#taylor swift rpf

[meltinglikeasugarcube]

Gp reader and taylor are in a relationship. Taylor decides to surprise reader by wearing the lover bodysuit for sex.

WARNING: THIS IS FILTHY!!!

Title: DO YOU FEEL BETTER NOW?

Word Count: 2553

Pairing: Taylor Swift x G!P Reader

Rating: Explicit

The door shuts behind you with a thud that echoes too loudly in the silence. You peel off your coat and kick your shoes into the corner, your body moving like it’s done this a thousand times. The muscles between your shoulders throb from standing too long under artificial lights, smiling through conversations you barely registered.

Personal shopping was supposed to be a stepping stone. Something temporary. You never imagined it would become the entirety of your days. Now it’s all tight smiles and people too rich to speak in complete sentences, all of them clutching desires they don’t understand and expecting you to make sense of them. It’s not fashion. It’s customer service with better lighting. And today had been a particularly difficult day.

Taylor called earlier. Her voice helped, soft and certain, familiar in a way that made your throat tighten. You tried to sound okay. She didn’t buy it. Of course she didn’t. You know she heard it in your voice, the cracks you couldn’t disguise.

You end up on your living room floor, staring up at nothing. The version of you that used to thrive under pressure, who could improvise a runway fix with a single safety pin and a borrowed belt, feels distant. You don’t hate who you’ve become. But you don’t recognize her, either.

You don’t hear the door open at first. The sound is too soft, swallowed by the noise in your head. But then it clicks shut, and your body jolts upright.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

Your heart kicks like a warning. You scramble to your feet, still groggy from lying on the floor too long, the fabric of your clothes wrinkled and sticking in places they shouldn’t. You turn the corner, every nerve braced.

Taylor is standing in your doorway.

No warning. No text. Just her, glowing like something conjured from a memory that never quite left you alone.

Your mouth falls open. You blink, but she doesn’t disappear. She smiles; real, quiet, impossibly present.

Your breath leaves you in a stutter.

“Oh my God.”

She takes a single step forward, and your body moves without thinking. You close the space between you in seconds, but when you’re inches from her, you stop, suddenly unsure if touching her will break whatever spell this is.

“You’re really here,” you whisper, voice barely holding together.

“I’m here,” she answers softly, her hands sliding up your arms. “Couldn’t stand it anymore.”

You shake your head, eyes stinging.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” her tone cuts through whatever protest you thought you had. “I had to.”

She leans in and kisses you and it’s not tentative, not soft. A firm press, lips parted just enough, mouth warm and familiar. Your hands find her waist, and she sinks into your touch, her body flush against yours for the first time in far too long.

You don’t realize your hands are shaking until she pulls back and takes one in hers, lacing her fingers through yours, grounding you.

“I missed you,” you murmur, voice rough with restraint.

She nods. Her thumb brushes the inside of your wrist.

“I know, my baby, I know,” she tilts her head softly. “Me too. You have no idea how much.”

Your body wants to drag her to the floor and stay there for hours. But she has other plans; you can see it in her eyes, the flicker of something controlled, simmering just beneath the surface.

She leans in again, presses a kiss to your jaw, then your neck. Her voice drops.

“How long do we have?” you ask. She only has a small bag in her hand so you know she won’t be staying long.

“About two hours,” she mumbles sadly then sighs.

“You flew in just for—”

“For you,” she strokes your cheek with the back of her fingers. “God, you’re trembling.”

You feel yourself blush. She steps back, just enough to scan your face, her gaze slipping down your body and then back up. A look passes through her—something like decision. The mood shifts. She straightens.

“I have something I want you to see,” she says, voice suddenly low, more commanding. You raise your eyebrows. She presses a kiss to your temple. “Go to your bedroom, please.”

“Uh, why?” you ask, half-laughing, dazed.

She tilts her head, eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable.

“You’ll see.”

