New fic: Score, Andy/Miranda
Title: Score
Rating: M
Author: chilly_flame
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Andy/Miranda
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything associated with the Devil Wears Prada. It’s tragic.
Notes: Oh well, it's another porn battle entry. The DWP offerings seemed slim so I’m throwing my hat into the ring at the very last minute.
---
Andy hoists the dry cleaning over her shoulder, huffing and puffing as she hauls it into the closet. It’s nice to be indoors, even for a minute. The weather sucks, and Andy’s coat isn’t that warm. She wore it because it flatters her figure. Vanity before comfort is her motto these days, which explains why she’s wearing a skirt that’s just shy of too short with tights and black motorcycle boots. Her silk tunic flows like water down her torso, and she thinks Miranda may have noticed.
She hopes she did.
Glancing around, she wonders if anyone is home. She’s anticipated seeing Miranda here all day. Only once have they done it here in the house. And rarely has it happened at work either-just a few times in the office bathroom, when Andy would get on her knees and lick Miranda till she came without a sound. The other times have been in the car, but it’s only been three weeks since they accidentally (at least that’s what she tells herself) fucked on the back seat. Two hands shoved up skirts, two mouths fused until they came so hard that Andy nearly concussed herself on the side window. It was weird between them for a little while after that. Andy’s had her eye on Miranda’s ass for almost a year now, and never thought Miranda noticed.
Silly. Of course she did. And Miranda decided that it might be a good idea for them to just get it over with, get it out of their systems. Screw a few times till the flame went out. That hasn’t happened though. Andy sees a shimmer of heat when she’s looking at Miranda; her pale skin is an oasis in the desert. Whatever links them is as hot and sticky as melting pavement under a summer sun.
Andy knows she shouldn’t be doing this. Nate walked out after Paris, and she’s relieved about that now, because he’d be able to smell the sex on her when she goes home. Roy probably knows what’s happening. He never looks at her anymore, but Andy doesn’t mind. She’d rather Miranda look at her, and that happens frequently. No one else knows, at least that’s what Andy believes. Who else would? Not Nigel. He stays clear of the both of them lately. And not Emily, who is likely on the verge of getting fired. Miranda has little patience for her sniveling these days, Andy can tell. Miranda has been complaining more than usual about her, particularly when they’re having sex. It irks Andy, who thinks that Miranda should be so distracted by Andy’s skill at cunnilingus that she can’t focus on anything else.
“Andrea,” comes a voice from one floor up, shaking her out of her reverie. “Bring me the book.”
Andy blinks and picks up the heavy tome from the table. As she walks upstairs, she tries to ignore the fact that she’s already wet. But she can’t help it. She’s programmed to respond to that voice. If Miranda doesn’t get her off, Andy will have to take care of it herself. She doubts she’ll be able to wait till she gets home. Roy keeps the privacy screen up all the time now, so there will be ample opportunity.
“Hi,” Andy says as she steps into the study. Miranda is waiting there, her blouse open just enough to reveal the lacy bra beneath it. Andy imagines that Miranda wore that to tease her, taunt her into submission. It works, whether she did or not.
Miranda motions for the book. “Come along,” she says, holding out her hand. Her eyes don’t seem particularly interested neither in Andy’s cleavage nor her legs. Fuck, Andy thinks. “Sit down for a few minutes,” Miranda says.
“Sure.” Andy sits in an uncomfortable, stylish chair and tries not to stare at Miranda. But she doesn’t have anything to distract her-her purse and phone are downstairs, so she can’t even fake texting.
Miranda opens the book, and reaches for a fountain pen from the side table. Typically Miranda writes her corrections on post-its, but not tonight. From a few feet away, Andy notices that the ink is red; and for some reason that puts her on alert. Seconds tick by as Miranda works. She wields the pen like a knife, scoring a page with a slice that actually cuts through the paper. “This is the worst issue my staff has put together in at least five years.” She strikes again, this time circling and crossing out a whole block of copy. “Is it wrong to want the best?” She throws a succession of underlines down beneath an image of a young model with flowers in her hair. “Idiots.” One violent stroke leaves a mark that bleeds through two pages.
It goes on this way as Miranda tears through a quarter of the book, verbally and physically shredding the work of her employees. Finally, Miranda throws the thing on the floor, where it flops open, the cover bent back. Andy feels rotten; she doesn’t really like a lot of the people she works with, but they’re human. Tomorrow won’t be a good day for anyone.
