give me that thing that i love (devil wears prada | andy/miranda)

[fiachairecht]

give me that thing that i love (i'll turn the lights out). the devil wears prada, andy/miranda. reunion bondage ft philosophical paradoxes as pillowtalk. 666w, rated m. for fencesit in we die like fen round 3.

"Patience," Miranda says, surveying the naked woman on the bed in front of her. "Is not about waiting for something to happen to you."

Andrea's fingers twitch towards the ropes across her chest, the only movement allowed to her. "I know."

"And the opposite of patience," Miranda continues, as if she hadn't spoken, "Is not impulsivity." The mattress dips beneath her as she sits, the grey silk of her robe falling open across the tops of her thighs. She walks her fingers across the white-blue gradient of silk laddering its way across Andrea's hips, feeling the gooseflesh rise under her touch. Still responsive, after all this time, her body knowing how to react to Miranda's touch.

"And which one of those do you think you were demonstrating, sending that email? Coming here." Andrea blinks up at her, taking her time with the answer. She's been tied up in Miranda's bed long enough that whatever she says won't be the excuse she had in mind when she showed up on the doorstep, but Miranda's curious what she's had time to come up with.

Blue for spring, she'd written, like the ice cracking. No one ever asks where the florals come from. Miranda knew an offer of a truce when she saw one, just like she now knows the sight of Andrea Sachs naked on her bed, silk bracketing her breasts, wrapping around her shoulders and spiraling down her arms. She's tied to the headboard at the wrists, but the ends at her hips are tucked into the ropework so neatly that Miranda would never be able to find them if she hadn't been the one to tie them.

The silk is blue. The only hint of florals is Andrea's rosebud mouth, kiss-swollen lips pursed as she thinks about Miranda's question. "Neither," she says. "I've wanted this since the last time I saw you. All I did was wait for the right time."

A day after publication day, one of the weeks Miranda's in the country for it. She could have picked worse times. Could have picked better. "When did you last see me?"

It's a test, or it could be. Andy blinks in the low lamplight, confidence growing. "Two months, a week, four d— days." The last word breaks on a sigh as Miranda nudges her legs apart and strokes over the tops of her thighs, lets her nails catch skin. "Three hours."

Miranda's hand comes down between her legs, light enough over the wisp of black silk that Andrea's flinch has to owe more to embarrassment than pain. "Needy little thing," she says. "I don't know whether I should be flattered or offended that you're still thinking about me this much after I sent you off into the world on your own."

"You're hard not to think about," Andrea says. Miranda can feel the warmth of her — the wetness that must have been gathering ever since she stripped. Flattered, then, perhaps — though there was a time when this was the minimum she expected from her.

Miranda slaps her again, harder, and she's rewarded with a cry this time. "I know that," she says, not unkindly. "Tell me something new, Andrea. I don't do this for just anyone."

Andrea whimpers slightly, fingers clenching in the sheets. Miranda's hand is growing damp. "You wouldn't come to me empty-handed. And you know better than to think that your body is enough." Andrea's hips are grinding against the bed, as if she could wriggle out of her Carine Gilson thong by sheer force of will, and Miranda is starting to regret not tying her legs. "Use your words."

Andrea screws her eyes shut. "Yes, Miranda," she says — breathless, expectant, wanting, and still not enough to satisfy Miranda.

She pulls Andrea's thong down more for herself than anything, for the wet crack of her palm against Andrea's lips. "Closer," she murmurs, as she glances up to see the beginnings of tears glimmering in Andrea's eyes. "But not enough."

Andrea just nods.