one of her long-time employee’s dreams of independence in order to safe her own position, the girl had not wavered or become judgemental.
Miranda looked up into the evening sky, daylight had disappeared and the fluorescence of nighttime New York City drowned out the beauty of the stars. After she had swallowed the last of her coffee and disposed of the empty cup she allowed herself to smile. Andrea had really been the only constant in her life over the past few months. Her other assistant Emily had been transferred after a more or less satisfactory year in her employ and since then she’d had to fire countless of incompetent, useless girls. They were barely good enough to fetch skirts from Calvin Klein or run to Hermès for more scarves and Miranda would never let them do important things, such as delivering The Book, or getting her coffee. No, she only trusted her cheery first assistant with those tasks. Furthermore the girl was the only one who was allowed by her side when she went to showings or important meetings. There had also been the occasional business dinner or two.
Miranda relaxed back into her office chair and exhaled. It would certainly not be easy once Andrea’s year was up, and not a single assistant in Miranda’s twenty years as editor had ever taken up the offer for a contract extension. Andrea certainly would not stay, she had been the most promising girl to date. She was skilled, efficient and very intelligent. She was nice to have around at benefits or balls. She was eye-candy and great for showing off the newest designer gowns but despite the obvious interest she inspired in others, she never left Miranda’s side. Andrea was also funny. Miranda did not laugh at work, unless it was a fake sarcastic laugh to scare someone into submission. However the young assistant's wit had more than once forced Miranda to hide a chuckle behind her hand. Hmmm. There was just something about that girl.
Suddenly Miranda realized that her right hand had somehow found its way under her blouse and was stroking her belly in languid circles. And had she just hummed? She immediately sat up straight and tried to pull her hand away but to her utter surprise she seemed to have absolutely not control over her right arm. She snorted. This was ridiculous. She pulled again but her hand only jerked higher, brushing against the silk of her bra. Her eyes grew wide and she tried to use her left hand to pull her other arm down. It took a lot of effort and she could not prevent a frustrated grunt from escaping, but after a short while her right arm was at a safe distance outside of her blouse. Just in time, too, because Miranda heard the soft clearing of a throat coming from her left.
“Miranda, is everything alright?” Andrea must have heard her. Miranda slowly spun the chair around to face her assistant, when the right hand jerked forward, pulling her whole body along. To her utter horror that damned hand flew straight at Andrea and clamped itself snugly around the girl’s left breast.
To be continued...
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Title: Handy
Rating: NC-17 (well, not yet)
Pairing: Andy/Miranda
Prompt: Based on a prompt by pradaschroma about Miranda “accidentally” grabbing Andy’s breast.
Summary: Miranda is having a bad day. And then it gets worse :-O
Warnings: It’s a Halloween Special!! Craziness ensues!
Disclaimer: I don’t own The Devil Wears Prada. I only play around with our favourite characters because it’s entertaining and no profit is being made.
A/N: At first I wanted this to be a short little crack-fic but once I started writing I felt that it needed more depth. So by giving it a thorough base I’m hoping that once the Halloween craziness has subsided, that which has been built between our two heroines, will remain.
Like my other story, this has not been beta-read. I try to proof-read and edit what I write by myself but English is not my mother tongue, so tread with care. ^_^
Chapter 1
Miranda Priestly pushed through the door into the busy New York street. What a disaster! The new Holt collection was hideous. She had not seen a single garment that she could feature in the December issue. The models might as well have worn the newest Wallmart rags. And those purses? Atrocities! They had looked like roadkill on a sling. She looked around for her car but there was no sign of the silver Mercedes. Great, was everyone trying to piss her off today? She was close enough to run her hands through her short, white hair in exasperation, but as usual, she balled it all up inside and calmed her outer appearance.
The door behind her opened and her first assistant Andrea Sachs stumbled out. “Miranda! I called Roy, he’s just a few blocks down...” But the older woman interrupted by holding up her hand. “Bore someone else with your explanations. It is beyond my comprehension why my car cannot simply be here when I need it.” It didn’t matter that she had just stormed out in the middle of a showing and had sent her driver off on another errand earlier. She knew it wasn’t Andrea’s fault either, the girl was actually very competent. Miranda sighed and firmly clutched her purse. She detested waiting, it was a waste of time. She was certainly not going to spend endless minutes standing on a filthy sidewalk.
