Three More for the Three Challenge
Title: The Three Faces of Miranda
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Words: 1,935
Rating: PG/Slight R
Disclaimer: If I owned anything as priceless as Miranda Priestly, I would be living out life quite happily in St. Moritz. Alas, not mine. Never mine.
Author’s Note: This is a belated anniversary gift for two friends for their third anniversary. I thought that a little DWP might be nice. As I said, it may not be any good at all, and some of it isn’t all that romantic, but it’s the thought that counts, right? *g*. Cheers, my friends, and many more!!
Title from the film, “The Three Faces of Eve”. Unbeta’d, so all mistakes mine.
Face: Runway
“Paul.”
“Yes, Miranda?” The faint sheen of sweat on Paul’s forehead was glaringly noticeable in the early morning light that flooded Miranda Priestly’s office. Nigel, watching from the safe distance of the doorway, couldn’t quite stop the sympathetic eye roll as Paul wilted like day old lettuce under the fierce light of Miranda’s sun.
“Paul, it would appear that some horrible mistake has been made, one which puzzles me but which I am quite certain that you can explain,” Miranda stated softly. Always softly, her voice as smooth as twenty year old single malt; laced with arsenic, of course.
“What mistake is that, Miranda?” He didn’t want to ask, would have preferred having his back molars yanked out with rusty pliers, but there was nothing else for it but to ask.
“This layout, Paul. I was supposed to find on my desk this morning layout pages for the premier fashion magazine in the world, layout pages featuring a full five page spread of the latest from Chanel. Yet, instead, I appear to have been given a badly photographed collage done by a second grade class, pasted together with Elmer’s glue,” Miranda intoned quietly, her face as pale and immobile as the ancient Greek sculptures at the Met, cold, unforgiving marble inset with two brilliant sapphires.
“Miranda, we were here until nearly three this morning getting that layout done. I know it may have a few flaws to work out…” Paul’s voice trailed off, as he pictured for the hundredth time Miranda in the stark, terrifying clothing of the Spanish Inquisition. He couldn’t imagine a faith, any faith, capable of withstanding that voice and those eyes. Conversion was a given.
“A few flaws? How interesting. Tell me, Paul, when was the last time that a layout with a “few flaws” made it into my magazine? I find it mind-boggling that you, and apparently the rest of my employees, seem to believe that we are publishing a monthly edition of Fashion for Dummies. Or in this case, Fashion BY Dummies.” The curve of Miranda’s lips might have resembled a smile, but Paul knew better. Everyone at Runway knew better. Having Miranda smile that chilling smile was akin to a kiss on the lips from Michael Corleone. Death might not be imminent, but you most definitely could plan on not seeing another sunrise.
Paul went over in his head all the possible responses, all the explanations, all the excuses. The photographers, the models, the flu that was making it rounds, and discarded them all. Still, he had to say something. Miranda expected a reply, despite the fact that she never listened to it. Apparently, just the sight of lips moving and sound emitting was enough.
“Miranda, I’m sorry. We’ve been short handed this week. The photos had to be touched up and then…” he began, only to fall silent as those lips segued from smirk to purse, nearly disappearing into a thin line.
“Spare me. Your excuses leave the same unpleasant taste in my mouth as your layouts. I do not want reasons why these pages are utterly and completely lacking in any merit whatsoever. I simply want them fixed. By noon. I am certain that you realize that there are hundred of art directors who would kill for your job, Paul. Do not force me to make it available,” Miranda’s eyes swept over his face, taking in the moisture along his hairline, the flush of his cheeks, the rapid bobbing of his Adam’s apple, a wicked gleam lighting her blue eyes. “That’s all.”
From his perch in the doorway, Nigel had observed the unfolding tableau, his instinct to try and help Paul immediately overridden by a love of life and a desire to retire one day to the South of France, neither of which would be his if he interfered. Paul scuttled by him, the faint scent of hatred, fear and perspiration trailing in his wake. Nigel had often thought that it was a fragrance they should bottle and market: Eau du Runway.
The irony was, if Miranda had anything to do with it, they’d make a fortune.