You look at her for another beat, trying to read her, but her expression is cool, composed. You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, and back toward the bedroom, feeling the anticipation thick and electric, humming just beneath your skin.

You sit at the edge of the bed, hands between your knees, your pulse spiking in strange rhythms. You’re expecting food. Maybe a gift. Something small. Something comforting.

You’re wrong.

When she enters the room, she’s stripped down to one of her tour costumes—the pink and blue one that you love so much. Her legs look impossibly long, her skin glowing in the dim light.

You swallow hard.

She moves slowly, eyes never leaving yours, then kneels between your legs, her hands spreading your knees apart with gentle pressure. Her palms rest on your thighs. Her gaze drops to the bulge already forming beneath your jeans.

“I wear this one all the time ‘cause of you, you know?” she says, voice almost teasing, her hands moving to unbutton your fly.

You don’t respond. You can’t. The moment she drags the zipper down, your cock is nearly fully hard. She slides your jeans and briefs down enough to free you.

“Look at you,” she whispers. “Kept thinking of you on the flight here. Kept thinking of having you inside me.”

Her fingers wrap around your shaft and squeeze gently, base to tip. You suck in a breath as she strokes once, twice, then leans in and presses her tongue to the head, lapping at the precum like it’s nothing. Her eyes stay on yours as her lips part and she takes you into her mouth, wet heat wrapping around you inch by inch.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hand finding her hair. “Taylor…”

She hums around your length, and the vibration makes your knees twitch. Her tongue swirls, tracing the underside, then she sinks lower, her lips sliding down until you feel the back of her throat constrict around you. Your hips jerk, and she lets it happen. She pulls back, her mouth wet, her lips shiny with spit.

“You don’t have to hold back,” she murmurs. “I can take it.”

You groan, breath stuttering as she dives down again. You thrust up, slowly at first, then harder. She relaxes her throat, takes you deep, her hands gripping your thighs for balance. You can feel the mess on her chin, your cock thick and slick from her mouth.

Just before you come, she pulls back again, breathing hard, saliva connecting her bottom lip to your shaft.

“No,” she says, voice ragged. “Not yet. I need it inside me.”

“Tay—”

She stands and peels off the bodysuit in one motion. Nothing underneath. Her breasts bounce free, nipples pink and stiff, her stomach taut, her thighs gorgeous. You don’t even have time to react before she climbs into your lap.

“I’m sorry if I’m like a dog in heat,” she murmurs, pressing her slick cunt against your cock, grinding slow. “I’m losing my mind. I’ve been thinking about this for so long.”

A half-laugh escapes you, breathless.

“I don’t see any cons about that.”

Then she lowers herself, slowly, letting your length press between her folds. She rubs against you in long, teasing drags, her slickness coating every inch. The head of your cock catches at her entrance over and over, but she doesn’t let you in yet. Her breasts sway with each movement, her mouth falling open, eyes glazed.

On the fifth stroke (or maybe the sixth, you lose count) she lines you up, takes a breath, and sinks down.

You both moan. Her heat engulfs you inch by inch. She moves slowly, until she’s seated fully in your lap. You feel everything, the squeeze, the twitch, the pulse. You grip her waist hard enough to leave marks.

“So tight,” you groan into her neck.

She whimpers, her hands braced on your shoulders as she begins to move. Her hips roll in circles, building rhythm from nothing, finding the pace that makes you grunt low and helpless beneath her. She throws her head back, her back arching in a fluid curve, riding you in deep, gliding thrusts.

“You feel… so… fucking… good,” she pants, each word syncing with a slow grind down. You dig your fingers into her waist, guiding her faster.

“I’m not going to last,” you warn, unable to stop yourself.

“Don’t pull out,” she whispers near your ear, her breath hot.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I need to feel you dripping out of me,” she gasps. “I need to feel you all day, knowing you want me…”

“I want you so badly,” you shiver, trembling beneath her. “I wish I could stay inside you forever.”

