Unraveling | NC17 | The Devil Wears Prada
Title: Unraveling
Prompt: A story centered around kitnkabootle's Divine Decadence
Fandom: Miranda, The Devil Wears Prada: Divine Decadence
Requested by: kitnkabootle
Rating: NC17
WARNING: This story is extremely graphic and contains disturbing imagery (mentions of self mutilation, violence, rough sex). Please be advised.
Word Count: 1873
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: When Kit requested that I write a fic based around one of her own, I have to admit that I was a bit nervous to tackle it. Divine Decadence is one of my favorite fan fictions of any fandom/genre, so trying to write a companion to that was incredibly daunting. If you haven't read her story, I highly suggest that you hop over to this link, read it, and follow the link at the bottom to tell her what you think. It's gritty and raw and I loved every word. What made me especially nervous was trying to get into Miranda's head. I hope I have understood her motives and done this incredible fic justice. Please enjoy and let me know what you think! (and….seriously…go read her fic. Now-style.)
-
The rancid stench of piss and cum infiltrates Miranda Priestly's nostrils, turning her stomach. There's little within her to expend should the putridity of this room overpower her, though she isn't particularly keen on vomiting bile. It would, however, be fitting to add her own filth to this room that she considers her hellish sanctuary.
She crosses her arms to her chest in an attempt to block out the chill in the air. It's particularly cold tonight and will undoubtedly get worse when she's stripped of her clothing. She braces herself now, rubbing her hands a little too hard against her arms to generate a little warmth.
She taps her foot against the dank floor, reveling in the way her Louboutin doesn't quite press flush against the surface. Only she will notice this imperfection. She'd surely be thrown out of Hell's Passage it were discovered.
Taped to the sole of her shoe is a single razor blade.
She wishes she could remove it and hold her little steel friend in her hands. The desire to use it is strong but she doesn't have the time, not when her clients come and go as they please. She will not be careless.
Miranda has not cut herself in years. She'd been weak when it last happened, a mere shadow of the woman she is today. The scars have faded over the decades that have passed, though they feel as fresh as they did the day they were received.
How easy it would be to part the ivory canvas of her thigh, to stain it red. The thought of it gives her a jolt.
Thoughts like this unsettle her. These thoughts render her unrecognizable and make her feel as though she is fraying at the edges. She loses sight of Miranda Priestly and sees only the bony wisp of a girl that she was as Miriam Princhek. She's strived to bury that girl, to replace her with a stronger, better woman. It's taken a great deal of control--
Control.
Control is her mistress and her master, her lover and her captor. Her life is comprised solely on controlling one of the most prestigious fashion empires in the world, in fighting to balance a marriage and career, in taking care of her children.
Her stomach churns once more and as her mouth goes dry, she wonders if she will retch.
The pressure is too much. Sometimes she wants nothing more than to give it all up and just be Miriam Princhek again. She wants someone else to be in control.
And that, wanting to be her former self, disgusts her.
Miranda stares at a patch of a darkened substance on the wall. It may be the remnants of a client's spendings, or perhaps the blood of the woman who previously occupied the room.
She taps her foot again.
The slight bump of the razor soothes her nerves.
She acknowledges the hypocrisy in her desires. She wants to relinquish the control and yet she wants to micromanage it by taking it out on her own body. This constant struggle makes her feel as though she's coming unhinged.
That is why she doesn't cut. Even on the more difficult days when she sits with the razor curled in her fist she does not give in to the nagging devil on her shoulder.
She cannot and will not give in to the pressure by mutilating her own body.
She will, however, allow a stranger to do it for her.
She hears a noise in the hall and makes quick work of lowering the mask over her eyes. Miranda Priestly is a stickler for rules and will not be caught breaking one. She holds her breath and waits, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. They do not stop at one of the other doors that align the long hallway. They grow louder and Miranda's heart beats faster in her chest.
Choose this door. Take the control so I don't have to.
The door creaks on its hinges as it swings open. It closes slowly and for several moments, Miranda hears nothing but the quickened rhythm of his breath. Perhaps this man is turned on already. Most usually are when they come to Hell's Passage.
She senses something else on him. Nerves. Apprehension. It hangs dense in the air around them.
He's new.
The man hesitates, moving only when Miranda spins on her heel to face the direction of the door. He steps forward. His shoe grinds against the dirt and grit littering the floor. She can hear the metal fastening of his belt.
Will he beat her? Will she bleed tonight?
Will he break the rules?
She feels reassured knowing the razor blade is near. She is not entirely defenseless should he take this game too far.
He clears his throat and then coughs, hacking loud and unmuffled. The deep timbre of his voice is not one she's heard before. This unnerves and excites her; she doesn't know what to expect.