Miranda looks up at Andy, her eyes fierce. Andy is truly afraid of her in that moment. But the attraction between them flares up out of nowhere, and Andy inhales a silent breath of anticipation. She wants to give something to Miranda that will shake some of this misery out of her. And of course, she wants to get nailed. She drops out of the chair to her knees and moves across the rug, the fire in Miranda’s face burning hotter with every inch. When she reaches Miranda’s legs, she puts shaking hands on her thighs. “I want to be the best,” Andy says. “Am I?” She has never asked for approval from Miranda, but there’s a strange energy in the room that compels her to speak this way. “Can you make me better, Miranda? Make me the best?”
Miranda’s mouth goes a little slack, and her knees open. She reaches for Andy’s collar, and Andy barely gets her arms up in time for Miranda to pull the tunic over her head. “Take off your bra,” Miranda says, and Andy does so swiftly. “Turn around and lie face down on the rug.”
Andy complies. The fear ratchets up a notch, and her hands start to sweat. Topless but still wearing her skirt and boots, she waits for Miranda’s next move. It comes after a full minute, when she feels Miranda straddle her midsection. Miranda has stripped bare, at least her lower half, and Andy jerks at the feeling of smooth skin against her back. “Hold still,” Miranda commands, and after a moment, Andy feels a strange sharpness travel across her shoulder blade. It feels like a dull knife, but it doesn’t hurt or cut into her skin. It comes to her in a flash-the pen. Miranda is drawing on her back with the pen. “Stop fidgeting,” Miranda tells her, moving the nib carefully near her spine. It tickles, and Andy has a terrible time remaining motionless.
Some time passes, and Andy becomes almost mesmerized, waiting for the pen to move. Eventually Miranda’s lips touch the back of Andy’s neck, and Andy arches, moaning. The mouth travels along her body to nibble at the base of her spine. But this does not last, and she’s forced to endure more drawing. The tickling sensation has been replaced by waves of sensation that throbs between her legs. She’s on the verge of trying to hump the carpet, but Miranda probably wouldn’t like that. Who knew being drawn on would be so entirely erotic?
“Stand up,” Miranda says, lifting off Andy. Andy complies, and at once Miranda grabs at the skirt, pulling at the zipper. Andy helps, trying to toe off her boots, but she is clumsy and can’t do it alone. Miranda doesn’t seem to care, and simply yanks down the tights and underwear to her knees. “Bend over.”
Andy’s eyes pop open; she doesn’t really want to do it this way. She feels vulnerable, and worries that Miranda won’t like the fact that Andy hasn’t gotten a Brazilian. Ever. She has no intention of doing so either. But she obligingly bends over, placing her hands on the cushion of the love seat Miranda occupied earlier. She is self-conscious until Miranda grabs her ass and licks from front to back, all the way up. Andy yelps, tensing, but then Miranda moans, tonguing her pussy like she can’t help herself.
This is the first time Miranda has gone down on her. Usually Andy’s the one on her knees, which is fine, since when she finishes Miranda gets her off very nicely with her fingers. Miranda has complained twice that Andy comes too fast, but there’s not a whole lot Andy can do about that.
She tries not to think about those earlier times, or about how strange she must look with her boots still on and her ass in the air. Instead she focuses on the scrape of Miranda’s nails across her lower back, and the silky strength of the tongue that moves inside her. Fingers soon start playing with her clit; Andy drops lower on the cushion and shouts into the foam. She’s going to come in short order, until Miranda backs off with her fingers and Andy can take a breath. It goes on that way for a while, Andy getting close and Miranda easing up, until Andy is babbling nonsense into the loveseat and trembling with exhaustion. Her legs won’t last much longer this way, and her head is starting to hurt. “Please,” she begs, “please, please, please.”
Miranda takes pity on her and puts her fingers back in motion, all the while lapping at Andy like a cat in cream. Her tongue is relentless, and Andy doesn’t hold back her scream of release, but manages to muffle it on the cushion. She shakes furiously, heart almost stopping with pleasure. When it’s over, her throat is raw, her mouth dry. But she wants to fuck Miranda now, give her everything she has, make her come like crazy.
She straightens up, turns around. She nearly falls over, but manages to catch herself as she drops to the floor unsteadily. Miranda’s face is soaked; Andy can hardly believe all that liquid came from her. She clutches Miranda, who is naked only from the waist down, but her blouse is open and bra undone. “Get on top of me,” Andy says, and for once, Miranda listens. She straddles Andy, who shoves three fingers inside without preamble, and works the other hand on her clit.
