Follow You | NC17 | The Devil Wears Prada
Title: Follow You
Prompt: “Paparazzi” by Lady Gaga
Challenge: 100 Fic Challenge (#17)
Fandom: Andy/Miranda, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: take_itback
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 2653
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: I veered a little off from the original prompt, which called for smut and a specific line of the song to be used. The tone of this song suggested something a little different, and I went for it. This is set during/after the benefit scene in the film. Hope you enjoy…let me know what you think!
-
Miranda has perfect skin.
You know this because you've spent enough time looking and there isn't a blemish or anything that would qualify as unsightly. You also know this because you know what it's like to have imperfect skin. The minute you hit puberty, you were cursed. You're sure that if you had skin like Miranda's you'd probably never stop touching its smoothness.
You want to touch Miranda's smoothness, and this is a problem.
She's your boss. You're straight. She is a vicious woman, capable of eliciting tears and cutting you so deep that if you could be turned inside out, you'd be a crosshatched mess. You're in a relationship. You're straight and dating a man you love and all you want to do is place your hands on her shoulders and nuzzle your nose along the soft, smooth planes of her back.
This thought makes you uncomfortable, so you fidget. Emily attributes this to your wanting to be with your boyfriend on his birthday. And yes, you would prefer to be with your friends and the man that you love instead of some benefit where there are hundreds of people you don't know and who don't care to know you. The only silver lining is Miranda, and even that isn't enough to make you want to stay because she could care less that you're there.
That's untrue. She wouldn't have asked--no, told--you to come if it weren't for Emily's cold. So she does want you there, or need you, and in some twisted way that fills your insides with warmth.
Your eyes trail down the ridges of Miranda’s spine and you know without a doubt that, given the choice, you’d still be here, following Miranda like some invisible puppy.
So here you are, bailing Emily out every once in a while when she has forgotten the name of somebody or other. You have nothing to do but absorb everything around you. You'd think you'd be entertained by the people-watching; it's always been a favorite pastime. You and your father made a habit of people-watching back home, and Ohio is filled to the brim with fascinating oddities. You snort to yourself. You realize that you've just compared your birthplace to a freak show and you acknowledge that there might be a grain of truth to your friends' comments that you've changed.
But you don't care about the people around you or the people with whom you associate. They're all stuffy and boring, in your opinion anyway. Emily would probably slip on a puddle of her own grateful tears if anyone were to give her the time of day.
The only person you care to watch is Miranda, and this is a problem.
You've been standing behind her like a better dressed Queen's guard, and you have nothing else to do but watch her shoulder blades pull and relax with each movement she makes. Her neck slopes finely forward each time she kisses someone's cheek, her shoulders gracefully carrying the weight of her tension and the fabric of the gown.
You don't particularly like the gown. On its own it looks like scrap fabric that's been cast aside. But on Miranda, it looks like it’s been sculpted around her, formed to accentuate her perfect skin and beautiful back and tease faintly along her cleavage. You imagine a spool of fabric left at her feet, swirling and tucking around her like Mickey Mouse in Fantasia.
It's then that you realize that you're jealous of the fabric, and this is most definitely a problem.
It's not fair that the dress gets to be wrapped around her body. It doesn't appreciate the supreme gift it's been given. If you had been given this gift, you'd make sure she understood exactly what it meant to you.
A breath hitches in your chest, twisting painfully, as you watch a man (some designer; you don't care enough to recall his name) leans in to hug her, his hand settling upon the juncture of back and dress. Just as quickly it's gone and you can breathe again. You want that. You want a reason to steal a touch--just one touch.
One touch would never be enough. You know this because it's already happened. Not with her back, but her hands.
Miranda has soft, warm hands.
She also has a faint brown freckle just above the knuckle on her ring finger on her right hand. You saw it once during a meeting. She had propped her head regally on her hand, her index finger pressed to her pursed lips. You're not sure why this position turns you on like it does. She did it the first time you met her and, once upon a time, it terrified you. It has nothing and everything to do with the fact that when she does this, she is concentrating wholly on whatever she is scrutinizing and it makes you feel like you're the only person that matters in her universe for just a millisecond.
