Battlefield | R | The Devil Wears Prada
Title: Battlefield
Prompt: "Battlefield" by Jordin Sparks
Fandom: Andy/Miranda, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: mercurial_muse
Rating: R
Word Count: 1100
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: This fic took on a mind of its own when I started writing it. I'm not used to writing something so angst-filled, but I didn't want this to turn into a sappy, overdone "fighting and overcoming the problems" type of fic. They certainly may not be the most stable of couples, and that's what I wanted to try to capture. I hope I managed to do that! Let me know what you think!
-
Andy and Miranda have been doing this dance for three weeks now. It starts the same, always the same: they fight over something seemingly trivial like cell phones or shoes or adjective use. However, no matter how trivial, the fights snowball into something much bigger -- the lack of sex, the lack of time committed to each other, the fucked up priorities.
When the yelling (on Andy's part -- Miranda never yells), tears, and spiteful comments begin, one of them usually rationalizes that the relationship may have run its course. They consider breaking up.
Before they can seal the deal by walking out the door, one of them panics. This is a shared panic, despite the fact that its origin alternates every time. It gives Andy a sort of a thrill to know that Miranda panics at the thought of losing her. It gives her a spark of hope.
The spark doesn't last for long: rather than succumb to a fit of rationality that could inevitably save the relationship, they turn to the one thing that they've always done right.
Sex.
Andy can't even consider it lovemaking -- it's too urgent, too desperate. It's not that it's bad, either. Some of their best sex has been make up sex, but Andy knows this doesn't quality for that category. It's something entirely different.
This is where Andy is now: wrapped around Miranda's body while she rides her fingers on the couch. Miranda is whispering words against her shoulder that Andy can't quite understand. She isn't meant to understand-- what Miranda has to say is not what she's meant to hear. She's speaking through her fingers and that is what Andy is meant to focus on. Her left hand is gripping her hip tightly. It says, Mine. Her right hand, probably cramped and uncomfortable, is between them, pumping in and out of her sex, reminding Andy of everything that Miranda has given her for two years. She hasn't even taken her rings off and they scratch with every upward thrust. Andy wonders if she's bleeding and reckons that she probably is. It doesn't matter. It hurts and she wants it to. She'll take this physical pain over the pain in her heart any day.
Andy can feel the climax begin to build in her body. She tries to fight it. She's not ready to give in so quickly. When it's over, when they are both sweaty and exhausted and just barely sated, they will mutually (and silently) decide to go to bed. Together.
The chasm between them will be wide as ever, but they'll be together.
Andy wonders if it's worth it, if this dance is for nothing. She knows that nothing will change the longer they resist the inevitable.
The point is: they either have to break up or try to fix it.
They're so used to fighting that they've forgotten what they're fighting for.
This battle is going to be the death of her. Andy can feel her spirit breaking. She's taken a lot of shit from Miranda over the years they've been together and has always bounced back stronger because of it. She doesn't feel that strength anymore. She feels like a shell of a person, and it's partly Miranda's fault.
Andy takes this knowledge and grinds down harder on Miranda's fingers. Miranda hisses; she must be in a world of hurt by now, but neither of them stop. They fuck each other furiously and for a few brief moments they forget everything -- the fight, the pain, the tears -- and they're connected. They're one.
When Andy comes, Miranda growls against her throat. Andy clamps around her fingers and winds her arms more tightly around Miranda's shoulders. They're still mostly clothed, but Andy can feel the heat that Miranda is giving off.
Warm-blooded.
Human.
Sometimes Andy forgets that Miranda is, after all, a human being and not some sort of Robot Bitch from Mars. She forgets that their relationship is not solely comprised of fighting, that they've had over two years of happy times together.
This is the part that always makes Andy remember.
Miranda pulls out her fingers and Andy winces as she does. She can feel the sting; it gonna hurt like hell to sit or pee for a few days. That thought is overshadowed by Miranda's arms circling around her waist and hugging her tightly to her chest. In this position, Andy can feel Miranda's heart beating hard and fast. Andy's is mimicking the movements and she wonders if they've become synced.
Miranda is not a woman prone to making impassioned declarations about her feelings. It's something that frustrates the hell out of the journalist. But when they've fucked and are clinging to each other as if trying to anchor themselves, Andy can hear everything that Miranda fails to say. I love you. Don't leave me. I would break if you left.
Don't go.
Andy thinks it would be nice if Miranda could just express that all the time instead of when Andy is almost out the door.
"I can't keep doing this," Miranda finally says. She loosens her hold but doesn't let go of Andy.
"I can't either."
Miranda takes a deep breath, pulls her face back. She looks at Andy. Her eyes are dark and wet. She looks defeated. "I don't want you to go."
"I don't want to go," Andy responds, licking her lips. She can feel herself on the verge of tears. "I don't know how to fix things."
"Nor do I."
"So what do we do?"
Miranda lets out a heavy sigh. "Go to bed. Wake up. Start over."
"Start the process over again?"
"I suppose we'll find out when we come to that."
Andy nods and resolves to hold her tears until she's in the shower. She climbs off of Miranda's lap and picks up her underwear, slipping it into the pocket of her skirt.
She can't fool herself into thinking that this could be the time that things will change, but she allows herself the smallest bit of hope. Miranda's never said anything like this before after a fight, and Andy has to wonder if Miranda really means it.
They wordlessly walk out of the living room and head for the stairs. Miranda turns off the lights. Andy lingers on the bottom step, her hand fidgeting on the railing, not wanting to make the trek to their bedroom alone. When Miranda catches up, she slips her hand into Andy's.
They look at each other, at their connected hands, and Andy realizes that she's fighting for something after all.