“Yeah?” she mumbles, her pace quickening.

“This right here,” you manage, voice guttural, “is what I was made for, I’m sure.”

Taylor lets out a breathless giggle and you thrust up hard. Her hands brace against your chest as your rhythm turns frantic. The room is filled with wet sounds, skin against skin, and the rising whine of her voice.

She tightens around you, back arching again as she comes with a sharp cry, her pussy clenching in pulses. You’re seconds behind. You slam into her one last time and come hard, deep inside her, holding her still while you empty yourself with ragged moans. She stays with you through it, her body shaking, head buried in your neck.

After, you lie back, still joined, your hands smoothing over the sweat on her spine.

She lifts her head, cheeks flushed, eyes soft.

“Are you feeling better now?” she whispers.

You laugh loudly and roll your eyes.

“Am I feeling better now?” You say it in the same tone she used. “I’m killing myself when you leave.”

[dykehelly]

a million little times [AO3] - kaylor is back, baby! this is, like...sweet until it's not. </3

rated E, 4.3k words

It's one of the weirder things Karlie has ever done, Taylor thinks, staring hazily over her morning coffee at an article crowing, Karlie Kloss attends Eras Tour in Los Angeles. She scrolls past the bored rehashing of their friendship, they claim they're still friends but haven't been seen together in years, blah blah blah, to the comments. In the nosebleeds??? one says. Girl. Another links to a screencapped post from some friendship-bracelet Etsy seller who claims Karlie ordered bracelets from her, along with a photo. Cheap-ass rose, one reads—ouch—and then another, perhaps even more painful, reads Knockout. Filming that video feels like a lifetime ago, when she felt bold and brazen and willing to, you know, faux-spar with her Very Close Female Friend while wearing just a sports bra and a sheen of fake sweat. She closes the laptop. She thinks about texting Karlie, like she's thought about doing at least once a week for all the years it's been since they fell apart.  She doesn't.

chapter 2 - angry taylor. 1.8k words

chapter 3 - taylor meets someone at a party. 1.7k words

chapter 4 - karlie is jealous. 2.1k words

chapter 5 - belated debrief + an encounter on facetime. 2k words

chapter 6 - taylor gets drunk and says something stupid. 1.8k words

and finally: chapter 7 - the last one. a conversation. 1.4k words

Karlie doesn't stay over again, not that night and not the next time she visits. Taylor wants to ask her to, wants to beg her to. Or: she wants to kick her out, wants to tell her they're never seeing each other again, wants to redo the whole apartment (again) so she doesn't have to touch anything that Karlie touched. Or like, exorcise the place. Sage it, maybe? That sounds less violent than whatever an exorcism entails.

[ivyindreamland]

Where the Armour Ends

Everything was fine until the 2016 elections.

Chapter 1: Mansion With a View [AO3]

"Oh, there's your brother in law." Dorothea angles the remote at my screen like she's got half a mind to throw it. "Looks like shit." "Uh, yeah," she agrees, opting to drop it onto the carpet instead. She lowers onto her elbow then climbs back on top of me again. "Who's he wearing?" "Nobody," I snort as her stubby fingers brush my cheek. Dorothea raises her eyebrows at me and I shrug against the pillows. His wife is in Carolina Herrera, like I give any fucks about men's suits if I don't have to stand beside them. Getting it into my contract that neither I nor Sam could be made to look like Republicans was already a bitch and a half and I had to borrow Dorothea's lawyers: the less I have to think about James, the better.

This is obviously fiction, but it is based on Taylor and Karlie's relationship circa 2016 onward with some... uh, twists. Actually, everyone is OOC. The story is offensive so if you're especially vulnerable don't read it. The characters are portrayed as misogynistic, homophobic, bitchy, and manipulative. I don't endorse the actions or opinions of the characters.