Imagining this makes a familiar pool of heat settle between your legs. You wonder what Miranda would do or say if she knew that she made you wetter than you've ever been with anyone. No. Don't think of the wetness. Thinking of the wetness only causes you to focus on your thighs, which are sticky and damp with want. You imagine her fingers, especially the one with the freckle, pruned and rigid like a taut nipple, pumping in and out of you.
The very thought makes your cunt clench tightly as if it's on the verge of coming, and this is a problem.
You want to come. You want to sneak off into a bathroom and hike up the expensive dress that you bribed Nigel into lending you and fuck yourself until the lips of your cunt are raw and red and you can't feel the desire anymore.
You don't. You stand behind her, speak when spoken to, and wish with ever fiber of your being that you weren't consumed by her. Life was so simple when you were rejecting law school and moving away from Ohio and fucking your simple boyfriend. It's almost shocking, thinking of a time when that encompassed your life. You feel as though you're on an entirely new plane of existence now.
You feel very alone on this plane, but the loneliness is oddly comforting. You imagine being content with your life as it was before Runway, knowing full well that once your year has passed, you'll be returning to that life. You realize that you'd rather be in this cold, harsh environment than drowning in the mediocrity of your former life. It's almost as if you're in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, where he runs off the pages and is the only bit of color against a completely white backdrop, and everything echoes. And sometimes, a hand enters the picture and draws a companion for Bugs, or something confusing and foreign to torment the cartoon rabbit until the short is over. You imagine that you are the rabbit and Miranda is that hand, and she could easily stroke you until you're a quivering mass of nerve endings or squeeze you until you fall limp and lifeless against her fingers. Your father would kill you if he knew you were likening his favorite cartoon character to yourself and the boss you want so desperately to notice you.
The night is drawing to a close. You know this not because people are leaving (which they aren't), but because Miranda seems agitated and withdrawn. Mentally, she has already left the building. She'll be leaving soon.
The thought of her going home with her husband, of leaving you for the night, makes the breath constrict in your chest. You feel that giant hand suffocating you, making it impossible to drag a breath into your lungs.
She turns, her dark eyes meeting yours as she asks--no, tells-- you to fetch her shawl and her purse. You nod and, without question, hastily head for the coat check. The attendant is swift, as if she knows just how important it is that you return immediately with Miranda's things, and you hand her the tip that you had readily available.
The shawl brushes against the bare skin of your arm and you gasp, realizing that this piece of clothing has hugged Miranda's shoulders on more than one occasion. You can't help but subtly lift the shawl and press the fabric to your nose, inhaling the crisp, musky scent of her perfume before you return to her side once more. The scent is enough to reawaken the beast that growls hungrily from between your legs. However, despite the persistence with which your beast throbs for attention, you're pretty sure that ignoring Miranda would yield far more horrifying results.
You hold out the shawl for her to take and immediately snatch back your arms. Miranda does not be-shawl herself in public. That is what your capable hands are paid to do in this situation. So, you take a step closer and attempt not to stare at the way her shoulder blades glide beneath her smooth flesh when she brings up her arms to accept the ends of the shawl once you've wrapped it around her.
The smooth pads of her middle and ring fingers carelessly caress your knuckles as she accepts her shawl. The breath you don't realize you'd been holding burns in your lungs and you release it sharply as her fingers brush yours. Your eyes widen in shock as your exhalation skitters across the back of her neck. Her shoulders tense.
Fuck.
Oh shit. This is most definitely a problem.
She turns to take her bag, her eyes staring you down. You would swallow if you could but instead you stare back, a deer in the headlights, unable to do anything except pray that your death will be swift. Her eyes are the color of ice and something in them darkens. You feel as though you've broken through the icy surface and now you're drowning. In minutes the hypothermia will settle in, the water will fill your lungs, and you will be lost.
Lost in Miranda.
She takes her purse. Her index finger passes over yours once more, her eyes steady, and she disappears.