Miranda rides her, thrusting forward, head tossing back in rapture. Her face is the picture of ecstasy, and Andy tries to heighten it by nosing at one breast, biting it gently. This time, Miranda is the one who goes off right away, stilling as the muscles around Andy’s fingers tighten and release repeatedly. When she comes Miranda is typically quiet, but in the silence of the room Andy can hear the small sounds that don’t quite break free from her throat.
Andy blinks at Miranda, whose head drops forward onto Andy’s shoulder. It might be the closest they’ve ever been, and Andy likes it. They both take time to catch their breath, and Andy gets goosebumps when Miranda brushes lips along her neck.
She eases her fingers out and cups Miranda with a gentle hand. Unable to resist, she nudges at Miranda until their lips meet. Their kiss is soft, which suits Andy since it’s the first of the night.
---
Two hours later, Andy arrives home. She is tired, because it’s late, and because she spent ninety percent of that two hours making enthusiastic love. Her legs are weak but she feels cheerful. A shower is the first thing on her roster before she falls into bed. Dropping her clothes on the floor as she makes her way through the small apartment, she heads for the bathroom. She starts the water, glances in the mirror, and remembers. Turning around, she catches a glimpse of red and grabs a mirror from the medicine cabinet. Holding it up in front of herself, she peers closely and finds the shape embedded in her skin.
Red wings sprout from her spine, their feathers flowing down from her shoulder blades to her lower back. It’s a remarkable drawing, considering it was done in simple ink, freehand. By Miranda. Before Andy gets in the shower, she finds her digital camera, sets the self-timer, and poses for a picture. She hates the idea of losing the drawing forever and is glad to have a record of it.
Finally she steps into the shower, luxuriating in the hot water and soaping well. Once out of the steam, she towel dries her hair and gazes longingly at the bed. She has to be up in five hours and can’t wait to sleep and dream well. As she turns to leave the bathroom, she notices something that surprises her: the wings are still there, as vivid as they were before.
With a smile, she chuckles and pulls her sleep shirt over her head. Maybe she won’t have to give up her ink tattoo so quickly after all.
~end
Rating: M
Author: chilly_flame
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Andy/Miranda
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything associated with the Devil Wears Prada. It’s tragic.
Notes: Oh well, it's another porn battle entry. The DWP offerings seemed slim so I’m throwing my hat into the ring at the very last minute.
---
Andy hoists the dry cleaning over her shoulder, huffing and puffing as she hauls it into the closet. It’s nice to be indoors, even for a minute. The weather sucks, and Andy’s coat isn’t that warm. She wore it because it flatters her figure. Vanity before comfort is her motto these days, which explains why she’s wearing a skirt that’s just shy of too short with tights and black motorcycle boots. Her silk tunic flows like water down her torso, and she thinks Miranda may have noticed.
She hopes she did.
Glancing around, she wonders if anyone is home. She’s anticipated seeing Miranda here all day. Only once have they done it here in the house. And rarely has it happened at work either-just a few times in the office bathroom, when Andy would get on her knees and lick Miranda till she came without a sound. The other times have been in the car, but it’s only been three weeks since they accidentally (at least that’s what she tells herself) fucked on the back seat. Two hands shoved up skirts, two mouths fused until they came so hard that Andy nearly concussed herself on the side window. It was weird between them for a little while after that. Andy’s had her eye on Miranda’s ass for almost a year now, and never thought Miranda noticed.
Silly. Of course she did. And Miranda decided that it might be a good idea for them to just get it over with, get it out of their systems. Screw a few times till the flame went out. That hasn’t happened though. Andy sees a shimmer of heat when she’s looking at Miranda; her pale skin is an oasis in the desert. Whatever links them is as hot and sticky as melting pavement under a summer sun.
Andy knows she shouldn’t be doing this. Nate walked out after Paris, and she’s relieved about that now, because he’d be able to smell the sex on her when she goes home. Roy probably knows what’s happening. He never looks at her anymore, but Andy doesn’t mind. She’d rather Miranda look at her, and that happens frequently. No one else knows, at least that’s what Andy believes. Who else would? Not Nigel. He stays clear of the both of them lately. And not Emily, who is likely on the verge of getting fired. Miranda has little patience for her sniveling these days, Andy can tell. Miranda has been complaining more than usual about her, particularly when they’re having sex. It irks Andy, who thinks that Miranda should be so distracted by Andy’s skill at cunnilingus that she can’t focus on anything else.