She can smell the acrid smoke on his breath even from this distance. She hopes he doesn't kiss her.
He may be too rough. He may be too gentle. She has no way of knowing until he begins. This is what thrills her about these degrading experiences: she doesn't have to orchestrate every detail about the encounter. It's out of her hands entirely.
She hears his heels as they step over the grime beneath their feet. He circles behind her and at this proximity Miranda can smell the aftershave and stale smoke that clings to his clothing. The hair on the back of her neck stands at rapt attention while he just stands there and she waits.
Miranda can hear leather grinding against denim and she tenses, preparing herself to become acquainted with his belt. She wonders if he'll snap it against her ass or if he'll choke her with it or if he'll --
Yes. He gathers her hands together behind her back, his grip clammy and warm, and loops the belt around her wrists. His touch is not gentle but hesitant. He is nervous. Miranda habitually longs to chastise him; how delicious it would feel to cut him down as she cuts down everyone else in her life who disappoints her.
But that is not what she's here for.
She is not here to be Miranda Priestly. She is not here to be Miriam Princhek. She is here to be Gabbana.
When her hands are bound behind her back and the strap pinches at the delicate flesh of her wrists, she waits. Her heart pounds against her ribcage, thrumming loud enough for him to hear. He clears his throat again and, with a loud grunt, he shoves her back against the wall.
Her wrists and head slam against the hard surface at the same time. She sees stars behind the cover of the black mask and her hands throb painfully against their restraints. He presses his body against her, forcing her ass to press her hands harder against the wall. She can feel the grime and decay coat the flesh at her fingers.
He rubs frantically against her, his hands roving over her body in large swipes. He doesn't seem to know where to start. He fumbles at her breasts, roughly squeezing and pinching and rubbing roughly. He wheezes against her neck as he grinds his dick against her pelvis.
When she feels his teeth sink into her neck, she cries out. It's a mixture of pleasure and pain.
It's exactly what she's been craving.
She doesn't have to think at all.
His hands come between them and he frees his cock in one deft flick of his wrist. His hands return to her breasts. He pulls her shirt apart and begins to place frantic, forceful kisses on her chest. His hips continue to undulate against her. Her skirt rides up her thighs.
She panics. He hasn't put on a condom.
Miranda realizes that he has no intention of fucking her and is mildly disappointed. She wants to feel the stretch and pull of her body as it's splintered by someone who could care less about who she is.
That is his torture: denying her that pleasure.
As his teeth begin to gnaw at one of her taut nipples, one of his large hands clamps over the column of her throat, pressing hard against it. It's as if he is trying to force her through the wall.
Miranda gags and struggles for air. Her heart nearly explodes through her chest.
Perhaps tonight will be the night that she remains in Hell.
As she becomes lightheaded and dizzy, she can feel the tempo of his hips become more frenzied and urgent and soon he is coming, expelling the hot, sticky contents of his erection against her $400 skirt. She struggles against the belt to no avail. The weight of his body pins her against the wall. She feels weak.
He doesn't release her throat until his own breathing begins to stabilize.
Miranda coughs and gasps for a breath. She can feel her windpipe begin to expand as it eagerly accepts as much air as it can. She drags in the scent of his putrid breath and feels her head cloud with nausea. The breath, however tainted, is welcomed into her neglected lungs.
He uses her as a springboard to step back, shoving her wrists painfully against the wall one final time. He grips her arm tightly as he spins her around. She loses her balance and falls to the ground, her knees scraping against the hard floor. She can feel her stockings tear and the flesh at her knees skitter with tiny nicks and cuts. He chuckles, presumably at the sight of her kneeling before him like a woman at the guillotine.
With a swift kick he pushes her to the floor. He presses his shoe into her back, pinning her down, while he rips the belt from her arms. He's no longer gentle. The encounter has fueled his courage. Will he stay until his prick is stiff again, or will he leave her here, debased and degraded on the floor?
He removes his foot and clears his throat before spitting. Miranda flinches but does not feel it hitting her body. He laughs then, the sound growing weaker as he leaves the tiny cell.
Miranda remains on the disgusting, dirty ground for several minutes before she picks herself up. Her fingers twitch as she is overcome by the urge to brush off the dirt and soot on her skirt, but she can't bear to touch the remnants of his arousal.
She feels repulsive. Defiled. Lost.
Even so, she feels a little of the tension draining from her body.
Miranda's disgusted with herself and feels the emotion well within her, the tears pooling in her eyes. She cannot allow herself to breakdown now, not when there may be another man waiting in the shadows to do with her as he pleases.
She cannot allow herself to give in to her emotions. She needs this, even if she doesn't entirely understand why she's chosen these means of obtaining what she can receive nowhere else.