The tension in your ramrod spine oozes out of you, soaking down between your legs. You can't believe that you're still alive and you'd pinch yourself if Emily weren't nudging you towards the door, reminding you that you have a boyfriend to get home to.
Boyfriend. Nate.
You've forgotten about him, and this is a problem. You don’t care about going home to him. You don’t care about flirtatious Christian or meeting someone who could further your career. You just want to follow Miranda wherever she goes.
You're in orbit. You're sure that Miranda and her smooth, perfect skin is the only being in your existence. Each throb of your pulse and pound of your clit against your expensive underwear beats in time with her name. The odd number of syllables has completely rewired every flow and ebb in your body. Your physician will label you a medical mystery.
You'll tell her you've got an incurable case of Miranda.
Or, perhaps, Miranda is the cure, and every moment lacking her touch or her proximity is the disease.
The time that passes between leaving the benefit and entering your apartment goes by in a blur. You're disappointed to find that Nate is still awake, a thought that immediately causes the guilt to surge in your gut. You hold out a sad little cupcake and force an apologetic smile. The weight of your ambivalence at this moment shocks you.
He tells you that you look pretty. This is something you have heard so many times that he might as well be saying that the sky is blue. You don't care if he thinks you're pretty. Pretty is juvenile. Pretty is reserved for girls in middle school wearing too much makeup and too short of a skirt. Pretty is for ballerinas and children and insincere or unoriginal compliments. You want to be beautiful.
You want to be beautiful in Miranda's eyes. Her opinion of your aesthetic value is the only one that matters.
He goes to bed. He’s upset and you can’t muster the resolve to follow him. You could try to make this up to him. You could give him a birthday boy blowjob and placate things until you’re not so drunk on Miranda that you can properly set things right. He’s a decent guy. You know that he deserves better than what you’re giving him.
But you don’t move. You can’t. You sit weakly on the couch for what feels like hours, staring at your hands and wondering what they would feel like roving over Miranda’s body. You know with absolute certainty that you could make her feel good, that you could make her sigh and moan and dissolve into the same quivering mess that you are when you’re around her.
You drop your head into your hands and groan because you know with unwavering certainty that your fantasies and desires are for naught. You will never have her.
The truth of your reality depresses you more than you care to admit, and so you ready yourself for bed. You strip the designer snakeskin from your body and wash away the mask until you are unmistakably yourself--at least that’s what you recognize when you look in the mirror. But you know that it’s only the shell of your body that’s recognizable. You’re different now. You have been ever since you stepped foot within the temple of your goddess.
You brush your teeth, pressing the bristles hard against your gums as you acknowledge that Miranda has become your religion. She is the only thing you believe in anymore. Your life revolves completely around her. Your Protestant parents would hate that Miranda has become more important in your eyes than God. God spares no mercy for you-you still haven’t been able to touch her. But Miranda…she could save you. She could destroy you on a whim and what’s worse is that she could destroy you and never know or care that you’ve died.
When you’re lying in bed, with Nate’s back turned resolutely away from you, you slide your hand beneath your panties as if on autopilot. There could be no other possible end to this evening. Your cunt weeps its need and you give in to it, roughly sliding three fingers deep inside. The stretch stings and feels amazing. You close your eyes and imagine that it’s her fucking you, that she is the one overcome by a dizzy need to make you come so hard that you forget your name.
You reach back and clutch at your pillow with your free hand while you fuck yourself senseless, your mouth open and searching for the ghost of Miranda’s kiss that you will never feel.
In the hazy desperation of your desire, you vow to follow her until the end. You’ll take anything that she throws at you and you’ll follow her until she notices that you’ve done everything for her. You’ll follow her until she loves you.
You come with a silent cry, your cunt clamping tightly around your fingers, and you silently chant her name like a mantra.
You carelessly wipe your fingers on the inside of your t-shirt and curl up onto your side, as far away from Nate as you can manage without rolling off the edge of the bed. Not for the first time, you cry yourself to sleep. She will never love you. She will never see you. She is Miranda Priestly and you are a nobody. Your love for her is so consuming, so obsessively damaging, that you fear you’ll never recover.
