A Drop of Poison | R | The Devil Wears Prada
Title: A Drop of Poison
Prompt: “Pick your poison,” Miranda had said.
Challenge: A to Z Drabble Challenge; A is for Alcohol
Fandom: Miranda/Andy, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: meganmtrombino
Rating: R
Word Count: 794
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: I haven’t written for this pairing in ages, but I’ve been missing Mirandy like woah lately. This is a bit angsty, but hopefully it’s still enjoyable! Let me know what you think! Comments are love!
-
“Pick your poison,” Miranda had said, and Andy had known by the challenging glint in the other woman’s slate-grey eyes that there was only one appropriate answer. It didn’t matter that Andy preferred the familiar comforts of beer and wine; Miranda was a whiskey drinker, and there was no way that Miranda would exchange her drink of choice for Andy’s. She had nearly laughed at the thought of the older woman knocking back a brewskie.
That had been her first mistake.
“Whatever you’re having,” Andy had replied, a suggestive grin on her too-red lips. The smile had said everything that Andy lacked the balls to say: I’m up for anything you have to offer, Miranda Priestly. Bring it.
As it had turned out, the older woman had quite a bit to offer, though Andy was remiss to admit that she couldn’t remember much of it. If the pounding in her skull failed to give any indication, the smattering of bruises across her breasts certainly painted the rest of the picture. Andy couldn’t remember the last time she’d been given a hickey, much less six, and she hazily wondered how long it had been since Miranda had gotten laid. She also wondered that the rest of her body looked like, and what the hell she could get away with wearing to work tomorrow if her neck matched her torso.
Her head hurt like hell. The lights were too bright and the sound of running water in a nearby bathroom was too loud. She remembered now why she never drank whiskey. At another time, when she felt less like walking into oncoming traffic to allay the brutality of her hangover, she would berate herself for trying to prove herself to Miranda in a way that would knowingly make her ill rather than showing her that she could hold her own.
Maybe that had been her second mistake-though Andy briefly considered the possibility that it might still be the first mistake.
She was sore everywhere when she moved to switch off the bedside lamp, especially between her legs. Were she less hungover, she may have appreciated the sting of a night of rough sex, but at that moment she found it an extension of the pain she was rapidly wishing she never signed up for. She hadn’t exactly pictured fucking Miranda Priestly to be akin to making love on a bed of rose petals, but she sure as hell hadn’t humored the possibility that it would feel like hell.
Turning off the lamp did little to darken the room; sunlight was already beginning to creep through the drawn curtains and the harsh yellow light in the bathroom cast an eerie luminescence against the dark shape of Miranda’s body as she huddled over the sink. Andy blinked, wondering if the other woman was ill. Miranda coughed. Andy grinned.
At least, she mused, Miranda wasn’t doing too hot either.
The running water stopped and Miranda slapped her hand punishingly against the light switch.
This had been the goal - being with Miranda, stealing some fragment of intimacy using the veil of alcohol to loosen the parts of their rationales that had told them both that they knew better. But she began to remember: they’d been kissing, touching, desperate for each other, and Andy had wished that they were sober enough to enjoy it.
She watched Miranda slowly make her way back to the bed, and Andy smirked over the fact that Miranda had thrown on her panties and the silk camisole she had been wearing before going to the bathroom. Andy was naked as the day she was born, and she briefly paused to question whether Miranda was that modest, or if they had actually even bothered to divest Miranda of her underwear. Miranda’s eyes did not meet Andy’s as she slid back into bed, turning away from her.
“This was a mistake,” Andy said, looking at Miranda’s rigid back, hoping her stare would be enough to coax the woman to turn around and face her.
“Finally, some sense on your part.” It came out in a croak, the rough gravel of her voice betraying her icy, impersonal exterior. It was raw and it was human, and it made Andy shiver.
Andy rolled her eyes, a movement that felt like razors scraping the inside of her skull. “Next time, no alcohol. Just you, me, and a bed.”
There was silence and Andy wondered if Miranda had fallen back to sleep.
“Fine,” Miranda finally answered, burrowing her body a little deeper into her pillow.
Andy relaxed back with a grin, settling in to sleep off a little more of her hangover. Next time, she would allow herself only a drop of poison: Miranda.