“Andrea,” comes a voice from one floor up, shaking her out of her reverie. “Bring me the book.”
Andy blinks and picks up the heavy tome from the table. As she walks upstairs, she tries to ignore the fact that she’s already wet. But she can’t help it. She’s programmed to respond to that voice. If Miranda doesn’t get her off, Andy will have to take care of it herself. She doubts she’ll be able to wait till she gets home. Roy keeps the privacy screen up all the time now, so there will be ample opportunity.
“Hi,” Andy says as she steps into the study. Miranda is waiting there, her blouse open just enough to reveal the lacy bra beneath it. Andy imagines that Miranda wore that to tease her, taunt her into submission. It works, whether she did or not.
Miranda motions for the book. “Come along,” she says, holding out her hand. Her eyes don’t seem particularly interested neither in Andy’s cleavage nor her legs. Fuck, Andy thinks. “Sit down for a few minutes,” Miranda says.
“Sure.” Andy sits in an uncomfortable, stylish chair and tries not to stare at Miranda. But she doesn’t have anything to distract her-her purse and phone are downstairs, so she can’t even fake texting.
Miranda opens the book, and reaches for a fountain pen from the side table. Typically Miranda writes her corrections on post-its, but not tonight. From a few feet away, Andy notices that the ink is red; and for some reason that puts her on alert. Seconds tick by as Miranda works. She wields the pen like a knife, scoring a page with a slice that actually cuts through the paper. “This is the worst issue my staff has put together in at least five years.” She strikes again, this time circling and crossing out a whole block of copy. “Is it wrong to want the best?” She throws a succession of underlines down beneath an image of a young model with flowers in her hair. “Idiots.” One violent stroke leaves a mark that bleeds through two pages.
It goes on this way as Miranda tears through a quarter of the book, verbally and physically shredding the work of her employees. Finally, Miranda throws the thing on the floor, where it flops open, the cover bent back. Andy feels rotten; she doesn’t really like a lot of the people she works with, but they’re human. Tomorrow won’t be a good day for anyone.
Miranda looks up at Andy, her eyes fierce. Andy is truly afraid of her in that moment. But the attraction between them flares up out of nowhere, and Andy inhales a silent breath of anticipation. She wants to give something to Miranda that will shake some of this misery out of her. And of course, she wants to get nailed. She drops out of the chair to her knees and moves across the rug, the fire in Miranda’s face burning hotter with every inch. When she reaches Miranda’s legs, she puts shaking hands on her thighs. “I want to be the best,” Andy says. “Am I?” She has never asked for approval from Miranda, but there’s a strange energy in the room that compels her to speak this way. “Can you make me better, Miranda? Make me the best?”
Miranda’s mouth goes a little slack, and her knees open. She reaches for Andy’s collar, and Andy barely gets her arms up in time for Miranda to pull the tunic over her head. “Take off your bra,” Miranda says, and Andy does so swiftly. “Turn around and lie face down on the rug.”
Andy complies. The fear ratchets up a notch, and her hands start to sweat. Topless but still wearing her skirt and boots, she waits for Miranda’s next move. It comes after a full minute, when she feels Miranda straddle her midsection. Miranda has stripped bare, at least her lower half, and Andy jerks at the feeling of smooth skin against her back. “Hold still,” Miranda commands, and after a moment, Andy feels a strange sharpness travel across her shoulder blade. It feels like a dull knife, but it doesn’t hurt or cut into her skin. It comes to her in a flash-the pen. Miranda is drawing on her back with the pen. “Stop fidgeting,” Miranda tells her, moving the nib carefully near her spine. It tickles, and Andy has a terrible time remaining motionless.
Some time passes, and Andy becomes almost mesmerized, waiting for the pen to move. Eventually Miranda’s lips touch the back of Andy’s neck, and Andy arches, moaning. The mouth travels along her body to nibble at the base of her spine. But this does not last, and she’s forced to endure more drawing. The tickling sensation has been replaced by waves of sensation that throbs between her legs. She’s on the verge of trying to hump the carpet, but Miranda probably wouldn’t like that. Who knew being drawn on would be so entirely erotic?