Face: Mom
The light from the hallway spilled into the room, a wide swath of gold against the dark blue of the thick Berber carpet. It fell just short of the bed, the down-filled duvet and smooth sheets seeming to reach out to it, straining to escape the hold of the slender body encased in them. In the dimness of the light, Miranda could make out a small red head against the pale fabric of the pillow.
Miranda moved quietly across the carpet, bare feet sinking into the plush weave. She bent to gather up the wayward covers, lifting them to lay them gently across the recumbent form of her child. Caroline had always been the restless sleeper, as if she and slumber fought a waged battle each night, leaving in their wake rumpled sheets and scattered pillows. Cassidy, on the other hand, did not move once she fell asleep, the duvet as crisp and unwrinkled in the morning as the night before.
“Mom?’ Caroline sounded so impossibly young, her voice heavy with the weight of sleep.
Miranda sat down on the edge of the mattress, brushing a hand along the soft, smooth skin of her daughter’s cheek.
“What are you doing awake, Bobbsey? It’s after ten. You have school tomorrow,” Miranda said tenderly, her fingers again brushing the silken fall of hair off Caroline’s cheek.
“I know. I think I had a bad dream,” Caroline said sleepily, sighing softly at the gentle sweep of her mother’s hand against her skin.
“What kind of bad dream?” Miranda asked, standing briefly to pull back the covers and slip in beside her child, feeling the warmth of Caroline’s body seep into her very bones as her drowsy offspring immediately snuggled close.
“I can’t remember it all. I couldn’t find you. I called and called and you didn’t answer. And I couldn’t find Cass,” Caroline recounted, her voice so low that Miranda had to strain to hear it. The thought that her daughter had been alone and frightened, unable to find her brought the sting of tears to Miranda’s eyes.
Wrapping her arms tightly around the small body, Miranda let the terrifying wave of love for her daughter wash over her, leaving her feeling like a buoy in high seas, tossed and slightly battered. Her feelings for her children always evoked that response in her.
She had watched a film once, Pleasantville, a fairly innocuous piece about conformity and societal norms, and yet there was a moment in it that had dragged an unwilling gasp from her lips. The first burst of color in a black and white world, the blood red of a rose, the startling blue of eyes mirrored the intense, nearly paralyzing emotion that gripped her when she gazed at the twins.
Caroline and Cassidy had brought color to a colorless world, one previously free of such embarrassing distractions as sentiment. And now, hearing her daughter’s breathing even out into sleep, her thin arm flung carelessly across Miranda’s stomach, she saw again the brilliant hues of green and blue and pink as petals fell softly to an earth that hours ago had been dull and gray.
Face: Miranda
She hadn’t expected to feel this way; not now, not after so many years of feeling nothing. Hadn’t anticipated the lump of tenderness that lodged in her esophagus, like a pill swallowed wrong, whenever she looked at Andrea. She could swear that she could feel the shape of it, oblong and flat, each edge pressing out against the skin of her throat; could feel the air of each breath weave around it, like water snaking around a boulder in a stream.
She could easily accept the passion, the jaw-clenching, thigh-clenching need that found her pressing that lithe body up against the hard corner of her desk, skin hot and flushed, a wayward droplet of sweat meandering down her spine as her arm flexed rhythmically to the sharp punctuations of Andrea’s cries. Passion, even want, could be readily filed away as perfectly normal. Sex was, after all, sex.
What she couldn’t reconcile was all the rest.
Lying in bed, the first grainy rays of morning light slipping like stray cats through the breaks in the curtains, she watched Andrea sleep, one squared finger tracing with awe the sloping curve of a slender shoulder. The skin beneath her own was warm satin as she drew the elegant line of clavicle and neck, the frame of dark hair giving a lustrous translucence to that silken skin.
Her finger moved up to ghost along the impossible fullness of Andrea’s lips, outlining the generous curves, just dipping lightly into the tiny dimples at each corner. She found that she couldn’t help bending over and allowing her own lips to follow the same path, along the gentle rise of shoulder up to press ever so lightly against those bee-stung lips.
Dear God. When had she, Miranda Priestly, become a woman who lay awake in the gray light of dawn and watched her lover sleep?
Disgusting. Pathetic, even.
