Discreet Lesbian Chic
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada (movie)
Disclaimer: Oh, so not mine.
Summary: Fancy Miranda Priestly screwing an assistant, if you dare.
Emily knows they’re fucking right now. Not that she can hear them, because Miranda Priestly would rather wear something from TJ Maxx than have anyone hear her having sex, and “new Emily” is in this stage where she’s trying to prove herself to Miranda. Hence, if Miranda wants Andy to be quiet, Andy will bite through her own hand before making a noise.
They must look a sight, Miranda with her perfectly manicured nails knuckle-deep in Andy’s pussy, or Andy kneeling discreetly in front of Miranda, though Emily doesn’t think Miranda trusts anyone enough to let them eat her anywhere close to public.
Which is anywhere, for Miranda. So Miranda is fingering Andy, cool as you please, while Andy turns all sorts of colors and gets sweaty. Probably Andy is thinking that having the boss finger her doesn’t count as cheating, so she can apologize to her pretty boyfriend (not that Emily’s met him, but she’s seen a picture or two and he is pretty. Almost male model pretty, she told Allyson but would never tell Andy) for being late but not for cheating on him.
Hairsplitting definitions matter; for example, Emily would never consider Miranda and Andy having sex gay. Miranda Priestly, first of all, is far too stylish to be associated with lesbians — picturing Miranda spending time in a pair of blue jeans listening to La Tigre almost makes Emily giggle and spoil her whole eavesdropping. Second of all, Emily is fairly sure it’s not about sex to Miranda. At least half of the clackers at Runway would learn to lick pussy and like it if Miranda lifted her chin in a certain way.
No, this is about whatever fucked-up thing Miranda has about Andy and her no-style, holier-than-thou, half-assed or double-whole-assed way of fighting Miranda tooth and nail. Miranda wants to break Andy, wants to make Andy want to do what Miranda wants her to do. So Miranda is probably twisting her fingers inside a very wet Andy as Andy tries to balance an aching clit on stiletto heels.
Emily almost wishes that Andy would fall, but if she fell, she wouldn’t be the one being fucked by Miranda right now. Even if it means that Andy goes home limping or with a lower lip the size of J. Lo’s ass, she will close her eyes, writhe, and take it.
Which is extra unfair, because Miranda will make Andy come, and it’s been so long since Emily’s had an orgasm that she’s about to declare herself celibate for Runway. At least at Runway, you get products, which makes it better than being celibate for Jesus.
Still. Miranda’s never tested Emily’s loyalty by getting her off; there’s something profoundly unfair about that. Emily would do a much better job of pleasing Miranda than Andy ever could, because Emily wants to please Miranda.
“That’s all,” Miranda says in a slightly louder-than-usual voice.
Emily snorts; oh, they were SO clearly fucking, and it’s not like she would ever tell. Not that Emily couldn’t pay rent for a year on a decent studio in Manhattan with what Page Six would pay for that kind of scoop. There’d be no proof she could dig up. Andy’s flushed cheeks and slight stumble could be upset over a chewing-out.
“And what shortcomings was Miranda redressing today?” Emily says snidely as Andy sits down at her desk. “I really needed to pee, you know.”
“Yeah, well…go,” Andy says, weak even for her. “I have to finish…I mean, I need to get things done.”
Emily raises an eyebrow, says nothing, and stalks off to the bathroom. One doesn’t not take a bathroom break at Runway, even though Emily really doesn’t need to go.
So Miranda didn’t finish the job. That’s something, especially given the way Andy looks like she wants to do something violence.
Besides, “imagine Miranda Priestly’s idea of lesbian chic, if you dare” is the best laugh that Emily’s had in ages, and now that she’s safe in the bathroom, she laughs and laughs hard about it.
Of course, when she walks out of the bathroom, Miranda is breezing her way in.
“Something funny, Emily?” she asks, all art and no fear.
“Oh, just a thought about the gauche crap Galliano is pretending is chic,” Emily replies.
“Oh,” Miranda says, half-smiling as she disappears into the bathroom. “That’s all.”
Emily suppresses the urge to squeal with joy, because oh, Emily has won a round. That’s all.
Emily has won and oh, that is all and that is plenty.