This is the biggest problem of all.
---
Prompt: “Paparazzi” by Lady Gaga
Challenge: 100 Fic Challenge (#17)
Fandom: Andy/Miranda, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: take_itback
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 2653
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: I veered a little off from the original prompt, which called for smut and a specific line of the song to be used. The tone of this song suggested something a little different, and I went for it. This is set during/after the benefit scene in the film. Hope you enjoy…let me know what you think!
-
Miranda has perfect skin.
You know this because you've spent enough time looking and there isn't a blemish or anything that would qualify as unsightly. You also know this because you know what it's like to have imperfect skin. The minute you hit puberty, you were cursed. You're sure that if you had skin like Miranda's you'd probably never stop touching its smoothness.
You want to touch Miranda's smoothness, and this is a problem.
She's your boss. You're straight. She is a vicious woman, capable of eliciting tears and cutting you so deep that if you could be turned inside out, you'd be a crosshatched mess. You're in a relationship. You're straight and dating a man you love and all you want to do is place your hands on her shoulders and nuzzle your nose along the soft, smooth planes of her back.
This thought makes you uncomfortable, so you fidget. Emily attributes this to your wanting to be with your boyfriend on his birthday. And yes, you would prefer to be with your friends and the man that you love instead of some benefit where there are hundreds of people you don't know and who don't care to know you. The only silver lining is Miranda, and even that isn't enough to make you want to stay because she could care less that you're there.
That's untrue. She wouldn't have asked--no, told--you to come if it weren't for Emily's cold. So she does want you there, or need you, and in some twisted way that fills your insides with warmth.
Your eyes trail down the ridges of Miranda’s spine and you know without a doubt that, given the choice, you’d still be here, following Miranda like some invisible puppy.
So here you are, bailing Emily out every once in a while when she has forgotten the name of somebody or other. You have nothing to do but absorb everything around you. You'd think you'd be entertained by the people-watching; it's always been a favorite pastime. You and your father made a habit of people-watching back home, and Ohio is filled to the brim with fascinating oddities. You snort to yourself. You realize that you've just compared your birthplace to a freak show and you acknowledge that there might be a grain of truth to your friends' comments that you've changed.
But you don't care about the people around you or the people with whom you associate. They're all stuffy and boring, in your opinion anyway. Emily would probably slip on a puddle of her own grateful tears if anyone were to give her the time of day.
The only person you care to watch is Miranda, and this is a problem.
You've been standing behind her like a better dressed Queen's guard, and you have nothing else to do but watch her shoulder blades pull and relax with each movement she makes. Her neck slopes finely forward each time she kisses someone's cheek, her shoulders gracefully carrying the weight of her tension and the fabric of the gown.
You don't particularly like the gown. On its own it looks like scrap fabric that's been cast aside. But on Miranda, it looks like it’s been sculpted around her, formed to accentuate her perfect skin and beautiful back and tease faintly along her cleavage. You imagine a spool of fabric left at her feet, swirling and tucking around her like Mickey Mouse in Fantasia.
It's then that you realize that you're jealous of the fabric, and this is most definitely a problem.
It's not fair that the dress gets to be wrapped around her body. It doesn't appreciate the supreme gift it's been given. If you had been given this gift, you'd make sure she understood exactly what it meant to you.
A breath hitches in your chest, twisting painfully, as you watch a man (some designer; you don't care enough to recall his name) leans in to hug her, his hand settling upon the juncture of back and dress. Just as quickly it's gone and you can breathe again. You want that. You want a reason to steal a touch--just one touch.
One touch would never be enough. You know this because it's already happened. Not with her back, but her hands.
Miranda has soft, warm hands.
She also has a faint brown freckle just above the knuckle on her ring finger on her right hand. You saw it once during a meeting. She had propped her head regally on her hand, her index finger pressed to her pursed lips. You're not sure why this position turns you on like it does. She did it the first time you met her and, once upon a time, it terrified you. It has nothing and everything to do with the fact that when she does this, she is concentrating wholly on whatever she is scrutinizing and it makes you feel like you're the only person that matters in her universe for just a millisecond.