And yet, as Andrea’s eye fluttered open, her dark gaze still unfocused as she blinked away the shadows of sleep, Miranda couldn’t stop the slow, loving smile that spread across her face. Not that she tried very hard.
“What’re you doing?” Andy breathed, a deep sigh accompanying a languid stretch of slender limbs.
“Watching you. Considering that you seldom stop talking, I thought I would grab the opportunity to see you still and quiet while I had the chance,” Miranda teased, leaning her cheek on one hand as she watched the slow parade of reactions march across Andrea’s face.
“Hey!” Andy managed finally, a hand coming up to push playfully at Miranda’s chest, the force just enough to send her sprawling back against the luxurious pillows. “I’m quiet all the time. Well, I mean, often. I’m often quiet.”
Miranda felt the laughter bubble up inside her at the look of amused pique on Andrea’s face.
“No, darling, you are not often quiet. Or still. In fact, I have seen a cage full of marmosets that are less loud and rambunctious,” Miranda chuckled, enjoying the feel of the younger woman’s body as Andrea slid over to half sprawl across her, firm breasts pressing against her own.
“So you’re comparing me to small monkeys now, is that what I’m hearing? You wake me up at some ungodly hour and then tell me I remind you of tiny primates?” Andy smirked at her, a clear challenge in her eyes, her hands already beginning to roam along Miranda’s side, caressing the curve of her hips. “You do know that you’ll have to be punished for this, don’t you, Miranda?”
“I was counting on it, Andrea,” Miranda laughed, her own hands coming up to cup the beautiful face hovering over her, pulling Andy down for a long, infinitely satisfying kiss.
As Andrea began her gentle, playful pilgrimage of hands and mouth down the length of Miranda’s body, Miranda ran her fingers through thick tresses, smiling as Andy murmured vaguely puerile and indecent propositions between nips and open mouthed kisses. Tilting her head, Miranda watched the slow progression, the trail of dark hair across her bare chest and stomach.
How, after years of nothing special, could she have possibly anticipated this? Swallowing around the ever-present lump, Miranda wondered for the thousandth time if it was possible to suffocate on tenderness. To suffocate on joy.
How could she have ever imagined that she just might find out?
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Words: 1,935
Rating: PG/Slight R
Disclaimer: If I owned anything as priceless as Miranda Priestly, I would be living out life quite happily in St. Moritz. Alas, not mine. Never mine.
Author’s Note: This is a belated anniversary gift for two friends for their third anniversary. I thought that a little DWP might be nice. As I said, it may not be any good at all, and some of it isn’t all that romantic, but it’s the thought that counts, right? *g*. Cheers, my friends, and many more!!
Title from the film, “The Three Faces of Eve”. Unbeta’d, so all mistakes mine.
Face: Runway
“Paul.”
“Yes, Miranda?” The faint sheen of sweat on Paul’s forehead was glaringly noticeable in the early morning light that flooded Miranda Priestly’s office. Nigel, watching from the safe distance of the doorway, couldn’t quite stop the sympathetic eye roll as Paul wilted like day old lettuce under the fierce light of Miranda’s sun.
“Paul, it would appear that some horrible mistake has been made, one which puzzles me but which I am quite certain that you can explain,” Miranda stated softly. Always softly, her voice as smooth as twenty year old single malt; laced with arsenic, of course.
“What mistake is that, Miranda?” He didn’t want to ask, would have preferred having his back molars yanked out with rusty pliers, but there was nothing else for it but to ask.
“This layout, Paul. I was supposed to find on my desk this morning layout pages for the premier fashion magazine in the world, layout pages featuring a full five page spread of the latest from Chanel. Yet, instead, I appear to have been given a badly photographed collage done by a second grade class, pasted together with Elmer’s glue,” Miranda intoned quietly, her face as pale and immobile as the ancient Greek sculptures at the Met, cold, unforgiving marble inset with two brilliant sapphires.
“Miranda, we were here until nearly three this morning getting that layout done. I know it may have a few flaws to work out…” Paul’s voice trailed off, as he pictured for the hundredth time Miranda in the stark, terrifying clothing of the Spanish Inquisition. He couldn’t imagine a faith, any faith, capable of withstanding that voice and those eyes. Conversion was a given.