[destielcorecore]

Have you ever thought to yourself, “Man, I really wish I could read a crackfic about Misha Collins fucking Taylor Swift”? No? Well, you're in luck, because I wrote one anyway.

Title: FUCK STORY: MishaFUCKalypse Rating: Explicit Relationships: Misha Collins/Taylor Swift, Travis Kelce/Taylor Swift, Mentions of Jensen Ackles/Misha Collins, Mentions of Karlie Kloss/Taylor Swift, Mentions of Castiel/Dean Winchester Word count: 15.6k Summary: @mishacollins: “I think it's important for everyone to read this article. And @taylorswift13, DM me if you need to talk. I've been there.”

What if Taylor actually slid into Misha’s DMs on that fateful day?

READ HERE

[rainbows-caught-on-film]

I need more Yuri in my life and have been listening to Taylor Swift a lot so here's what's going to happen;

Taylor Swift RPF shippers, I need you to sell me your favorite w/w Taylor pairings in the comments/reblogs of this post. Give me the elevator pitch, or the interviews or fics or clips that sold you. Convince me. Infodump your heart out. Ready? okay GO

[frankierotwinkdeath]

Y’all want Taylor Swift to be gay so bad but you won’t even write femslash about her

[papayafiles]

is this rpf or are these irl quotes from the actual drivers, a quiz:

because all of them are somehow real and this entire article reads like fanfiction

[formulanni]

LS2 x The Prophecy by Taylor Swift

THANK GOD ITS DONE THIS WAS HELLLLLLL

Tags: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing

[georgiasbrainstuff]

Younger Charles Leclerc is a mastermind

Freccheit by @additiva has permanent residence in my brain. So here's a part 2 to my first Freccheit inspired edit. <3

Editing for age difference is so haaaard! But I wanted to give it another try. <3

Last time I went for angst, so this time its like they're getting their happy ending.

Charles is only cryptic and Machiavellian (had to google the spelling) because he cares so much about the way the public perceives him and his place in Ferrari so he has to be very careful with the way he acts.

Let's pretend that the FIA awards clips are from Charles getting announced as the F3 champion and Max hearing his name for the first time (or so he remembers).

From the the very start, nothing was going to stop Charles from reaching his dreams of being a WDC. Not even being in a relationship with Max.

Then we have the wild journey they go on in Freccheit with Charles being a menace, doing things his way, challenging Max (that energy was better captured in the other edit). But Max understands him. He knows that Charles is a mastermind (and insane). Then they're older (or well Charles is lol) and living their happily ever after. Max is just happy to be his and have Charles as his own.

*Sniffs* Oh no, I think I have to read Freccheit again now. As should you if you've read this far and you haven't read Freccheit yet. This is your sign.

[unimportant-ramblings]

Ariana after Cynthia hung out with Taylor all Grammys

[meltinglikeasugarcube]

hear me out. a one shot/blurb

bottom like utterly pathetic vampire taylor

Title: DESERVE IT

Word Count: 2519

Pairing: Taylor Swift x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit

You're shit at denying her. You always have been.

Those sharp teeth, that sweet spoiled voice, the way she asks like she already knows the answer. You fold the second she starts. You think you're holding back but you're already gone, falling to pieces before she even touches you. She begs, and you break. Every time. She sinks her teeth in, literal, cruel, but it's nothing compared to how deep you get under her skin. It's you who makes her twitch. You who makes her lose whatever composure she pretends to have. You make her feel like screaming. And when she does, you let her. You never tell her no.

But she's being unbearable this time.

She keeps texting. Keeps demanding. Tells you to drop everything and come. Tells you the jet's already on the way. Wants you to stop your life and fly to some random city in Europe just to let her fuck you until she's done and you can't breathe. Which, sure, sounds good in theory. But it's the way she does it that gets to you.

Like she's owed it.

You go. Of course you go. But not without a plan.