Without a word she spun on her heel and began walking down the street, the clacking of heels behind her indicating that the girl was following. She was Miranda Priestly, editor-in-chief of RUNWAY, the number one magazine in the fashion world. If everyone around her was about to implode from their own uselessness she just had to take matters into her own hands. Her four inch Prada heels bore into the concrete as she swiftly cut through the throng of pedestrians. People actually looked up startled and moved out of her way. She snarled as she pulled her black Chanel trench coat tighter. Everyone feared her, just by laying their eyes on her. She knew she radiated command, it kept her safe, it made people keep their distance. It especially came in handy when having to do such demeaning tasks as walking down a New York City sidewalk on a cold October afternoon.
“Please spare a coin,” a hunched old woman in dirty clothes stepped in her way, forcing her to come to an abrupt stop. Miranda tilted her head to the side in displeasure and glared at the person in front of her through her Prada sunglasses. She had absolutely no patience for this today. The old woman opened her mouth in a toothless grin and held an empty palm up to Miranda. “Please spare a coin.” The smell of urine and other street filth wafted toward the editor and she wrinkled her nose and turned her face away. This day could not possibly get worse. She stepped around her with a sniff and continued down the block, hearing the old woman mumble something inaudible after her, probably a rude remark or an insult. Miranda rolled her eyes. People.
“Miranda,” her assistant tried to catch up to her. “Roy is here.” She spotted the Mercedes pulling over right beside her and she did not even wait for the driver to step out. Before she could reach for the door handle herself, though, Andrea had already rushed forward and stood to hold the car door open with a friendly smile. Well, at least some people still did their job. Miranda sighed as she elegantly glided into the back seat and removed her glasses. Her assistant quietly slid through the other door and was already busy on the phone, calling in an order to Starbucks. Coffee, that sounded good right now. Miranda glanced over at the girl. Andrea knew her so well.
The car pulled into New York traffic and Miranda turned her head to look out at the world traveling by. She was glad for the isolation of the car as she watched the hordes of badly-dressed office workers beginning their journey home. She really could not understand ordinary people and their uninspiring lives. Andrea’s phone rang and the girl answered quickly, speaking briefly but efficiently with the personal assistant of Lagerfeld about their meeting next week. Miranda inhaled deeply. At least Andrea kept things running smoothly.
Her eyes travelled along the sidewalk when she all of a sudden noticed the old woman from earlier staring at her, following the car with her eyes. How could she possibly see her? The windows were tinted. But those eyes seemed to burn right into her and then she spread her toothless mouth into a smug grin. Miranda turned her head to keep looking but as soon as she blinked the woman had disappeared between a throng of people. Miranda leaned back into the seat and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She was losing her mind. She really did need that coffee.
Back in her office she was on the phone with Patrick Demarchelier, the proofs from the Ralph Lauren shoot spread across her desk. She made clear he understood what she thought about model number 2, with the blond curls and the bored expression on her bony face, and then hung up. She was getting very picky lately with the girls they hired for photo shoots. Many of them looked empty, without vibrancy. And too skinny. Miranda sniffed. Right. Now she was getting concerned with the eating habits of fashion models. She shook her head. No she did not really care how they ate. She only cared about her work, about aesthetics.
She rubbed her fingers against the base of her neck. For some reason she did not find skinny models aesthetically pleasing. She had never thought about it earlier, it had not even entered her mind. What had always been important were the clothes. So why did she all of a sudden notice that the models were... lacking? There was nothing wrong with them by the standards of the fashion industry. An industry she herself had greatly influence over the past two decades. Miranda exhaled sharply. She was indeed losing her mind.
Andrea walked in with a big paper cup of Starbucks coffee and placed it quietly on the glass desk in front of her. “The girls called. Their arrangements for tonight are confirmed and Roy will pick them up at seven.” Miranda nodded and reached for the coffee. That’s right, tonight was the Halloween party at her twin daughters’ school. She would not see them before she got home and they had sleepover plans at one of their friends’ houses. She took a slow sip from her coffee, enjoying the burning sensation of the steaming hot liquid as it ran down her throat. Her assistant stood before her, hands clasped behind her back. “Was there anything else?” she asked with a smile, her large brown eyes shining with the urge to please.
“No. That’s all.” Miranda dismissed her and turned her chair around so she had her back to the door and could gaze out into the early evening New York skyline. She dreaded the thought of returning to an empty house at night. It was only a few days since her third divorce had been finalized but Stephen had moved out the moment he had filed for it. While she was in Paris for Spring Fashion Week. He had not even had the balls to do it in person. Miranda thought back to that day with a shudder. He had ordered his lawyers to phone her when she was getting ready for another obligatory dinner. She was about to get dressed when the finality of yet another failed marriage had hit her.
