Queen of Denial, Miranda/Andy, NC17
Title: Queen of Denial
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: I disclaim! No, really I do
Summary: Andy doesn't leave in Paris, one year later: there's a Costume Ball given in aid of one of Miranda's pet charities. Andy sees the perfect opportunity to make a statement. Written for the P0rn Battle XII prompt: 'Cleopatra'.
This is the dumbest idea that Andy’s ever had.
And dumb ideas have a lot of competition where she’s concerned. Whether turning down the security that a law degree from Stanford would have offered her, or talking back to Miranda during the first interview, Andy has had a flair for recklessness that professional stunt men would envy. Not to mention taking instructions from demonic twins, sleeping with Christian Thompson and almost, almost walking away from the most fascinating person she’s ever met at the end of Paris Fashion Week.
So yeah, where stupidity is concerned, Andrea Sachs has some impressive form. The latest of which is based on an increasingly noticeable crush and a glimpse of an Elizabeth Taylor biography in one of Miranda’s more spacious purses. There’s been further research of course-not least the few framed Runway covers that Miranda decorates her office with, and a careful study of everything Miranda has written in print.
Andy places the eyeliner down with a trembling hand, her nerves back in full flow now that the business of assembling this particular mask is done with. There’s a blast of a car horn from downstairs, and with one final appraisal in the mirror, Andy grabs her things and departs. It’s now or, more likely, never.
Roy is on Miranda duty tonight, so Andy has one of the pool drivers. Hans is polite to a fault, and Andy knows him fairly well from a bunch of errands in the past few months. He’s driven her to Calvin Klein, Hermès and Dalton, amongst others, but he’s never looked at Andy the way he just did in the rear-view mirror. Her cheeks flush at the attention, and she looks away in embarrassment. Dressing this way is for one person only, and Andy can’t afford to let herself get distracted now.
It’s one glass of champagne for courage, and a second for luck. Andy smiles calmly despite the storm of nerves crashing around inside her. She’s not wearing a bra, and although the bodice of her dress (YSL, a lesser collection, and Nigel didn’t mind altering it) is tight enough to compensate, she still feels a little exposed with so many eyes on her.
But the point of a costumed ball is to stare, to shock and provoke and be stared at in return. Not that the rest of the Runway staff have made much effort, beyond Serena who is, in fact, gorgeous enough to make even leopard print look classy. Andy wiggles her fingers in discreet greeting, and Serena smiles in acknowledgment before turning back to her conversation with some new signing for the Yankees.
Andy demurs politely when asked to dance (and nobody who’s anybody actually dances at these things anyway) and waves away offers of drinks. She might feel ungrateful if any of the offers were made to her face, instead of her cleavage. Shaking her head she’s aware of the added heaviness in her hair, and the gentle noise from the extra adornments. She feels older tonight and-yes-glamorous. She can only hope that it’ll be enough.
Emily’s semaphore wave catches Andy’s eye and so she cuts short her conversation with a charming man whose name isn’t important enough for her to have memorized for Miranda, and takes up her position at Emily’s side. The moment of truth is fast approaching, and although Andy still barely dares hope, she knows what to look out for. This outfit isn’t designed to make Miranda grab Andy and have her right there on the staircase, but if Andy can catch even some evidence of Miranda’s interest, then later tonight she’s going to confess her feelings and to hell with the consequences.
Her palms are sweating slightly, and Andy pretends to listen to Emily’s instructions. Emily is still the First, even if Miranda leans on Andy a little more frequently, even if Andy is the only one who’s permitted to hear a personal remark or witness a split-second of human weakness peeking through. For months now, Andy has been seeing these glimpses of Miranda that everyone else is excluded from, and it’s turned an amusing power-crush into a raging obsession. Emily is actually complaining about how people are dressed, and God knows Andy’s been tuning that out for two years now, so she smiles and nods and pretends like she cares about anything other than Miranda’s imminent arrival.
The moment, when it finally comes, does not disappoint. Andy thinks she might actually be swaying a little as she watches Miranda descend the stairs. No costume for Miranda, per se, just a knockout dress that nobody can seem to take their eyes off. She descends as though oblivious to the hush, or to the quiet electricity that crackles in ten different directions through the assembled throng. Though her signature hairstyle is artfully mussed in one of Miranda’s approved styles, there’s no mistaking the slinky black dress and elbow-length gloves combination: this is Miranda’s homage to Audrey Hepburn, and Andy finds her mouth going dry as she drinks in the sight of it.
