new (short) fic: Funny
Jan. 16th, 2011 07:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chainofcloversTitle: Funny
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada (film)
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to The Devil Wears Prada.
Note: This is a brief scene (502 words) written last week in response to Telanu's requests for the Five Acts Challenge.
“It’s okay to want more,” Andy whispered.
Funny words, those. Funny words to speak to a woman who lived on 73rd Street, in a house tended by a housekeeper. One look from Miranda could change a designer’s entire season. One question from Miranda and a hundred people raced to find the answer. One demand, a hundred results. Miranda often wanted, and got, more.
Funny words for Andy to speak to a woman who used to decide how much Andy had: how much money in her bank account, how much self-worth, how much dignity.
They weren’t on 73rd Street tonight. Miranda and Andy were in Brooklyn, in Andy’s new apartment, lying half under the covers in Andy’s bed. (“Please come over,” Andy had said to Miranda over the phone a few hours before. “I spent most of the day staring at Swedish diagrams, and they, like, guided me to the place I am now, which is sitting on my new bed. I’m not sleeping in it alone on its first night.”) There wasn’t much to the bedroom yet. Window cracked open against the heat. Familiar red digits explaining 10:30, then 10:31. A neat stack of cardboard boxes in one corner. A suitcase propped against the closet door. Even in the dark, you could tell the room was the off-white of an old apartment starting over. Andy was aware of these things, even though her eyes were on Miranda. She committed the feeling of them to memory, the glimmering basics of a new place.
Funny, too, that she and Miranda together were the detail that had carried over, the thing she brought with her when she moved.
Miranda had come maybe a minute prior, her head against the headboard, her back up on the pillow, Andy hovering above, kissing Miranda’s shoulder and working her fingers gently and patiently and happily between Miranda’s legs. She’d been quiet about it--new place--but Andy could tell it was good. She left her hand in place while Miranda came down, and now Miranda’s thighs were holding it there.
“It’s okay,” Andy said again, right into Miranda’s ear. “Tell me. I’ll keep going.”
Miranda shrugged her shoulders and squirmed her hips. She glanced at Andy and looked away just as quickly, down their bodies and towards the foot of the bed. Andy kept going. Miranda breathed harder, Miranda got wetter, Miranda said “Oh, fuck!” as she came. It was a funny choice, if you thought about it, like saying “Oh, lunch!” at lunch or “Oh, subway!” on the train. Miranda didn’t often come twice. It was hard for her to ask for it, and Andy suspected she worried about how long it took her, though it was fast tonight.
This time, Andy pulled out her fingers and rested her hand against Miranda’s shaky thigh. “I love you,” she said, like almost always.
“I love you,” Miranda replied. She did love Andy. She’d already made Andy come twice, Andy who loved asking for more. “I like your new place.”
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada (film)
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to The Devil Wears Prada.
Note: This is a brief scene (502 words) written last week in response to Telanu's requests for the Five Acts Challenge.
“It’s okay to want more,” Andy whispered.
Funny words, those. Funny words to speak to a woman who lived on 73rd Street, in a house tended by a housekeeper. One look from Miranda could change a designer’s entire season. One question from Miranda and a hundred people raced to find the answer. One demand, a hundred results. Miranda often wanted, and got, more.
Funny words for Andy to speak to a woman who used to decide how much Andy had: how much money in her bank account, how much self-worth, how much dignity.
They weren’t on 73rd Street tonight. Miranda and Andy were in Brooklyn, in Andy’s new apartment, lying half under the covers in Andy’s bed. (“Please come over,” Andy had said to Miranda over the phone a few hours before. “I spent most of the day staring at Swedish diagrams, and they, like, guided me to the place I am now, which is sitting on my new bed. I’m not sleeping in it alone on its first night.”) There wasn’t much to the bedroom yet. Window cracked open against the heat. Familiar red digits explaining 10:30, then 10:31. A neat stack of cardboard boxes in one corner. A suitcase propped against the closet door. Even in the dark, you could tell the room was the off-white of an old apartment starting over. Andy was aware of these things, even though her eyes were on Miranda. She committed the feeling of them to memory, the glimmering basics of a new place.
Funny, too, that she and Miranda together were the detail that had carried over, the thing she brought with her when she moved.
Miranda had come maybe a minute prior, her head against the headboard, her back up on the pillow, Andy hovering above, kissing Miranda’s shoulder and working her fingers gently and patiently and happily between Miranda’s legs. She’d been quiet about it--new place--but Andy could tell it was good. She left her hand in place while Miranda came down, and now Miranda’s thighs were holding it there.
“It’s okay,” Andy said again, right into Miranda’s ear. “Tell me. I’ll keep going.”
Miranda shrugged her shoulders and squirmed her hips. She glanced at Andy and looked away just as quickly, down their bodies and towards the foot of the bed. Andy kept going. Miranda breathed harder, Miranda got wetter, Miranda said “Oh, fuck!” as she came. It was a funny choice, if you thought about it, like saying “Oh, lunch!” at lunch or “Oh, subway!” on the train. Miranda didn’t often come twice. It was hard for her to ask for it, and Andy suspected she worried about how long it took her, though it was fast tonight.
This time, Andy pulled out her fingers and rested her hand against Miranda’s shaky thigh. “I love you,” she said, like almost always.
“I love you,” Miranda replied. She did love Andy. She’d already made Andy come twice, Andy who loved asking for more. “I like your new place.”
no subject
Date: 2011-05-19 04:45 am (UTC)Mostly, it seems, every time I read it, I get a sense of something missing. Not that the vignette isn't complete in and of itself, but it's complete almost as a conversation overheard in a subway might be complete ... it has a very definite beginning and end: people embark, people disembark and unless one follows them home, that is all of their story one gets to hear. Most people's stories are sufficiently banal that, more likely than not, that is all one *wants* to hear.
Rarely though, one of those passing conversations leaves one wondering – why did they sound so worried about cousin Dmitri visiting town? who said the black rooster wasn't good enough because of a single red feather? and with the noise of the tracks that word I didn't quite hear couldn't have been Baba Yaga, could it? I mean the baba part was clearish ... but ...
Like such a conversation, this piece left me wondering about the came before and the comes after in a way that somehow takes it out of fiction. It codes, somehow, as part of an ongoing experience, as though there might be a flipped page ... or a delay between subway stops ... and suddenly there would be more to these characters lives than is captured here.
Oh, heck ... and if none of the above makes any sense, please ascribe it to cold meds gone overboard and pretend all I said was: "This vignette is awesome. Thanks!"
no subject
Date: 2011-06-26 09:49 pm (UTC)Thank you so, so much. That was such a cool thing to hear about one of my stories. It's an incredibly short piece, and I'm happy to know that it feels complete the way that it's written but that there's clearly life--maybe even parts of life that would make more interesting or better or more fulfilling stories--before this story begins and after it's over.
I apologize for being slow (not often on dreamwidth), and truly appreciate the kind and interesting words. Hope you're doing well!