Miranda Priestly married for convenience and companionship. Her first husband had been a good friend, with useful connections and they had spent a few enjoyable years before his infidelities had been plastered in the gossip magazines one too many times. She was not as much bothered by his unfaithfulness as by him not being discreet enough. Her second husband had been the perfect father, and Miranda’s life had been greatly enriched by the arrival of her daughters. She would never change a thing about that. When husband number two had grown tired of her, or rather, as he had put it, “found his soul mate” in a twenty year younger secretary, Miranda had let him go as well. Not without making sure her twins would still have him in their lives, though.
Stephen had been promising. Miranda had envisioned him as good father figure and they had shared a common interest in French romantic composers and wine. However Stephen had taken his interest in wine too far. Only a few months into their marriage he had begun to arrive home intoxicated, and he was not a peaceful drunk. Miranda brought the coffee back to her lips when she remembered their many fights. He had blamed his alcoholism on her, saying she had emasculated him. That he always stood in her shadow, and that she did not treat him like a wife should treat her husband. They had fought frequently and Miranda knew it had taken its toll on her daughters.
She swirled another sip of coffee around in her mouth and swallowed, thinking back at one particular fight when Andrea, second assistant back then, had accidentally walked in on them. Miranda had been so shocked and embarrassed to have the girl see her not have control in her own home that she had tried to sabotage her the next day by giving her a seemingly impossible task and the threat of failure turning into immediate dismissal. Andrea, however, had excelled, providing her daughters’ favourite book manuscript before its actual publication and not only winning a spot in the girls' hearts but also earning Miranda’s respect. It was a week later that Miranda had learned from the twins that they had sent the assistant up to stop her and Stephen from fighting.
Andrea was more or less connected to her divorce from Stephen. When Miranda had received the news in Paris and allowed her mask to fall, crying over the failure of providing stability for her daughters, Andrea had walked in and seen her. Seen her without make-up, eyes red, wearing nothing but a thin bathrobe. It was the girl’s apparent compassion and the fact that she did not once judge her boss, that had helped Miranda pull herself together and continue with the evening and the rest of fashion week. Even after she had crushed one of her long-time employee’s dreams of independence in order to safe her own position, the girl had not wavered or become judgemental.
Miranda looked up into the evening sky, daylight had disappeared and the fluorescence of nighttime New York City drowned out the beauty of the stars. After she had swallowed the last of her coffee and disposed of the empty cup she allowed herself to smile. Andrea had really been the only constant in her life over the past few months. Her other assistant Emily had been transferred after a more or less satisfactory year in her employ and since then she’d had to fire countless of incompetent, useless girls. They were barely good enough to fetch skirts from Calvin Klein or run to Hermès for more scarves and Miranda would never let them do important things, such as delivering The Book, or getting her coffee. No, she only trusted her cheery first assistant with those tasks. Furthermore the girl was the only one who was allowed by her side when she went to showings or important meetings. There had also been the occasional business dinner or two.
Miranda relaxed back into her office chair and exhaled. It would certainly not be easy once Andrea’s year was up, and not a single assistant in Miranda’s twenty years as editor had ever taken up the offer for a contract extension. Andrea certainly would not stay, she had been the most promising girl to date. She was skilled, efficient and very intelligent. She was nice to have around at benefits or balls. She was eye-candy and great for showing off the newest designer gowns but despite the obvious interest she inspired in others, she never left Miranda’s side. Andrea was also funny. Miranda did not laugh at work, unless it was a fake sarcastic laugh to scare someone into submission. However the young assistant's wit had more than once forced Miranda to hide a chuckle behind her hand. Hmmm. There was just something about that girl.
Suddenly Miranda realized that her right hand had somehow found its way under her blouse and was stroking her belly in languid circles. And had she just hummed? She immediately sat up straight and tried to pull her hand away but to her utter surprise she seemed to have absolutely not control over her right arm. She snorted. This was ridiculous. She pulled again but her hand only jerked higher, brushing against the silk of her bra. Her eyes grew wide and she tried to use her left hand to pull her other arm down. It took a lot of effort and she could not prevent a frustrated grunt from escaping, but after a short while her right arm was at a safe distance outside of her blouse. Just in time, too, because Miranda heard the soft clearing of a throat coming from her left.
“Miranda, is everything alright?” Andrea must have heard her. Miranda slowly spun the chair around to face her assistant, when the right hand jerked forward, pulling her whole body along. To her utter horror that damned hand flew straight at Andrea and clamped itself snugly around the girl’s left breast.
To be continued...