With the last scraps of her resolve, Andy waits patiently beside Emily. Miranda won’t acknowledge them until the crowd begins to look away, and so there are still a few precious seconds before Andy knows if her efforts have been in vain. It’s then that Emily provides a fleeting moment of distraction, and Andy could kiss her for it.
“You look okay, by the way,” which, from Emily, is practically a rave review. Andy feels the glow of confidence suffuse her, and her polite smile grows into a genuine grin.
“Thanks, Em. You look so stylish. And, like, Morticia Addams thin.” Emily lights up like a Fourth of July display, and Andy silently congratulates herself on bribing the universe with one last act of goodwill.
When she looks back towards the stairs, Miranda is almost at the bottom. Affecting what she hopes is a sultry expression befitting the Queen of the Nile, Andy forces herself to act cool. She lets her eyes wander the room for a long moment before turning back at the sound of Miranda’s voice.
“Emily-“ Miranda begins, but something stops her short. Andy dares to make eye contact and her heart almost explodes to find Miranda staring at her, actually open-mouthed in something that might be shock. Forcing herself to focus, Andy studies Miranda for the clues she so desperately needs, and doesn’t have to wait long for her reward.
Miranda’s cheeks have flushed slightly, and Andy isn’t quite close enough to say for sure, but it seems that Miranda’s eyes might actually have dilated because they seem a much darker blue than normal.
Oh. Fuck. Yes.
Preening just a little, Andy turns her head as though about to consult with Emily. It gives Miranda a chance to see her costume in profile, and perhaps to see that the sheer blue fabric is so thin that there’s no room for underwear beneath it. With feigned nonchalance, Andy wraps her fingers around the snake bangle on her upper arm and acts like she’s adjusting it slightly.
Miranda’s eyes never leave Andy, to the point where even Emily seems likely to notice. Not wanting anything to spoil the moment, Andy is the one to move first, falling into place behind Miranda, ready to whisper names and salient details about the important guests. Emily follows suit, her expression just a little suspicious, but Andy knows there won’t be a chance for personal chatter for hours.
Without saying another word to either of them, Miranda plunges into the crowd and expects both her assistants to follow. When a suitably central spot is picked out, Miranda sets up camp like a Queen by an invisible throne, and allows the partygoers to come and fawn over her just a little. She’s a patron of this particular children’s charity, and although Andy has overheard a few catty remarks about how Miranda is more likely to lure children to the oven in her gingerbread house than try to save them, the turnout is impressive and the checks have been flowing with a lot of zeroes at the end.
When Miranda turns to Emily for the first few guests, Andy isn’t concerned. Emily has been at this longer, and barring the time she had walking pneumonia, she’s never failed Miranda on a single face or name. It’s only as the tenth or eleven couple have their names whispered by Emily that Andy starts to worry she’s being ignored. Not quite suicidal enough to say anything, Andy makes a quiet production out of adjusting her dress just a fraction, then shaking out her hair with the satisfying rattle of gold on the tips. It draws the attention of countless people she doesn’t care about, but Miranda doesn’t so much as glance in her direction.
That Irv Ravitz should do Andy a favor is beyond her comprehension, but he’s really just an unwitting accomplice. He barely blurts out a greeting to Miranda before fixating his attention on Andy, and while she tries to wriggle out of small talk about Cheever (with Ravitz staring at her rack the whole time) Andy is finally, blissfully aware of Miranda staring daggers at the side of her face. It’s a start, at least.
The band is picking up now, and Andy recognizes one of her own requests for their playlist. As the melodic blues notes fill the air, she’s relieved when some other rich old man waves Irv down and steals him away, no doubt to smoke cigars and compare notes on the secretaries they’re screwing.
Most of the important faces in Miranda’s binders come and go in the next hour, while she nurses her drink and blows those super-fake air kisses at each of them. She does tilt her head towards Andy some of the time, and Andy’s careful not to get too close to the alabaster skin of Miranda’s arm or neck when she whispers her answers.
Just when Andy’s expecting to be dismissed, giving her a much needed chance to regroup and check her dramatic makeup is still perfect, Miranda turns to Emily and says something that makes the British girl take off at almost a run. Awaiting her own dismissal, Andy is stunned when Miranda finally turns to face her fully.
“Andrea. Upstairs. Now.”