“A few flaws? How interesting. Tell me, Paul, when was the last time that a layout with a “few flaws” made it into my magazine? I find it mind-boggling that you, and apparently the rest of my employees, seem to believe that we are publishing a monthly edition of Fashion for Dummies. Or in this case, Fashion BY Dummies.” The curve of Miranda’s lips might have resembled a smile, but Paul knew better. Everyone at Runway knew better. Having Miranda smile that chilling smile was akin to a kiss on the lips from Michael Corleone. Death might not be imminent, but you most definitely could plan on not seeing another sunrise.
Paul went over in his head all the possible responses, all the explanations, all the excuses. The photographers, the models, the flu that was making it rounds, and discarded them all. Still, he had to say something. Miranda expected a reply, despite the fact that she never listened to it. Apparently, just the sight of lips moving and sound emitting was enough.
“Miranda, I’m sorry. We’ve been short handed this week. The photos had to be touched up and then…” he began, only to fall silent as those lips segued from smirk to purse, nearly disappearing into a thin line.
“Spare me. Your excuses leave the same unpleasant taste in my mouth as your layouts. I do not want reasons why these pages are utterly and completely lacking in any merit whatsoever. I simply want them fixed. By noon. I am certain that you realize that there are hundred of art directors who would kill for your job, Paul. Do not force me to make it available,” Miranda’s eyes swept over his face, taking in the moisture along his hairline, the flush of his cheeks, the rapid bobbing of his Adam’s apple, a wicked gleam lighting her blue eyes. “That’s all.”
From his perch in the doorway, Nigel had observed the unfolding tableau, his instinct to try and help Paul immediately overridden by a love of life and a desire to retire one day to the South of France, neither of which would be his if he interfered. Paul scuttled by him, the faint scent of hatred, fear and perspiration trailing in his wake. Nigel had often thought that it was a fragrance they should bottle and market: Eau du Runway.
The irony was, if Miranda had anything to do with it, they’d make a fortune.
Face: Mom
The light from the hallway spilled into the room, a wide swath of gold against the dark blue of the thick Berber carpet. It fell just short of the bed, the down-filled duvet and smooth sheets seeming to reach out to it, straining to escape the hold of the slender body encased in them. In the dimness of the light, Miranda could make out a small red head against the pale fabric of the pillow.
Miranda moved quietly across the carpet, bare feet sinking into the plush weave. She bent to gather up the wayward covers, lifting them to lay them gently across the recumbent form of her child. Caroline had always been the restless sleeper, as if she and slumber fought a waged battle each night, leaving in their wake rumpled sheets and scattered pillows. Cassidy, on the other hand, did not move once she fell asleep, the duvet as crisp and unwrinkled in the morning as the night before.
“Mom?’ Caroline sounded so impossibly young, her voice heavy with the weight of sleep.
Miranda sat down on the edge of the mattress, brushing a hand along the soft, smooth skin of her daughter’s cheek.
“What are you doing awake, Bobbsey? It’s after ten. You have school tomorrow,” Miranda said tenderly, her fingers again brushing the silken fall of hair off Caroline’s cheek.
“I know. I think I had a bad dream,” Caroline said sleepily, sighing softly at the gentle sweep of her mother’s hand against her skin.
“What kind of bad dream?” Miranda asked, standing briefly to pull back the covers and slip in beside her child, feeling the warmth of Caroline’s body seep into her very bones as her drowsy offspring immediately snuggled close.
“I can’t remember it all. I couldn’t find you. I called and called and you didn’t answer. And I couldn’t find Cass,” Caroline recounted, her voice so low that Miranda had to strain to hear it. The thought that her daughter had been alone and frightened, unable to find her brought the sting of tears to Miranda’s eyes.
Wrapping her arms tightly around the small body, Miranda let the terrifying wave of love for her daughter wash over her, leaving her feeling like a buoy in high seas, tossed and slightly battered. Her feelings for her children always evoked that response in her.
She had watched a film once, Pleasantville, a fairly innocuous piece about conformity and societal norms, and yet there was a moment in it that had dragged an unwilling gasp from her lips. The first burst of color in a black and white world, the blood red of a rose, the startling blue of eyes mirrored the intense, nearly paralyzing emotion that gripped her when she gazed at the twins.
