A ficlet: Unmoored
Title: Unmoored
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: R
Words: 883
Disclaimer: In these troubled times, I own little. Miranda definitely isn’t one of them.
Author’s note: Unbeta’d, so all mistakes mine. I am in the middle of writing a DWP epic (25,000 words and counting) and apparently my muse felt the need for a little break. She often does; it usually includes drunken carousing and naked women. Here are the naked women. The drunken carousing you’ll have to manage on your own.
Miranda Priestly had a thing about sheets.
Well, actually, she had several things about sheets. One, the thread count must at least rival the gross domestic product of Sweden or they didn’t enter the Priestly house. Second, there should be no florals. Also, no plaids, no stripes, and definitely no animal prints. In fact, nothing should mar the pristine surface of Egyptian cotton. Plain, pastel shades. Mint, ecru, buttercup. None of which Andrea Sachs had any problem accepting.
It was Miranda’s third issue with sheets that was the cause of the current discord in a certain bedroom on the Upper East Side.
“Andrea.”
When Miranda had said her name scant three minutes ago, her voice had been soft, breathless, adoring even. Now, well, now it just sounded like Miranda.
When Andy failed to respond, Miranda spoke her name again, a definite edge to her voice. Andy had begun to think of this as Miranda’s “dull steak knife” voice. Not sharp enough to do any serious damage, but still, it stung as it ghosted along your skin.
“No, Miranda. I am not getting up. If you want the sheets tucked back in, do it yourself. I just had a lovely orgasm, I am happy, and relaxed and I am not moving,” Andrea tried to keep her own tone neutral, but knew she didn’t quite succeed when she heard the deep intake of breath from the other side of the bed.
“As I am not the one who pulled the sheets from their moorings, I fail to understand why you feel that I should be the one to fix them, Andrea.” Paring knife now. Smaller, but definitely sharper.
“No, but considering that you’re the one who received, shall we say, the direct benefit of why the sheets got pulled loose, and especially since you are the one who can’t sleep unless all the tiny little edges of the sheets and the duvet are tucked in all neat and perfect, it doesn’t seem all that unreasonable that you occasionally be the one to fix them.” Andy often wondered why she felt compelled to wave the red flag in her own personal bull’s face, but sometimes it was necessary to call Miranda on her overwhelming sense of entitlement. Not pleasant, but necessary.
“If you will recall, Andrea,” Miranda began, her voice low and soft, almost a purr, and Andy felt a “fuck” slip across her brain. Silk rope now. Not as immediately deadly as a knife and certainly requiring an intimacy lacking in her other tones, but no less dangerous. “You were also on the receiving end of that same action, one which I managed to perform to your immense satisfaction if the screaming of my name was any indication. And I did so without the necessity of unraveling the bed. But then, I suppose that those freakishly long legs do provide you with a certain handicap.”
“Hey! You seemed to like those freakish legs when you were running your tongue up and down them. Or when they’re encased in a particular pair of Chanel boots,” Andy sat up, a look of indignation on her face. Sometimes, Miranda went too far. “Besides, the reason I pull the sheets out is because I need to stay covered up. If it didn’t take you so long to, you know, then I wouldn’t need to pull the sheets out. My ass gets cold if I don’t.”
“Take me so long to, ‘you know’? Naked in bed after hours of sex and you can’t even manage the correct terminology? Really, Andrea. You mean when I orgasm. When I climax. When I come for you, my darling?” God, when Miranda said anything in that rich, silken tone, like molten chocolate, Andy could feel her toes curl and her mouth go dry. When she said those things, Andy could feel every nerve ending in her body sit up at attention.
“Will you? Will you come for me again, Miranda?” Andy slid across the inches of supple sheet and traced her lips along the elegant line of Miranda’s neck. The deep purring sound in the back of Miranda’s throat sent all rational thought skittering out of Andy’s brain.
“Probably,” Miranda murmured, her fingers in Andrea’s thick hair as the younger woman began her slow, torturously pleasurable descent down the length of Miranda’s body. “It may take a while.”
Andy smiled against the taut skin of Miranda’s stomach. Being Miranda Priestly’s lover was never easy, but most of the time it was so worth it.
“That’s okay, honey, take all the time you need,” Andy assured her, angling her legs so that at least most of her bottom half was covered by the still unmoored sheet and duvet. She ran her tongue along the insides of Miranda’s thighs, edging ever closer to those damp curls. She heard Miranda sigh and moan softly.
“Oh, and darling, when you’re done, don’t forget to tuck the sheets back in,” Miranda said softly. Despite her current position, Andy knew that there was a satisfied smirk on Miranda’s face, one that had little to do with Andy’s ministrations.
Chuckling to herself, Andy lowered her head, slowly running her tongue through Miranda’s satiny wetness. If the woman wanted to smirk, Andy would just have to give her something to smirk about.
Then she’d tuck in the sheets.