It‘s no secret that Miranda keeps a small ‘staging’ area for herself and some staff at an event this important. She frequently doesn’t decide on an outfit until she’s actually at the venue itself, and Andy happens to know that Emily ferried at least two other dresses and four pairs of shoes here earlier in the day. If Miranda isn’t dashing away after an hour, perhaps she intends to change like she’s presenting the Oscars or something?
Regardless of her unspoken questions, Andy dutifully follows. Disaster strikes on the staircase though, as she’s accosted by none other than Christian Thompson, who looks blandly handsome in his tuxedo.
Miranda’s eyes flare with dislike at the sight of him, but she stops for the requisite moments of small talk. Unfortunately, Christian seems much more interested in Andy, despite not having seen her since that ill-fated luncheon in Paris. Miranda is visibly irritated as both his eyes and attention wander to Andy, standing by her side.
“And may I say, you make a very lovely Cleopatra, Andy. Liz Taylor was my first love, you know.”
“That’s nice,” Andy offers dully, not wanting to incur Miranda’s wrath.
“You should call me, soon.” Christian flashes a killer smile at her, before turning his attention to Miranda. “Nice seeing you again, Miranda; your event is quite the success.”
On that smarmy and not remotely sincere note, Christian takes his leave. Andy cringes as he slowly checks her out one last time before descending the stairs. Miranda is lost in thought for a moment, her face entirely unreadable. She apparently comes to a decision though, grabbing Andy’s arm hard enough to pinch and steering her the rest of the way. Apparently Miranda doesn’t want any more interruptions.
The staging area is clearly someone’s office by day, but since the event is in a gallery and not a hotel, even Miranda has to improvise a little. It looks fancy enough though, with expensive art on the walls and the requisite office furniture, all of which is covered in bags or clothing. Miranda sweeps through the space like she owns it, removing a Chanel bag from the huge leather chair that sits behind the desk. Miranda’s holding court, Andy realizes, and she’s the unlucky subject.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Miranda?” Andy speaks just to shatter the silence. She’s nervous enough without that deadly quiet.
Miranda considers the question for a moment, tilting her head in that way of hers, but her eyes never stop roving over Andy’s costume. Whatever new scanners the TSA bring to airports, it will never feel as exposing as Miranda’s glare, Andy thinks to herself.
“That depends on you,” Miranda answers, at last. “You come here, dressed like this… Was it Nigel who told? Did you giggle over it like silly schoolgirls?”
“Giggle? Miranda, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I assume this is your way of saying you want to move on?” Miranda frowns even as she says the words. “You thought you’d cater to me a little, spark my interest and then use it as leverage to finally get some little writing job that you can write home about; is that it?”
“Miranda,” Andy pleads. “I really don’t know what you mean.”
Which is when Andy realizes she’s going to have to bite the damn bullet and confess. Whatever she says about being attracted to Miranda can’t possibly be as bad as whatever Miranda is alluding to. Miranda sees plots at every turn-always some couture-wearing shadow with a dagger, ready to plunge it into the flawless milky skin of her back.
“I wore this costume for you,” Andy confesses. “I wore it in the vain hope that you might like it; that you might like me while I’m in it.”
Miranda shows no sign of even having heard. She’s still drinking in the details of Andy’s heavy gold jewelry and the flowing cut of the striking blue dress. And damn, but even the way she looks at Andy turns her on. She’s a lost fucking cause, and isn’t any closer to being found.
Summoning her courage, Andy walks around the desk to stand in front of Miranda, who doesn’t so much as flinch.
“You like it, right?” And oops, that came out a little breathier than Andy meant it to. She stops worrying about that the second that Miranda reacts: her cheeks blushing lightly at the sound of Andy’s voice. Oh boy, Andy hasn’t been imagining it all this time. She’s almost drunk on that knowledge, never mind the champagne.
“Did Nigel tell you?” Miranda asks again, sounding far less haughty this time.
“That you have a big ol’ girl crush on Elizabeth Taylor?” Andy asks, her eyes wide with faked innocence. “No, but he did help me throw it together. I worked it out for myself.”
“You can’t talk to me this way,” Miranda warns, visibly grasping for something that sounds like her usual cool control. “You can’t sleep your way into to a promotion.”
“I don’t want a promotion, Miranda. I want you.” And just by saying it, Andy feels ten pounds lighter. Her head is swimming a little with the excitement, with Miranda’s unguarded proximity.