You wear something impossible. Lingerie that barely counts as fabric. Thin enough to see through, tight enough to hurt. You forget where you're even going until you're standing in customs and see the word Germany on the glass and suddenly everything clicks. The cold is brutal. It stings through your coat, down to the bones.

You're still trembling when you knock on her door.

She opens it fast. No words. No warning. Just grabs you by the coat and pulls you inside. The door slams behind you and her mouth is already on your neck. Hot and open. Desperate. Her hands don't waste time. She's already pushing the coat back, already pressing into you like she could crawl inside. You feel her breath hitch and her teeth skim your throat and it's not gentle. It never is. You know what's coming. You feel it before it happens.

"Fuck," she says, sinking her fangs in.

You don't flinch. You don't gasp. You don't move. You're used to this. The pain comes in slow pulses, the warm pull of blood leaving your body matched by the obscene, wet sound of her drinking. She stays there too long, and when she finally pulls back, her mouth opens again almost instantly. She bites you a second time, lower on your neck. This time she drinks less. Her head lifts slowly, pulling back to see you.

Her eyes are red now, blown wide and wild, blood running in delicate trails down both sides of her mouth. You feel your pulse hammering in your chest, like it's trying to make up for what she's taken, but you stay still. You keep your spine straight.

You exhale once and then reach for her mouth with your thumb, wiping at the blood as if it's casual, like you're cleaning up a mess someone else made at your table.

"Not even a hello," you say, voice low, even. The blood smears under your touch as you drag your thumb across her lower lip, and then lower still, letting your hand trail down until you're wrapped around her throat. Your grip is slow and sure and she feels it. Her eyes widen—not with fear, because she doesn't need to breathe, not really—but with something close.

"I—" she starts.

"Shut up," you tell her, pushing her backward with one steady movement. She doesn't resist. She lets you guide her deeper into the room, stumbling a little as she goes. She's still caught in whatever haze fed that hunger. Her knees hit the edge of the bed and you press her down into it, firm, hand still on her throat.

"That wasn't very nice, was it?"

"I just—" she starts, voice breathy, thin.

"Just what?" You press harder now, just enough to hold. She looks up at you with that glittering look that you love so much. You tilt your head slightly, watching her.

"You thought you were owed this?"

You slide the coat off slowly, letting it fall open just enough to show what's underneath. The lingerie clings like heat, black and barely-there, the kind of thing made to be looked at and ruined. Her eyes drop immediately, like gravity, her breath catches, mouth parting without thought. You don't give her the time to process it.

"You really thought I'd get on a plane and you'd just get it?"

Your hand presses harder at her throat. It's not about pressure. It's about control. And even though it won't do anything to her physically, you feel it in the way her body stills beneath you. She's nervous. Not performative, not bratty. Real. You can tell. You always can.

"Answer me," you say and your hand slides from her neck to her jaw, fingers firm, dragging her closer until her lips are almost against yours.

"Yeah," she says, voice tight. You click your tongue, head tilting slightly.

"So fucking entitled," you murmur, breath landing against her cheek. "So fucking spoilt."

You take two steps back and watch her. Her body's trembling, not from cold—you know she doesn't get cold—but from you. From this. From what you do to her. That thrill that takes over when she's not in control.

"Get on your knees," you say, nodding toward the floor, your voice flat. "Beg for it."

There's a flicker of hesitation, not resistance, just that moment of her pride folding in on itself. She swallows hard, then lowers herself, knees touching the ground. The shift in her is immediate. Being beneath you feeds her ego in the most twisted way—being made to submit, told exactly what to do. It's her drug and you're the only one who knows how to cut it right.

She looks up at you, pupils wide, mouth still slightly open.

"Please, baby," she whispers, voice small and so full of need it's almost sweet.

Almost.

You step back into her space and grab her jaw again, fingers tight, forcing her eyes back to yours.

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me," she breathes, low and cracked, the words already desperate.

"Say it again."

"Fuck me," she says clearly this time, each syllable pushed out like it costs her.