Caroline and Cassidy had brought color to a colorless world, one previously free of such embarrassing distractions as sentiment. And now, hearing her daughter’s breathing even out into sleep, her thin arm flung carelessly across Miranda’s stomach, she saw again the brilliant hues of green and blue and pink as petals fell softly to an earth that hours ago had been dull and gray.
Face: Miranda
She hadn’t expected to feel this way; not now, not after so many years of feeling nothing. Hadn’t anticipated the lump of tenderness that lodged in her esophagus, like a pill swallowed wrong, whenever she looked at Andrea. She could swear that she could feel the shape of it, oblong and flat, each edge pressing out against the skin of her throat; could feel the air of each breath weave around it, like water snaking around a boulder in a stream.
She could easily accept the passion, the jaw-clenching, thigh-clenching need that found her pressing that lithe body up against the hard corner of her desk, skin hot and flushed, a wayward droplet of sweat meandering down her spine as her arm flexed rhythmically to the sharp punctuations of Andrea’s cries. Passion, even want, could be readily filed away as perfectly normal. Sex was, after all, sex.
What she couldn’t reconcile was all the rest.
Lying in bed, the first grainy rays of morning light slipping like stray cats through the breaks in the curtains, she watched Andrea sleep, one squared finger tracing with awe the sloping curve of a slender shoulder. The skin beneath her own was warm satin as she drew the elegant line of clavicle and neck, the frame of dark hair giving a lustrous translucence to that silken skin.
Her finger moved up to ghost along the impossible fullness of Andrea’s lips, outlining the generous curves, just dipping lightly into the tiny dimples at each corner. She found that she couldn’t help bending over and allowing her own lips to follow the same path, along the gentle rise of shoulder up to press ever so lightly against those bee-stung lips.
Dear God. When had she, Miranda Priestly, become a woman who lay awake in the gray light of dawn and watched her lover sleep?
Disgusting. Pathetic, even.
And yet, as Andrea’s eye fluttered open, her dark gaze still unfocused as she blinked away the shadows of sleep, Miranda couldn’t stop the slow, loving smile that spread across her face. Not that she tried very hard.
“What’re you doing?” Andy breathed, a deep sigh accompanying a languid stretch of slender limbs.
“Watching you. Considering that you seldom stop talking, I thought I would grab the opportunity to see you still and quiet while I had the chance,” Miranda teased, leaning her cheek on one hand as she watched the slow parade of reactions march across Andrea’s face.
“Hey!” Andy managed finally, a hand coming up to push playfully at Miranda’s chest, the force just enough to send her sprawling back against the luxurious pillows. “I’m quiet all the time. Well, I mean, often. I’m often quiet.”
Miranda felt the laughter bubble up inside her at the look of amused pique on Andrea’s face.
“No, darling, you are not often quiet. Or still. In fact, I have seen a cage full of marmosets that are less loud and rambunctious,” Miranda chuckled, enjoying the feel of the younger woman’s body as Andrea slid over to half sprawl across her, firm breasts pressing against her own.
“So you’re comparing me to small monkeys now, is that what I’m hearing? You wake me up at some ungodly hour and then tell me I remind you of tiny primates?” Andy smirked at her, a clear challenge in her eyes, her hands already beginning to roam along Miranda’s side, caressing the curve of her hips. “You do know that you’ll have to be punished for this, don’t you, Miranda?”
“I was counting on it, Andrea,” Miranda laughed, her own hands coming up to cup the beautiful face hovering over her, pulling Andy down for a long, infinitely satisfying kiss.
As Andrea began her gentle, playful pilgrimage of hands and mouth down the length of Miranda’s body, Miranda ran her fingers through thick tresses, smiling as Andy murmured vaguely puerile and indecent propositions between nips and open mouthed kisses. Tilting her head, Miranda watched the slow progression, the trail of dark hair across her bare chest and stomach.
How, after years of nothing special, could she have possibly anticipated this? Swallowing around the ever-present lump, Miranda wondered for the thousandth time if it was possible to suffocate on tenderness. To suffocate on joy.
How could she have ever imagined that she just might find out?