“You want…” Miranda trails off, her voice barely audible to start with.
“You,” Andy confirms, leaning over until her hands rest comfortably on the arms of Miranda’s newly-conquered chair. “So, won’t you let me have you?”
It honestly looks like Miranda is going to say no. Her mouth hardens in that angry little line that Andy has recently started to find adorable instead of terrifying. Her eyes, blue at the best of times, are positively glacial now. But her chest is heaving under the slinky black dress, and her breathing is much louder. Not to mention the soft pink glow on her cheeks, the blush that says she likes what Andy has to say.
“But what about-“
Andy cuts her off, because honestly? They don’t have all night. At least, not in this room.
“You know what? Not so much for you with the talking.”
And with that, Andy kisses her, firmly on the mouth. Miranda doesn’t even react at first, trapped in her own bloody-minded stubbornness, but Andy keeps the gentle pressure up with her lips until Miranda responds in kind. It’s not quite as Andy might have fantasized about at first, because there are angles and teeth and just sheer awkwardness to overcome, but after a few seconds of working at it, they fall into a very pleasant way of kissing indeed.
“Oh,” Miranda says when Andy finally relinquishes her lips. “Oh.”
Well, Andy rationalizes, Cleopatra didn’t fool around when it came to getting what she wanted. Why spend all this time and effort to wuss out when things got good? Could Andy really have continued to live a life where she didn’t have this amazing knowledge of how hot Miranda Priestly looked after being kissed within an inch of her life? No, this was why people took risks; this was why any amount of planning and agonizing had been worth it.
That Miranda is the one to start the second kiss is absolutely fine with Andy, who leans back in with a smile that cannot be suppressed. Continuing her streak of daring, Andy removes her hands from the chair and lets them start exploring far more interesting locations-from the strokable lines of Miranda’s neck to the elegant planes of her exposed back. The chair is too limiting though, and so Andy wraps her arms around Miranda in a firm embrace and pulls her up to standing. Miranda doesn’t protest or complain, she just kisses Andy even harder, doing wonderful things with her tongue that make fireworks go off somewhere in the back of Andy’s mind.
Miranda pulls back, just a little, when they really need to grab a little air. Her lips are shiny and swollen, and her eyes dark with what Andy now recognizes as arousal. It’s the hottest goddamn thing that Andy has ever seen, and she’s wishing desperately for a camera just to preserve every beautiful second of it.
Not that Miranda gives her time to dwell on that idea. Instead, Miranda regards the desk littered with her own couture and copious amounts of accessories, and promptly sweeps them all to the floor with one swing of her arm. Andy gasps out loud at that, but Miranda merely smirks. Patting the desk, Miranda indicates that Andy should get herself up on it, and Andy’s inclined to agree because this would be a crazy time to stop doing what she’s told.
Her ass barely makes contact with the hard wood before Miranda is on her, feverish but talented with her kisses and touches. Andy doesn’t know which to react to first, and so contents herself to kiss back and try not to drown completely in the sensation. Miranda pushes her gently back, and Andy lies down without protest. Her nipples are already rock hard from Miranda’s casual caresses, and any minute now she’s seriously concerned about spontaneous human combustion; it can’t be safe to want anything quite so badly.
But if Andy thinks she knows what want is, if she thinks she has any concept of how it feels to go halfway out of her mind, she’s proven wrong by Miranda’s next move. Dropping back into the chair, Miranda steers herself right between Andy’s parted thighs, scraping her nails over the sensitive skin on the inside of each leg. Andy’s hips buck straight up off the table, and that’s before she hears Miranda’s muttered “oh, my” at discovering Andy’s complete lack of underwear.
With a teasing pace that should be outlawed by UN Convention (except not, because ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod Andy thinks) Miranda kisses her way up Andy’s trembling thighs towards her waiting center. Wet would be an understatement, because by the time Miranda makes her first experimental swipe over Andy’s clit with her tongue, Andy’s fairly sure that she’s dripping.
It might be minutes, or it might be hours, but Miranda takes her time in savoring every soaking, trembling inch that Andy is offering her. Alternating between massaging pulses and fast licks that feel like the crack of a whip, Miranda has Andy clenching around her tongue once, and then twice in quick succession. Andy runs through every curse word she knows, and probably a few she didn’t, until she grabs Miranda’s silver hair and begs her to show some mercy.
“Oh Andrea,” Miranda purrs, looking up from her comfortable position between Andy’s legs. “We’re just getting started.”