"Beg."

You press harder, thumb digging under her cheekbone.

"Please," her voice shakes. Just one word and it sounds like it's breaking her.

You click your tongue, unimpressed.

"I'm afraid I need a bit more than that."

Your hand drops from her face, slow and intentional, and you step back. You don't rush. You let the silence stretch. Let her feel the space between your bodies like a punishment.

"Let me see those perfect tits."

She moves fast, blouse pulled off in a second, breath hitching, her teeth sinking into her lip like she's trying not to whimper. Her chest rises, bare and trembling. You watch her like you're inspecting a gift.

"Beg, Taylor," you say, low and even.

She looks up at you, eyes wide, face flushed, devotion plain across her expression like it's the only thing keeping her upright.

"I need you to fuck me, please," she says, the words spilling out too fast, too loud, almost like she's ashamed of how badly she means them.

"Fuck you how?"

Your eyes don't move from her chest. You don't blink. You don't pretend to be polite.

"Need you inside," she shivers, voice going soft at the end.

You drag your gaze back up. You take in everything.

And then you shake your head.

"I don't think you deserve it."

Her bottom lip trembles and she moves without speaking, crawling forward until she's at your feet, hands resting lightly on your thighs like she's asking permission just by touching.

"Let me prove it to you," she says, voice small, already pleading.

You push her hand away.

"You don't deserve it," you say again, slower this time, colder. "Climb onto the bed. Get on all fours."

"I—" she starts, but you don't let her finish.

"Now."

That shuts her up. Her mouth closes. She nods once and turns away, doing what she's told. She positions herself perfectly—knees spread, ass in the air, waiting. You take your time approaching her, watching the way her back arches, how her breath skips when you get close.

You step in behind her, fingers reaching for the hem of her skirt, and you push it up, exposing her fully. Her panties are thin, already soaked through. She lets out a sharp whine the moment you touch them, like she's embarrassed by how obvious it is.

You hook your fingers into the fabric and pull it to the side slowly. She arches even more, thighs trembling.

"Look at you," you mutter, voice rough at the edges, a shiver running down your spine when you see how wet she is.

You slide one finger along her slit, slow, dragging it up with the lightest pressure, just enough to make her gasp. The sound she makes is too loud, too raw.

You bring your fingers to your lips and suck them clean with a hum.

"You don't deserve a single second of this. But I do."

"Please," she says again, barely above a whisper, and her legs tremble beneath her.

You don't give her a response. You grip the waistband of her panties and drag them down in one smooth movement, letting them fall around her knees. She doesn't move, just breathes harder. You use two fingers to spread her open and look at her.

"So fucking wet," you mutter, and slip one finger inside, exploring the way she clenches around you like she's trying to drag you in deeper.

"P—please," she whines, voice cracking as she shifts her hips.

You pull out just as slowly, then reach up and pinch her clit between your thumb and index finger, giving it a firm squeeze. Her whole body jolts. The sound she makes is loud, nearly broken.

"You're so fucking lucky I can't help myself," you mutter, more to yourself than to her, and you drop to your knees behind her, pressing your mouth against her without waiting.

Your tongue circles her clit, then sucks it in with just enough pressure to make her gasp. At the same time, you slide two fingers into her, thrusting deep, feeling how tight and slick she is. You work her like you know exactly what she needs, like her body was made for this. And it was. At least when she's like this—face down, ass up, wet and shaking like the only thing she's ever learned is how to beg.

She moans loud and without shame, her voice cracking with every breath. You curl your fingers inside her and keep your mouth moving. The sounds that fill the room are a mess of obscenities. Her hips push back into your hand like she's chasing something, and her words come out between gasps, scattered and helpless.