She seems to be unraveling.
---
Prompt: A story centered around kitnkabootle's Divine Decadence
Fandom: Miranda, The Devil Wears Prada: Divine Decadence
Requested by: kitnkabootle
Rating: NC17
WARNING: This story is extremely graphic and contains disturbing imagery (mentions of self mutilation, violence, rough sex). Please be advised.
Word Count: 1873
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: When Kit requested that I write a fic based around one of her own, I have to admit that I was a bit nervous to tackle it. Divine Decadence is one of my favorite fan fictions of any fandom/genre, so trying to write a companion to that was incredibly daunting. If you haven't read her story, I highly suggest that you hop over to this link, read it, and follow the link at the bottom to tell her what you think. It's gritty and raw and I loved every word. What made me especially nervous was trying to get into Miranda's head. I hope I have understood her motives and done this incredible fic justice. Please enjoy and let me know what you think! (and….seriously…go read her fic. Now-style.)
-
The rancid stench of piss and cum infiltrates Miranda Priestly's nostrils, turning her stomach. There's little within her to expend should the putridity of this room overpower her, though she isn't particularly keen on vomiting bile. It would, however, be fitting to add her own filth to this room that she considers her hellish sanctuary.
She crosses her arms to her chest in an attempt to block out the chill in the air. It's particularly cold tonight and will undoubtedly get worse when she's stripped of her clothing. She braces herself now, rubbing her hands a little too hard against her arms to generate a little warmth.
She taps her foot against the dank floor, reveling in the way her Louboutin doesn't quite press flush against the surface. Only she will notice this imperfection. She'd surely be thrown out of Hell's Passage it were discovered.
Taped to the sole of her shoe is a single razor blade.
She wishes she could remove it and hold her little steel friend in her hands. The desire to use it is strong but she doesn't have the time, not when her clients come and go as they please. She will not be careless.
Miranda has not cut herself in years. She'd been weak when it last happened, a mere shadow of the woman she is today. The scars have faded over the decades that have passed, though they feel as fresh as they did the day they were received.
How easy it would be to part the ivory canvas of her thigh, to stain it red. The thought of it gives her a jolt.
Thoughts like this unsettle her. These thoughts render her unrecognizable and make her feel as though she is fraying at the edges. She loses sight of Miranda Priestly and sees only the bony wisp of a girl that she was as Miriam Princhek. She's strived to bury that girl, to replace her with a stronger, better woman. It's taken a great deal of control--
Control.
Control is her mistress and her master, her lover and her captor. Her life is comprised solely on controlling one of the most prestigious fashion empires in the world, in fighting to balance a marriage and career, in taking care of her children.
Her stomach churns once more and as her mouth goes dry, she wonders if she will retch.
The pressure is too much. Sometimes she wants nothing more than to give it all up and just be Miriam Princhek again. She wants someone else to be in control.
And that, wanting to be her former self, disgusts her.
Miranda stares at a patch of a darkened substance on the wall. It may be the remnants of a client's spendings, or perhaps the blood of the woman who previously occupied the room.
She taps her foot again.
The slight bump of the razor soothes her nerves.
She acknowledges the hypocrisy in her desires. She wants to relinquish the control and yet she wants to micromanage it by taking it out on her own body. This constant struggle makes her feel as though she's coming unhinged.
That is why she doesn't cut. Even on the more difficult days when she sits with the razor curled in her fist she does not give in to the nagging devil on her shoulder.
She cannot and will not give in to the pressure by mutilating her own body.
She will, however, allow a stranger to do it for her.
She hears a noise in the hall and makes quick work of lowering the mask over her eyes. Miranda Priestly is a stickler for rules and will not be caught breaking one. She holds her breath and waits, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. They do not stop at one of the other doors that align the long hallway. They grow louder and Miranda's heart beats faster in her chest.
Choose this door. Take the control so I don't have to.
The door creaks on its hinges as it swings open. It closes slowly and for several moments, Miranda hears nothing but the quickened rhythm of his breath. Perhaps this man is turned on already. Most usually are when they come to Hell's Passage.
She senses something else on him. Nerves. Apprehension. It hangs dense in the air around them.
He's new.
The man hesitates, moving only when Miranda spins on her heel to face the direction of the door. He steps forward. His shoe grinds against the dirt and grit littering the floor. She can hear the metal fastening of his belt.
Will he beat her? Will she bleed tonight?
Will he break the rules?
She feels reassured knowing the razor blade is near. She is not entirely defenseless should he take this game too far.
He clears his throat and then coughs, hacking loud and unmuffled. The deep timbre of his voice is not one she's heard before. This unnerves and excites her; she doesn't know what to expect.