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: I disclaim! No, really I do
Summary: Andy doesn't leave in Paris, one year later: there's a Costume Ball given in aid of one of Miranda's pet charities. Andy sees the perfect opportunity to make a statement. Written for the P0rn Battle XII prompt: 'Cleopatra'.
This is the dumbest idea that Andy’s ever had.
And dumb ideas have a lot of competition where she’s concerned. Whether turning down the security that a law degree from Stanford would have offered her, or talking back to Miranda during the first interview, Andy has had a flair for recklessness that professional stunt men would envy. Not to mention taking instructions from demonic twins, sleeping with Christian Thompson and almost, almost walking away from the most fascinating person she’s ever met at the end of Paris Fashion Week.
So yeah, where stupidity is concerned, Andrea Sachs has some impressive form. The latest of which is based on an increasingly noticeable crush and a glimpse of an Elizabeth Taylor biography in one of Miranda’s more spacious purses. There’s been further research of course-not least the few framed Runway covers that Miranda decorates her office with, and a careful study of everything Miranda has written in print.
Andy places the eyeliner down with a trembling hand, her nerves back in full flow now that the business of assembling this particular mask is done with. There’s a blast of a car horn from downstairs, and with one final appraisal in the mirror, Andy grabs her things and departs. It’s now or, more likely, never.
Roy is on Miranda duty tonight, so Andy has one of the pool drivers. Hans is polite to a fault, and Andy knows him fairly well from a bunch of errands in the past few months. He’s driven her to Calvin Klein, Hermès and Dalton, amongst others, but he’s never looked at Andy the way he just did in the rear-view mirror. Her cheeks flush at the attention, and she looks away in embarrassment. Dressing this way is for one person only, and Andy can’t afford to let herself get distracted now.
It’s one glass of champagne for courage, and a second for luck. Andy smiles calmly despite the storm of nerves crashing around inside her. She’s not wearing a bra, and although the bodice of her dress (YSL, a lesser collection, and Nigel didn’t mind altering it) is tight enough to compensate, she still feels a little exposed with so many eyes on her.
But the point of a costumed ball is to stare, to shock and provoke and be stared at in return. Not that the rest of the Runway staff have made much effort, beyond Serena who is, in fact, gorgeous enough to make even leopard print look classy. Andy wiggles her fingers in discreet greeting, and Serena smiles in acknowledgment before turning back to her conversation with some new signing for the Yankees.
Andy demurs politely when asked to dance (and nobody who’s anybody actually dances at these things anyway) and waves away offers of drinks. She might feel ungrateful if any of the offers were made to her face, instead of her cleavage. Shaking her head she’s aware of the added heaviness in her hair, and the gentle noise from the extra adornments. She feels older tonight and-yes-glamorous. She can only hope that it’ll be enough.
Emily’s semaphore wave catches Andy’s eye and so she cuts short her conversation with a charming man whose name isn’t important enough for her to have memorized for Miranda, and takes up her position at Emily’s side. The moment of truth is fast approaching, and although Andy still barely dares hope, she knows what to look out for. This outfit isn’t designed to make Miranda grab Andy and have her right there on the staircase, but if Andy can catch even some evidence of Miranda’s interest, then later tonight she’s going to confess her feelings and to hell with the consequences.
Her palms are sweating slightly, and Andy pretends to listen to Emily’s instructions. Emily is still the First, even if Miranda leans on Andy a little more frequently, even if Andy is the only one who’s permitted to hear a personal remark or witness a split-second of human weakness peeking through. For months now, Andy has been seeing these glimpses of Miranda that everyone else is excluded from, and it’s turned an amusing power-crush into a raging obsession. Emily is actually complaining about how people are dressed, and God knows Andy’s been tuning that out for two years now, so she smiles and nods and pretends like she cares about anything other than Miranda’s imminent arrival.
The moment, when it finally comes, does not disappoint. Andy thinks she might actually be swaying a little as she watches Miranda descend the stairs. No costume for Miranda, per se, just a knockout dress that nobody can seem to take their eyes off. She descends as though oblivious to the hush, or to the quiet electricity that crackles in ten different directions through the assembled throng. Though her signature hairstyle is artfully mussed in one of Miranda’s approved styles, there’s no mistaking the slinky black dress and elbow-length gloves combination: this is Miranda’s homage to Audrey Hepburn, and Andy finds her mouth going dry as she drinks in the sight of it.