Imagining this makes a familiar pool of heat settle between your legs. You wonder what Miranda would do or say if she knew that she made you wetter than you've ever been with anyone. No. Don't think of the wetness. Thinking of the wetness only causes you to focus on your thighs, which are sticky and damp with want. You imagine her fingers, especially the one with the freckle, pruned and rigid like a taut nipple, pumping in and out of you.
The very thought makes your cunt clench tightly as if it's on the verge of coming, and this is a problem.
You want to come. You want to sneak off into a bathroom and hike up the expensive dress that you bribed Nigel into lending you and fuck yourself until the lips of your cunt are raw and red and you can't feel the desire anymore.
You don't. You stand behind her, speak when spoken to, and wish with ever fiber of your being that you weren't consumed by her. Life was so simple when you were rejecting law school and moving away from Ohio and fucking your simple boyfriend. It's almost shocking, thinking of a time when that encompassed your life. You feel as though you're on an entirely new plane of existence now.
You feel very alone on this plane, but the loneliness is oddly comforting. You imagine being content with your life as it was before Runway, knowing full well that once your year has passed, you'll be returning to that life. You realize that you'd rather be in this cold, harsh environment than drowning in the mediocrity of your former life. It's almost as if you're in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, where he runs off the pages and is the only bit of color against a completely white backdrop, and everything echoes. And sometimes, a hand enters the picture and draws a companion for Bugs, or something confusing and foreign to torment the cartoon rabbit until the short is over. You imagine that you are the rabbit and Miranda is that hand, and she could easily stroke you until you're a quivering mass of nerve endings or squeeze you until you fall limp and lifeless against her fingers. Your father would kill you if he knew you were likening his favorite cartoon character to yourself and the boss you want so desperately to notice you.
The night is drawing to a close. You know this not because people are leaving (which they aren't), but because Miranda seems agitated and withdrawn. Mentally, she has already left the building. She'll be leaving soon.
The thought of her going home with her husband, of leaving you for the night, makes the breath constrict in your chest. You feel that giant hand suffocating you, making it impossible to drag a breath into your lungs.
She turns, her dark eyes meeting yours as she asks--no, tells-- you to fetch her shawl and her purse. You nod and, without question, hastily head for the coat check. The attendant is swift, as if she knows just how important it is that you return immediately with Miranda's things, and you hand her the tip that you had readily available.
The shawl brushes against the bare skin of your arm and you gasp, realizing that this piece of clothing has hugged Miranda's shoulders on more than one occasion. You can't help but subtly lift the shawl and press the fabric to your nose, inhaling the crisp, musky scent of her perfume before you return to her side once more. The scent is enough to reawaken the beast that growls hungrily from between your legs. However, despite the persistence with which your beast throbs for attention, you're pretty sure that ignoring Miranda would yield far more horrifying results.
You hold out the shawl for her to take and immediately snatch back your arms. Miranda does not be-shawl herself in public. That is what your capable hands are paid to do in this situation. So, you take a step closer and attempt not to stare at the way her shoulder blades glide beneath her smooth flesh when she brings up her arms to accept the ends of the shawl once you've wrapped it around her.
The smooth pads of her middle and ring fingers carelessly caress your knuckles as she accepts her shawl. The breath you don't realize you'd been holding burns in your lungs and you release it sharply as her fingers brush yours. Your eyes widen in shock as your exhalation skitters across the back of her neck. Her shoulders tense.
Fuck.
Oh shit. This is most definitely a problem.
She turns to take her bag, her eyes staring you down. You would swallow if you could but instead you stare back, a deer in the headlights, unable to do anything except pray that your death will be swift. Her eyes are the color of ice and something in them darkens. You feel as though you've broken through the icy surface and now you're drowning. In minutes the hypothermia will settle in, the water will fill your lungs, and you will be lost.
Lost in Miranda.
She takes her purse. Her index finger passes over yours once more, her eyes steady, and she disappears.