She can smell the acrid smoke on his breath even from this distance. She hopes he doesn't kiss her.
He may be too rough. He may be too gentle. She has no way of knowing until he begins. This is what thrills her about these degrading experiences: she doesn't have to orchestrate every detail about the encounter. It's out of her hands entirely.
She hears his heels as they step over the grime beneath their feet. He circles behind her and at this proximity Miranda can smell the aftershave and stale smoke that clings to his clothing. The hair on the back of her neck stands at rapt attention while he just stands there and she waits.
Miranda can hear leather grinding against denim and she tenses, preparing herself to become acquainted with his belt. She wonders if he'll snap it against her ass or if he'll choke her with it or if he'll --
Yes. He gathers her hands together behind her back, his grip clammy and warm, and loops the belt around her wrists. His touch is not gentle but hesitant. He is nervous. Miranda habitually longs to chastise him; how delicious it would feel to cut him down as she cuts down everyone else in her life who disappoints her.
But that is not what she's here for.
She is not here to be Miranda Priestly. She is not here to be Miriam Princhek. She is here to be Gabbana.
When her hands are bound behind her back and the strap pinches at the delicate flesh of her wrists, she waits. Her heart pounds against her ribcage, thrumming loud enough for him to hear. He clears his throat again and, with a loud grunt, he shoves her back against the wall.
Her wrists and head slam against the hard surface at the same time. She sees stars behind the cover of the black mask and her hands throb painfully against their restraints. He presses his body against her, forcing her ass to press her hands harder against the wall. She can feel the grime and decay coat the flesh at her fingers.
He rubs frantically against her, his hands roving over her body in large swipes. He doesn't seem to know where to start. He fumbles at her breasts, roughly squeezing and pinching and rubbing roughly. He wheezes against her neck as he grinds his dick against her pelvis.
When she feels his teeth sink into her neck, she cries out. It's a mixture of pleasure and pain.
It's exactly what she's been craving.
She doesn't have to think at all.
His hands come between them and he frees his cock in one deft flick of his wrist. His hands return to her breasts. He pulls her shirt apart and begins to place frantic, forceful kisses on her chest. His hips continue to undulate against her. Her skirt rides up her thighs.
She panics. He hasn't put on a condom.
Miranda realizes that he has no intention of fucking her and is mildly disappointed. She wants to feel the stretch and pull of her body as it's splintered by someone who could care less about who she is.
That is his torture: denying her that pleasure.
As his teeth begin to gnaw at one of her taut nipples, one of his large hands clamps over the column of her throat, pressing hard against it. It's as if he is trying to force her through the wall.
Miranda gags and struggles for air. Her heart nearly explodes through her chest.
Perhaps tonight will be the night that she remains in Hell.
As she becomes lightheaded and dizzy, she can feel the tempo of his hips become more frenzied and urgent and soon he is coming, expelling the hot, sticky contents of his erection against her $400 skirt. She struggles against the belt to no avail. The weight of his body pins her against the wall. She feels weak.
He doesn't release her throat until his own breathing begins to stabilize.
Miranda coughs and gasps for a breath. She can feel her windpipe begin to expand as it eagerly accepts as much air as it can. She drags in the scent of his putrid breath and feels her head cloud with nausea. The breath, however tainted, is welcomed into her neglected lungs.
He uses her as a springboard to step back, shoving her wrists painfully against the wall one final time. He grips her arm tightly as he spins her around. She loses her balance and falls to the ground, her knees scraping against the hard floor. She can feel her stockings tear and the flesh at her knees skitter with tiny nicks and cuts. He chuckles, presumably at the sight of her kneeling before him like a woman at the guillotine.
With a swift kick he pushes her to the floor. He presses his shoe into her back, pinning her down, while he rips the belt from her arms. He's no longer gentle. The encounter has fueled his courage. Will he stay until his prick is stiff again, or will he leave her here, debased and degraded on the floor?
He removes his foot and clears his throat before spitting. Miranda flinches but does not feel it hitting her body. He laughs then, the sound growing weaker as he leaves the tiny cell.
Miranda remains on the disgusting, dirty ground for several minutes before she picks herself up. Her fingers twitch as she is overcome by the urge to brush off the dirt and soot on her skirt, but she can't bear to touch the remnants of his arousal.
She feels repulsive. Defiled. Lost.
Even so, she feels a little of the tension draining from her body.
Miranda's disgusted with herself and feels the emotion well within her, the tears pooling in her eyes. She cannot allow herself to breakdown now, not when there may be another man waiting in the shadows to do with her as he pleases.
She cannot allow herself to give in to her emotions. She needs this, even if she doesn't entirely understand why she's chosen these means of obtaining what she can receive nowhere else.
She seems to be unraveling.
---