---
Prompt: “Pick your poison,” Miranda had said.
Challenge: A to Z Drabble Challenge; A is for Alcohol
Fandom: Miranda/Andy, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: meganmtrombino
Rating: R
Word Count: 794
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: I haven’t written for this pairing in ages, but I’ve been missing Mirandy like woah lately. This is a bit angsty, but hopefully it’s still enjoyable! Let me know what you think! Comments are love!
-
“Pick your poison,” Miranda had said, and Andy had known by the challenging glint in the other woman’s slate-grey eyes that there was only one appropriate answer. It didn’t matter that Andy preferred the familiar comforts of beer and wine; Miranda was a whiskey drinker, and there was no way that Miranda would exchange her drink of choice for Andy’s. She had nearly laughed at the thought of the older woman knocking back a brewskie.
That had been her first mistake.
“Whatever you’re having,” Andy had replied, a suggestive grin on her too-red lips. The smile had said everything that Andy lacked the balls to say: I’m up for anything you have to offer, Miranda Priestly. Bring it.
As it had turned out, the older woman had quite a bit to offer, though Andy was remiss to admit that she couldn’t remember much of it. If the pounding in her skull failed to give any indication, the smattering of bruises across her breasts certainly painted the rest of the picture. Andy couldn’t remember the last time she’d been given a hickey, much less six, and she hazily wondered how long it had been since Miranda had gotten laid. She also wondered that the rest of her body looked like, and what the hell she could get away with wearing to work tomorrow if her neck matched her torso.
Her head hurt like hell. The lights were too bright and the sound of running water in a nearby bathroom was too loud. She remembered now why she never drank whiskey. At another time, when she felt less like walking into oncoming traffic to allay the brutality of her hangover, she would berate herself for trying to prove herself to Miranda in a way that would knowingly make her ill rather than showing her that she could hold her own.
Maybe that had been her second mistake-though Andy briefly considered the possibility that it might still be the first mistake.
She was sore everywhere when she moved to switch off the bedside lamp, especially between her legs. Were she less hungover, she may have appreciated the sting of a night of rough sex, but at that moment she found it an extension of the pain she was rapidly wishing she never signed up for. She hadn’t exactly pictured fucking Miranda Priestly to be akin to making love on a bed of rose petals, but she sure as hell hadn’t humored the possibility that it would feel like hell.
Turning off the lamp did little to darken the room; sunlight was already beginning to creep through the drawn curtains and the harsh yellow light in the bathroom cast an eerie luminescence against the dark shape of Miranda’s body as she huddled over the sink. Andy blinked, wondering if the other woman was ill. Miranda coughed. Andy grinned.
At least, she mused, Miranda wasn’t doing too hot either.
The running water stopped and Miranda slapped her hand punishingly against the light switch.
This had been the goal - being with Miranda, stealing some fragment of intimacy using the veil of alcohol to loosen the parts of their rationales that had told them both that they knew better. But she began to remember: they’d been kissing, touching, desperate for each other, and Andy had wished that they were sober enough to enjoy it.
She watched Miranda slowly make her way back to the bed, and Andy smirked over the fact that Miranda had thrown on her panties and the silk camisole she had been wearing before going to the bathroom. Andy was naked as the day she was born, and she briefly paused to question whether Miranda was that modest, or if they had actually even bothered to divest Miranda of her underwear. Miranda’s eyes did not meet Andy’s as she slid back into bed, turning away from her.
“This was a mistake,” Andy said, looking at Miranda’s rigid back, hoping her stare would be enough to coax the woman to turn around and face her.
“Finally, some sense on your part.” It came out in a croak, the rough gravel of her voice betraying her icy, impersonal exterior. It was raw and it was human, and it made Andy shiver.
Andy rolled her eyes, a movement that felt like razors scraping the inside of her skull. “Next time, no alcohol. Just you, me, and a bed.”
There was silence and Andy wondered if Miranda had fallen back to sleep.
“Fine,” Miranda finally answered, burrowing her body a little deeper into her pillow.
Andy relaxed back with a grin, settling in to sleep off a little more of her hangover. Next time, she would allow herself only a drop of poison: Miranda.
---