With the last scraps of her resolve, Andy waits patiently beside Emily. Miranda won’t acknowledge them until the crowd begins to look away, and so there are still a few precious seconds before Andy knows if her efforts have been in vain. It’s then that Emily provides a fleeting moment of distraction, and Andy could kiss her for it.
“You look okay, by the way,” which, from Emily, is practically a rave review. Andy feels the glow of confidence suffuse her, and her polite smile grows into a genuine grin.
“Thanks, Em. You look so stylish. And, like, Morticia Addams thin.” Emily lights up like a Fourth of July display, and Andy silently congratulates herself on bribing the universe with one last act of goodwill.
When she looks back towards the stairs, Miranda is almost at the bottom. Affecting what she hopes is a sultry expression befitting the Queen of the Nile, Andy forces herself to act cool. She lets her eyes wander the room for a long moment before turning back at the sound of Miranda’s voice.
“Emily-“ Miranda begins, but something stops her short. Andy dares to make eye contact and her heart almost explodes to find Miranda staring at her, actually open-mouthed in something that might be shock. Forcing herself to focus, Andy studies Miranda for the clues she so desperately needs, and doesn’t have to wait long for her reward.
Miranda’s cheeks have flushed slightly, and Andy isn’t quite close enough to say for sure, but it seems that Miranda’s eyes might actually have dilated because they seem a much darker blue than normal.
Oh. Fuck. Yes.
Preening just a little, Andy turns her head as though about to consult with Emily. It gives Miranda a chance to see her costume in profile, and perhaps to see that the sheer blue fabric is so thin that there’s no room for underwear beneath it. With feigned nonchalance, Andy wraps her fingers around the snake bangle on her upper arm and acts like she’s adjusting it slightly.
Miranda’s eyes never leave Andy, to the point where even Emily seems likely to notice. Not wanting anything to spoil the moment, Andy is the one to move first, falling into place behind Miranda, ready to whisper names and salient details about the important guests. Emily follows suit, her expression just a little suspicious, but Andy knows there won’t be a chance for personal chatter for hours.
Without saying another word to either of them, Miranda plunges into the crowd and expects both her assistants to follow. When a suitably central spot is picked out, Miranda sets up camp like a Queen by an invisible throne, and allows the partygoers to come and fawn over her just a little. She’s a patron of this particular children’s charity, and although Andy has overheard a few catty remarks about how Miranda is more likely to lure children to the oven in her gingerbread house than try to save them, the turnout is impressive and the checks have been flowing with a lot of zeroes at the end.
When Miranda turns to Emily for the first few guests, Andy isn’t concerned. Emily has been at this longer, and barring the time she had walking pneumonia, she’s never failed Miranda on a single face or name. It’s only as the tenth or eleven couple have their names whispered by Emily that Andy starts to worry she’s being ignored. Not quite suicidal enough to say anything, Andy makes a quiet production out of adjusting her dress just a fraction, then shaking out her hair with the satisfying rattle of gold on the tips. It draws the attention of countless people she doesn’t care about, but Miranda doesn’t so much as glance in her direction.
That Irv Ravitz should do Andy a favor is beyond her comprehension, but he’s really just an unwitting accomplice. He barely blurts out a greeting to Miranda before fixating his attention on Andy, and while she tries to wriggle out of small talk about Cheever (with Ravitz staring at her rack the whole time) Andy is finally, blissfully aware of Miranda staring daggers at the side of her face. It’s a start, at least.
The band is picking up now, and Andy recognizes one of her own requests for their playlist. As the melodic blues notes fill the air, she’s relieved when some other rich old man waves Irv down and steals him away, no doubt to smoke cigars and compare notes on the secretaries they’re screwing.
Most of the important faces in Miranda’s binders come and go in the next hour, while she nurses her drink and blows those super-fake air kisses at each of them. She does tilt her head towards Andy some of the time, and Andy’s careful not to get too close to the alabaster skin of Miranda’s arm or neck when she whispers her answers.
Just when Andy’s expecting to be dismissed, giving her a much needed chance to regroup and check her dramatic makeup is still perfect, Miranda turns to Emily and says something that makes the British girl take off at almost a run. Awaiting her own dismissal, Andy is stunned when Miranda finally turns to face her fully.
“Andrea. Upstairs. Now.”
