A/N: I'm pretty sure this is not what TIGGRAIN meant when this suggestion was made: "GP!Miranda pursing a Virgin!Andy, whether Andy works for Miranda or they meet some other way up to you." But somehow it started out serious and then took a turn into crack!fic land and didn't recover…

"Andrea," that soft, silky, spine-chilling voice called out from the inner office, beckoning Andy into the mouth of the wolf, where she would undoubtedly be given yet another impossible demand. God! Wasn't Harry fucking Potter enough?!

"Yes, Miranda." It wasn't a question, because one never asked Miranda Priestly a question. It was simply a cue to begin her ceaseless assault of demands while Andy scribbled as quickly as she could onto a notepad and hoped her brain managed to fill in whatever gaps her hand missed.

"Shut the door."

Andy blanched, and then she moved rotely over to the glass doors and shot Emily a look that was clearly a plea for help, to which she received only a sympathetic and knowing look. She turned back to Miranda with great trepidation and tried to determine what, other than going up the stairs, for which she thought she'd already paid her due, she could have fucked up recently.

"You understand, by now, that working for Runway requires passing a certain number of…tests," Miranda began.

Oh god. Oh god. Where was this going? What miracle was Andy going to have to perform now?

"I won't belabor the obvious. You have passed every test thus far."

The obvious? How was that obvious? Just last week she'd been told, under no uncertain terms, how utterly incompetent she was! More incompetent that a blind giraffe, Miranda had said! And less graceful too!

"There is…" And Miranda paused.

There is what? There is a hopeless test for Andy to fail at now that she's been told she managed to squeak by on all the others? There is a flying, miniature, invisible unicorn that Andy must find and catch so it can be spray-painted and used in the next photo shoot Miranda dreamed up? There is a sharp and pointy stake upon which Andy must fling herself to prove her worth? There is WHAT?

"…One test that each second assistant must pass to remain on to become first assistant."

And that would be?

"Have sex with me."

Andy blinked rapidly, her brain coming to a screeching halt. "Ex—excuse me?"

Miranda shot her a glare. "You know how I love repeating myself, Andrea."

"I— I— I— Sex with— You— Wha— What?"

"Sex," Miranda said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like she was explaining the difference between red and green to a hard-of-hearing two-year-old very, very slowly. "With. Me."

"You can't— I won't— This is— This is— This is sexual harassment!"

Miranda laughed—laughed. "Of course it is!" And then she stood up and glided gracefully over to where Andy stood, and Andy had the distinct feeling of being small and vulnerable prey stalked by a large, vicious predator. "Will you report me?" Miranda purred, practically into Andy's ear. "Will you reject my…offer?" she continued, lifting a finger to run over Andy's suddenly burning cheek. "Or will you do as I say and just as I say? Hmm?" And suddenly Andy was having trouble catching her breath.

But just as quickly as it all began, it ended, and Miranda turned back to her desk. "I expect The Book by eight. Bring it to the study. That's all."

Andy had to blink several times and shake her head madly like a wet dog to clear it enough to walk shakily back to her desk, and she was utterly useless the rest of the day, which, oddly enough, Emily did not give her grief over.

In fact, as Emily left for the day, she awkwardly patted Andy's shoulder—once, twice, and then a third, hesitant half-pat. "Better you than me. I've been sore for a good eight months." And then the redhead reached into her purse and produced a bottle of lube. "Trust me, you'll need that." And then she winced as she walked away—slowly.

Andy had never noticed before just how slowly Emily walked when Miranda wasn't holding a lit match under her ass—figuratively, of course.

She stared down at the bottle of lube. It was half full. Or…half empty. Oh god.