---
Prompt: "Battlefield" by Jordin Sparks
Fandom: Andy/Miranda, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: mercurial_muse
Rating: R
Word Count: 1100
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: This fic took on a mind of its own when I started writing it. I'm not used to writing something so angst-filled, but I didn't want this to turn into a sappy, overdone "fighting and overcoming the problems" type of fic. They certainly may not be the most stable of couples, and that's what I wanted to try to capture. I hope I managed to do that! Let me know what you think!
-
Andy and Miranda have been doing this dance for three weeks now. It starts the same, always the same: they fight over something seemingly trivial like cell phones or shoes or adjective use. However, no matter how trivial, the fights snowball into something much bigger -- the lack of sex, the lack of time committed to each other, the fucked up priorities.
When the yelling (on Andy's part -- Miranda never yells), tears, and spiteful comments begin, one of them usually rationalizes that the relationship may have run its course. They consider breaking up.
Before they can seal the deal by walking out the door, one of them panics. This is a shared panic, despite the fact that its origin alternates every time. It gives Andy a sort of a thrill to know that Miranda panics at the thought of losing her. It gives her a spark of hope.
The spark doesn't last for long: rather than succumb to a fit of rationality that could inevitably save the relationship, they turn to the one thing that they've always done right.
Sex.
Andy can't even consider it lovemaking -- it's too urgent, too desperate. It's not that it's bad, either. Some of their best sex has been make up sex, but Andy knows this doesn't quality for that category. It's something entirely different.
This is where Andy is now: wrapped around Miranda's body while she rides her fingers on the couch. Miranda is whispering words against her shoulder that Andy can't quite understand. She isn't meant to understand-- what Miranda has to say is not what she's meant to hear. She's speaking through her fingers and that is what Andy is meant to focus on. Her left hand is gripping her hip tightly. It says, Mine. Her right hand, probably cramped and uncomfortable, is between them, pumping in and out of her sex, reminding Andy of everything that Miranda has given her for two years. She hasn't even taken her rings off and they scratch with every upward thrust. Andy wonders if she's bleeding and reckons that she probably is. It doesn't matter. It hurts and she wants it to. She'll take this physical pain over the pain in her heart any day.
Andy can feel the climax begin to build in her body. She tries to fight it. She's not ready to give in so quickly. When it's over, when they are both sweaty and exhausted and just barely sated, they will mutually (and silently) decide to go to bed. Together.
The chasm between them will be wide as ever, but they'll be together.
Andy wonders if it's worth it, if this dance is for nothing. She knows that nothing will change the longer they resist the inevitable.
The point is: they either have to break up or try to fix it.
They're so used to fighting that they've forgotten what they're fighting for.
This battle is going to be the death of her. Andy can feel her spirit breaking. She's taken a lot of shit from Miranda over the years they've been together and has always bounced back stronger because of it. She doesn't feel that strength anymore. She feels like a shell of a person, and it's partly Miranda's fault.
Andy takes this knowledge and grinds down harder on Miranda's fingers. Miranda hisses; she must be in a world of hurt by now, but neither of them stop. They fuck each other furiously and for a few brief moments they forget everything -- the fight, the pain, the tears -- and they're connected. They're one.
When Andy comes, Miranda growls against her throat. Andy clamps around her fingers and winds her arms more tightly around Miranda's shoulders. They're still mostly clothed, but Andy can feel the heat that Miranda is giving off.
Warm-blooded.
Human.
Sometimes Andy forgets that Miranda is, after all, a human being and not some sort of Robot Bitch from Mars. She forgets that their relationship is not solely comprised of fighting, that they've had over two years of happy times together.
This is the part that always makes Andy remember.
Miranda pulls out her fingers and Andy winces as she does. She can feel the sting; it gonna hurt like hell to sit or pee for a few days. That thought is overshadowed by Miranda's arms circling around her waist and hugging her tightly to her chest. In this position, Andy can feel Miranda's heart beating hard and fast. Andy's is mimicking the movements and she wonders if they've become synced.
Miranda is not a woman prone to making impassioned declarations about her feelings. It's something that frustrates the hell out of the journalist. But when they've fucked and are clinging to each other as if trying to anchor themselves, Andy can hear everything that Miranda fails to say. I love you. Don't leave me. I would break if you left.
Don't go.
Andy thinks it would be nice if Miranda could just express that all the time instead of when Andy is almost out the door.
"I can't keep doing this," Miranda finally says. She loosens her hold but doesn't let go of Andy.
"I can't either."
Miranda takes a deep breath, pulls her face back. She looks at Andy. Her eyes are dark and wet. She looks defeated. "I don't want you to go."
"I don't want to go," Andy responds, licking her lips. She can feel herself on the verge of tears. "I don't know how to fix things."
"Nor do I."
"So what do we do?"
Miranda lets out a heavy sigh. "Go to bed. Wake up. Start over."
"Start the process over again?"
"I suppose we'll find out when we come to that."
Andy nods and resolves to hold her tears until she's in the shower. She climbs off of Miranda's lap and picks up her underwear, slipping it into the pocket of her skirt.
She can't fool herself into thinking that this could be the time that things will change, but she allows herself the smallest bit of hope. Miranda's never said anything like this before after a fight, and Andy has to wonder if Miranda really means it.
They wordlessly walk out of the living room and head for the stairs. Miranda turns off the lights. Andy lingers on the bottom step, her hand fidgeting on the railing, not wanting to make the trek to their bedroom alone. When Miranda catches up, she slips her hand into Andy's.
They look at each other, at their connected hands, and Andy realizes that she's fighting for something after all.
---