The tension in your ramrod spine oozes out of you, soaking down between your legs. You can't believe that you're still alive and you'd pinch yourself if Emily weren't nudging you towards the door, reminding you that you have a boyfriend to get home to.
Boyfriend. Nate.
You've forgotten about him, and this is a problem. You don’t care about going home to him. You don’t care about flirtatious Christian or meeting someone who could further your career. You just want to follow Miranda wherever she goes.
You're in orbit. You're sure that Miranda and her smooth, perfect skin is the only being in your existence. Each throb of your pulse and pound of your clit against your expensive underwear beats in time with her name. The odd number of syllables has completely rewired every flow and ebb in your body. Your physician will label you a medical mystery.
You'll tell her you've got an incurable case of Miranda.
Or, perhaps, Miranda is the cure, and every moment lacking her touch or her proximity is the disease.
The time that passes between leaving the benefit and entering your apartment goes by in a blur. You're disappointed to find that Nate is still awake, a thought that immediately causes the guilt to surge in your gut. You hold out a sad little cupcake and force an apologetic smile. The weight of your ambivalence at this moment shocks you.
He tells you that you look pretty. This is something you have heard so many times that he might as well be saying that the sky is blue. You don't care if he thinks you're pretty. Pretty is juvenile. Pretty is reserved for girls in middle school wearing too much makeup and too short of a skirt. Pretty is for ballerinas and children and insincere or unoriginal compliments. You want to be beautiful.
You want to be beautiful in Miranda's eyes. Her opinion of your aesthetic value is the only one that matters.
He goes to bed. He’s upset and you can’t muster the resolve to follow him. You could try to make this up to him. You could give him a birthday boy blowjob and placate things until you’re not so drunk on Miranda that you can properly set things right. He’s a decent guy. You know that he deserves better than what you’re giving him.
But you don’t move. You can’t. You sit weakly on the couch for what feels like hours, staring at your hands and wondering what they would feel like roving over Miranda’s body. You know with absolute certainty that you could make her feel good, that you could make her sigh and moan and dissolve into the same quivering mess that you are when you’re around her.
You drop your head into your hands and groan because you know with unwavering certainty that your fantasies and desires are for naught. You will never have her.
The truth of your reality depresses you more than you care to admit, and so you ready yourself for bed. You strip the designer snakeskin from your body and wash away the mask until you are unmistakably yourself--at least that’s what you recognize when you look in the mirror. But you know that it’s only the shell of your body that’s recognizable. You’re different now. You have been ever since you stepped foot within the temple of your goddess.
You brush your teeth, pressing the bristles hard against your gums as you acknowledge that Miranda has become your religion. She is the only thing you believe in anymore. Your life revolves completely around her. Your Protestant parents would hate that Miranda has become more important in your eyes than God. God spares no mercy for you-you still haven’t been able to touch her. But Miranda…she could save you. She could destroy you on a whim and what’s worse is that she could destroy you and never know or care that you’ve died.
When you’re lying in bed, with Nate’s back turned resolutely away from you, you slide your hand beneath your panties as if on autopilot. There could be no other possible end to this evening. Your cunt weeps its need and you give in to it, roughly sliding three fingers deep inside. The stretch stings and feels amazing. You close your eyes and imagine that it’s her fucking you, that she is the one overcome by a dizzy need to make you come so hard that you forget your name.
You reach back and clutch at your pillow with your free hand while you fuck yourself senseless, your mouth open and searching for the ghost of Miranda’s kiss that you will never feel.
In the hazy desperation of your desire, you vow to follow her until the end. You’ll take anything that she throws at you and you’ll follow her until she notices that you’ve done everything for her. You’ll follow her until she loves you.
You come with a silent cry, your cunt clamping tightly around your fingers, and you silently chant her name like a mantra.
You carelessly wipe your fingers on the inside of your t-shirt and curl up onto your side, as far away from Nate as you can manage without rolling off the edge of the bed. Not for the first time, you cry yourself to sleep. She will never love you. She will never see you. She is Miranda Priestly and you are a nobody. Your love for her is so consuming, so obsessively damaging, that you fear you’ll never recover.
This is the biggest problem of all.
---