WELCOME TO REAL WOMEN FEST.
WHAT IT IS:
Inspired by ineffort's Awesome Ladies Ficathon, this is is the RPF celebration. Why should fictional women have the only party? We want your women of RPF, and we want 'em all. Ciswomen, transwomen and female-identified, gay, straight, and queer. You want to read about a woman who doesn't have a "fandom"? So do we! For real, bring us the women ( Read more... )
Inspired by ineffort's Awesome Ladies Ficathon, this is is the RPF celebration. Why should fictional women have the only party? We want your women of RPF, and we want 'em all. Ciswomen, transwomen and female-identified, gay, straight, and queer. You want to read about a woman who doesn't have a "fandom"? So do we! For real, bring us the women ( Read more... )
"No, hey, that was my American Citizen Concerned About The Welfare Of Their Child Stars impression," Taylor says. "I think it's cute. Especially the leotards."
"Well, in that case," Miley says, dryly, "I'll make sure to take my pants off around you more often."
Taylor kind of leers at her before walking around her living room, touching fingers to everything, cooing softly over old pictures. Miley shuffles her feet on the cold floor, watching her cautiously. She took her makeup off when she got home, and that's making her feel more naked than anything else. She wants to go to her room and hide under her blankets, and she wants to invite Taylor to hide with her, maybe.
"Aren't you going to offer me something to drink? What about that old-fashioned Southern hospitality?" Taylor's wearing leggings and a shirtdress, cowboy boots. She hooks her hand behind her bag, rocking a little, eyebrows raised.
"Mint julep?" Miley asks.
"Of course," Taylor says, "but I'll take water if you're out."
When Miley gets back from the kitchen with the glass, Taylor is sitting on her sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table. Her boots are abandoned in the middle of the room, and she's humming something that Miley can't recognize.
"Why are you here, exactly?" she asks, and Taylor looks wounded.
"Because I've been assaulting you with text messages expressing my eternal devotion," she replies, "and all I get back are lols. I thought we bonded."
"I thought so, too," Miley says.
"Then I've come for attention and a Hannah Montana marathon and possibly cuddles."
"I can give you one of those," Miley offers, but she sits close to Taylor, anyway, letting her slip an arm around her waist. They sit in silence for a long time, the glass of water sweating on the table by Taylor's feet. Everywhere they touch goes warm and funny feeling, and Taylor's breathing's a little raspy close to her ear, like she's been singing too much lately. Miley feels antsy and awful and, also, so good, and she knows exactly what she wants to do now. She remembers when she was younger and used to talk to Taylor at parties and thought she was nice but nothing she needed, because she was the biggest and the best, and she remembers the sudden twist of jealousy at the last party. She sits up on her knees just to hear Taylor make an interested noise, and they both almost lean in at the same time.
Up close, Taylor isn't perfect at all. Her eyeliner is smeared at the corners, and her features are just a little too thin, too angular. She opens her mouth so Miley can feel her breath on her cheek, and Miley swallows hard, pushing forward. Her lips slide against Taylor's jaw, and she wants to stop right then so she can still take it back. She doesn't, though, because Taylor laughs and runs her fingertips down the bridge of Miley's nose, touches them to her lips.
"I don't think Disney would approve of this," she says.
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Miley doesn't care. She's too old for Disney; she's practically eighteen, and she wants to kiss Taylor more than she wants to be Hannah Montana or have millions of little girls idolize her. She sits up enough to get arms around Taylor's neck, and she says, "Disney doesn't matter," and presses her lips to the corner of Taylor's.
"What about your Australian manfriend?"
Miley hasn't been thinking about Liam at all, and she feels a sudden pain, deep inside her. This is the Miley that the tabloids thinks she is, the one who's spinning out of control. She wants to say that it's over with Liam, because it's been practically over with Liam since she said she loved him, but they had dinner the other night and spent an hour making out in his car, outside her house. They could hear cameras snapping in the distance, and Miley couldn't pay attention to him. Taylor takes her hand and laces their fingers together. Liam doesn't call her every day anymore. He doesn't even call her every week.
Taylor says, "This doesn't have to mean anything," like she doesn't mean it.
Miley says, "but it totally will," and hides her face in Taylor's shoulder. She can handle it in the morning, make a clean break and make sure everything thinks it's amicable and that she's just ready to get back to the life of the swingin' single. For now, though, Taylor kisses her forehead, and Miley feels so much like herself that it's almost too much. She's had all kinds of stupid teenage phases, and she's heard all the lines and all the wise advice from half the damn country. But she can tell the difference now. She's growing up, and she really thinks she's getting good at it.
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this is so amazing. so amazing and wonderful and tightly-written, and angsty-sweet-adorable AWESOME. I am so, so, so delighted and grateful that you wrote this! It's everything I didn't know I wanted in this pairing, and now OF COURSE I am sitting here going HOLY GOD I SHIP THEM SO HARD, MORE FICS LIKE THIS FOREVER. <3333333
omg. thank you soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much. <333333333333333333
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Um. I don't think I have anything more coherent to say.
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Please tell me you're going to write more!
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