“Stand up,” Miranda says, lifting off Andy. Andy complies, and at once Miranda grabs at the skirt, pulling at the zipper. Andy helps, trying to toe off her boots, but she is clumsy and can’t do it alone. Miranda doesn’t seem to care, and simply yanks down the tights and underwear to her knees. “Bend over.”
Andy’s eyes pop open; she doesn’t really want to do it this way. She feels vulnerable, and worries that Miranda won’t like the fact that Andy hasn’t gotten a Brazilian. Ever. She has no intention of doing so either. But she obligingly bends over, placing her hands on the cushion of the love seat Miranda occupied earlier. She is self-conscious until Miranda grabs her ass and licks from front to back, all the way up. Andy yelps, tensing, but then Miranda moans, tonguing her pussy like she can’t help herself.
This is the first time Miranda has gone down on her. Usually Andy’s the one on her knees, which is fine, since when she finishes Miranda gets her off very nicely with her fingers. Miranda has complained twice that Andy comes too fast, but there’s not a whole lot Andy can do about that.
She tries not to think about those earlier times, or about how strange she must look with her boots still on and her ass in the air. Instead she focuses on the scrape of Miranda’s nails across her lower back, and the silky strength of the tongue that moves inside her. Fingers soon start playing with her clit; Andy drops lower on the cushion and shouts into the foam. She’s going to come in short order, until Miranda backs off with her fingers and Andy can take a breath. It goes on that way for a while, Andy getting close and Miranda easing up, until Andy is babbling nonsense into the loveseat and trembling with exhaustion. Her legs won’t last much longer this way, and her head is starting to hurt. “Please,” she begs, “please, please, please.”
Miranda takes pity on her and puts her fingers back in motion, all the while lapping at Andy like a cat in cream. Her tongue is relentless, and Andy doesn’t hold back her scream of release, but manages to muffle it on the cushion. She shakes furiously, heart almost stopping with pleasure. When it’s over, her throat is raw, her mouth dry. But she wants to fuck Miranda now, give her everything she has, make her come like crazy.
She straightens up, turns around. She nearly falls over, but manages to catch herself as she drops to the floor unsteadily. Miranda’s face is soaked; Andy can hardly believe all that liquid came from her. She clutches Miranda, who is naked only from the waist down, but her blouse is open and bra undone. “Get on top of me,” Andy says, and for once, Miranda listens. She straddles Andy, who shoves three fingers inside without preamble, and works the other hand on her clit.
Miranda rides her, thrusting forward, head tossing back in rapture. Her face is the picture of ecstasy, and Andy tries to heighten it by nosing at one breast, biting it gently. This time, Miranda is the one who goes off right away, stilling as the muscles around Andy’s fingers tighten and release repeatedly. When she comes Miranda is typically quiet, but in the silence of the room Andy can hear the small sounds that don’t quite break free from her throat.
Andy blinks at Miranda, whose head drops forward onto Andy’s shoulder. It might be the closest they’ve ever been, and Andy likes it. They both take time to catch their breath, and Andy gets goosebumps when Miranda brushes lips along her neck.
She eases her fingers out and cups Miranda with a gentle hand. Unable to resist, she nudges at Miranda until their lips meet. Their kiss is soft, which suits Andy since it’s the first of the night.
---
Two hours later, Andy arrives home. She is tired, because it’s late, and because she spent ninety percent of that two hours making enthusiastic love. Her legs are weak but she feels cheerful. A shower is the first thing on her roster before she falls into bed. Dropping her clothes on the floor as she makes her way through the small apartment, she heads for the bathroom. She starts the water, glances in the mirror, and remembers. Turning around, she catches a glimpse of red and grabs a mirror from the medicine cabinet. Holding it up in front of herself, she peers closely and finds the shape embedded in her skin.
Red wings sprout from her spine, their feathers flowing down from her shoulder blades to her lower back. It’s a remarkable drawing, considering it was done in simple ink, freehand. By Miranda. Before Andy gets in the shower, she finds her digital camera, sets the self-timer, and poses for a picture. She hates the idea of losing the drawing forever and is glad to have a record of it.
Finally she steps into the shower, luxuriating in the hot water and soaping well. Once out of the steam, she towel dries her hair and gazes longingly at the bed. She has to be up in five hours and can’t wait to sleep and dream well. As she turns to leave the bathroom, she notices something that surprises her: the wings are still there, as vivid as they were before.
With a smile, she chuckles and pulls her sleep shirt over her head. Maybe she won’t have to give up her ink tattoo so quickly after all.
~end