It‘s no secret that Miranda keeps a small ‘staging’ area for herself and some staff at an event this important. She frequently doesn’t decide on an outfit until she’s actually at the venue itself, and Andy happens to know that Emily ferried at least two other dresses and four pairs of shoes here earlier in the day. If Miranda isn’t dashing away after an hour, perhaps she intends to change like she’s presenting the Oscars or something?
Regardless of her unspoken questions, Andy dutifully follows. Disaster strikes on the staircase though, as she’s accosted by none other than Christian Thompson, who looks blandly handsome in his tuxedo.
Miranda’s eyes flare with dislike at the sight of him, but she stops for the requisite moments of small talk. Unfortunately, Christian seems much more interested in Andy, despite not having seen her since that ill-fated luncheon in Paris. Miranda is visibly irritated as both his eyes and attention wander to Andy, standing by her side.
“And may I say, you make a very lovely Cleopatra, Andy. Liz Taylor was my first love, you know.”
“That’s nice,” Andy offers dully, not wanting to incur Miranda’s wrath.
“You should call me, soon.” Christian flashes a killer smile at her, before turning his attention to Miranda. “Nice seeing you again, Miranda; your event is quite the success.”
On that smarmy and not remotely sincere note, Christian takes his leave. Andy cringes as he slowly checks her out one last time before descending the stairs. Miranda is lost in thought for a moment, her face entirely unreadable. She apparently comes to a decision though, grabbing Andy’s arm hard enough to pinch and steering her the rest of the way. Apparently Miranda doesn’t want any more interruptions.
The staging area is clearly someone’s office by day, but since the event is in a gallery and not a hotel, even Miranda has to improvise a little. It looks fancy enough though, with expensive art on the walls and the requisite office furniture, all of which is covered in bags or clothing. Miranda sweeps through the space like she owns it, removing a Chanel bag from the huge leather chair that sits behind the desk. Miranda’s holding court, Andy realizes, and she’s the unlucky subject.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Miranda?” Andy speaks just to shatter the silence. She’s nervous enough without that deadly quiet.
Miranda considers the question for a moment, tilting her head in that way of hers, but her eyes never stop roving over Andy’s costume. Whatever new scanners the TSA bring to airports, it will never feel as exposing as Miranda’s glare, Andy thinks to herself.
“That depends on you,” Miranda answers, at last. “You come here, dressed like this… Was it Nigel who told? Did you giggle over it like silly schoolgirls?”
“Giggle? Miranda, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I assume this is your way of saying you want to move on?” Miranda frowns even as she says the words. “You thought you’d cater to me a little, spark my interest and then use it as leverage to finally get some little writing job that you can write home about; is that it?”
“Miranda,” Andy pleads. “I really don’t know what you mean.”
Which is when Andy realizes she’s going to have to bite the damn bullet and confess. Whatever she says about being attracted to Miranda can’t possibly be as bad as whatever Miranda is alluding to. Miranda sees plots at every turn-always some couture-wearing shadow with a dagger, ready to plunge it into the flawless milky skin of her back.
“I wore this costume for you,” Andy confesses. “I wore it in the vain hope that you might like it; that you might like me while I’m in it.”
Miranda shows no sign of even having heard. She’s still drinking in the details of Andy’s heavy gold jewelry and the flowing cut of the striking blue dress. And damn, but even the way she looks at Andy turns her on. She’s a lost fucking cause, and isn’t any closer to being found.
Summoning her courage, Andy walks around the desk to stand in front of Miranda, who doesn’t so much as flinch.
“You like it, right?” And oops, that came out a little breathier than Andy meant it to. She stops worrying about that the second that Miranda reacts: her cheeks blushing lightly at the sound of Andy’s voice. Oh boy, Andy hasn’t been imagining it all this time. She’s almost drunk on that knowledge, never mind the champagne.
“Did Nigel tell you?” Miranda asks again, sounding far less haughty this time.
“That you have a big ol’ girl crush on Elizabeth Taylor?” Andy asks, her eyes wide with faked innocence. “No, but he did help me throw it together. I worked it out for myself.”
“You can’t talk to me this way,” Miranda warns, visibly grasping for something that sounds like her usual cool control. “You can’t sleep your way into to a promotion.”
“I don’t want a promotion, Miranda. I want you.” And just by saying it, Andy feels ten pounds lighter. Her head is swimming a little with the excitement, with Miranda’s unguarded proximity.
“You want…” Miranda trails off, her voice barely audible to start with.
“You,” Andy confirms, leaning over until her hands rest comfortably on the arms of Miranda’s newly-conquered chair. “So, won’t you let me have you?”
It honestly looks like Miranda is going to say no. Her mouth hardens in that angry little line that Andy has recently started to find adorable instead of terrifying. Her eyes, blue at the best of times, are positively glacial now. But her chest is heaving under the slinky black dress, and her breathing is much louder. Not to mention the soft pink glow on her cheeks, the blush that says she likes what Andy has to say.
“But what about-“
Andy cuts her off, because honestly? They don’t have all night. At least, not in this room.
“You know what? Not so much for you with the talking.”
And with that, Andy kisses her, firmly on the mouth. Miranda doesn’t even react at first, trapped in her own bloody-minded stubbornness, but Andy keeps the gentle pressure up with her lips until Miranda responds in kind. It’s not quite as Andy might have fantasized about at first, because there are angles and teeth and just sheer awkwardness to overcome, but after a few seconds of working at it, they fall into a very pleasant way of kissing indeed.
“Oh,” Miranda says when Andy finally relinquishes her lips. “Oh.”
Well, Andy rationalizes, Cleopatra didn’t fool around when it came to getting what she wanted. Why spend all this time and effort to wuss out when things got good? Could Andy really have continued to live a life where she didn’t have this amazing knowledge of how hot Miranda Priestly looked after being kissed within an inch of her life? No, this was why people took risks; this was why any amount of planning and agonizing had been worth it.
That Miranda is the one to start the second kiss is absolutely fine with Andy, who leans back in with a smile that cannot be suppressed. Continuing her streak of daring, Andy removes her hands from the chair and lets them start exploring far more interesting locations-from the strokable lines of Miranda’s neck to the elegant planes of her exposed back. The chair is too limiting though, and so Andy wraps her arms around Miranda in a firm embrace and pulls her up to standing. Miranda doesn’t protest or complain, she just kisses Andy even harder, doing wonderful things with her tongue that make fireworks go off somewhere in the back of Andy’s mind.
Miranda pulls back, just a little, when they really need to grab a little air. Her lips are shiny and swollen, and her eyes dark with what Andy now recognizes as arousal. It’s the hottest goddamn thing that Andy has ever seen, and she’s wishing desperately for a camera just to preserve every beautiful second of it.
Not that Miranda gives her time to dwell on that idea. Instead, Miranda regards the desk littered with her own couture and copious amounts of accessories, and promptly sweeps them all to the floor with one swing of her arm. Andy gasps out loud at that, but Miranda merely smirks. Patting the desk, Miranda indicates that Andy should get herself up on it, and Andy’s inclined to agree because this would be a crazy time to stop doing what she’s told.
Her ass barely makes contact with the hard wood before Miranda is on her, feverish but talented with her kisses and touches. Andy doesn’t know which to react to first, and so contents herself to kiss back and try not to drown completely in the sensation. Miranda pushes her gently back, and Andy lies down without protest. Her nipples are already rock hard from Miranda’s casual caresses, and any minute now she’s seriously concerned about spontaneous human combustion; it can’t be safe to want anything quite so badly.
But if Andy thinks she knows what want is, if she thinks she has any concept of how it feels to go halfway out of her mind, she’s proven wrong by Miranda’s next move. Dropping back into the chair, Miranda steers herself right between Andy’s parted thighs, scraping her nails over the sensitive skin on the inside of each leg. Andy’s hips buck straight up off the table, and that’s before she hears Miranda’s muttered “oh, my” at discovering Andy’s complete lack of underwear.
With a teasing pace that should be outlawed by UN Convention (except not, because ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod Andy thinks) Miranda kisses her way up Andy’s trembling thighs towards her waiting center. Wet would be an understatement, because by the time Miranda makes her first experimental swipe over Andy’s clit with her tongue, Andy’s fairly sure that she’s dripping.
It might be minutes, or it might be hours, but Miranda takes her time in savoring every soaking, trembling inch that Andy is offering her. Alternating between massaging pulses and fast licks that feel like the crack of a whip, Miranda has Andy clenching around her tongue once, and then twice in quick succession. Andy runs through every curse word she knows, and probably a few she didn’t, until she grabs Miranda’s silver hair and begs her to show some mercy.
“Oh Andrea,” Miranda purrs, looking up from her comfortable position between Andy’s legs. “We’re just getting started.”