"Please, please, please," she murmurs like it's a prayer, her voice barely above a whisper, broken and repetitive, slipping out of her mouth without thought. Her body is trembling hard now, thighs shaking as you keep fucking her with your fingers, dragging them in and out of her soaked cunt with steady pressure, your mouth still locked onto her clit. She's coming apart in layers, too desperate to hold herself up properly, hands gripping the sheets, forehead dropping forward like her neck's lost the strength to hold her.

You feel the shift before it happens, the way she stiffens all at once, breath catching in her throat, her back arching so sharply it looks like she's trying to escape the feeling. And then she breaks.

The orgasm hits in full silence at first. Her whole body shudders violently, pussy clenching around your fingers as the wave pulls through her in slow, punishing pulses. She makes a sound then, sharp and cracked, somewhere between a moan and a sob.

You don't stop. Not yet. You keep moving your fingers inside her, slower now but deep, making her feel every second of it as her body starts to fall apart around the pleasure. Her legs buckle under her and she slumps forward onto her elbows, still panting, hips twitching every time you touch her clit with your tongue. She lets out a desperate whimper and twists under you, overstimulated, wrecked.

Eventually, you stop. Pull your fingers out and lick them clean without looking away from her. She stays where she is, ass still up, face buried in her arms, breath shaky and uneven.

There's a pause. A strange quiet. And then, softly:

"Are you angry at me?"

Her voice is small. Cautious.

You sit back a little, watching the way her back rises and falls.

"No," you say, calm and clear. "But I'm not done with you."

[dykehelly]

the altar is my hips [AO3] - NEW NICHE RPF DROPPED FOLKS. taylor/phoebe. there's a girl in your dressing room and she worships you; what do you do with her? and how much do you hate yourself afterwards?

rated E, 1.6k

Taylor just stares, heart thudding in her chest in a way she can't identify one way or the other as excitement or panic. And then this girl in front of her, looking devastatingly beautiful and painfully sad; Taylor wants to kiss her, to hold her, to throw her out. "It's okay," she says, but she feels as if she's deep inside herself, sending messages to her brain that take a long time to process. "Phoebe, I..." She wants to say I'm not like that, I'm not like you, but she can't manage to make the words come out. And maybe she's tired—tired of holding herself back, tired of being so careful, tired of being so afraid to make a mess that she spends her life on tiptoe. Phoebe looks embarrassed and sad but she's still leaning towards Taylor, just a little, some kind of want still deep in her eyes, and Taylor thinks, maybe for a moment, she can let herself want right back.

[ivyindreamland]

Where the Armour Ends

Everything was fine until the 2016 elections.

Chapter 3: Darkest Little Paradise [AO3]

Warning: This chapter contains violent imagery and a graphic description of (imaginary) suicide. Please read at your own discretion.

The last time Dorothea and I were seen together in public was in November, just before the elections, for Lourdes’s birthday party. The next night, we were on Dorothea’s Anthropologie couch with our arms wrapped around each other and our eyes glued to the TV. By 4:00 a.m. we'd cried every tear we had in our bodies. And when I woke up the next morning, Dorothea in bed beside me with her hair more mussed than I'd ever seen it and her arm over her eyes to cope with the hangover, I had a text on my phone from Moon ordering that I couldn't be seen out with Dorothea anymore. It was a battle. I'd been with Sam for years, I pleaded. There was no way out of the contract early. Moon wasn't having it… and Dorothea, who fought for me back in July when Moon wanted to blacklist me over Queen's nomination, agreed with her this time. That's the only option, unless we run away together … She was serious. Where would we go? I asked. There was nowhere in the world that her fans wouldn't find us. What would we do? Dorothea felt she was already past her prime, so she didn't care. She'd spent her two years on top of the world with me at her side before tabloids and gossip columns took it all away from her - well, that's how Dorothea felt about it anyway. My journey was still just beginning. I'd been a Victoria's Secret Angel for years, but I wanted to be taken seriously. I wanted to be educated. I wanted to do something good for the world.

[sebeztappen]

ROSQUEZ - happiness // last kiss

[rosstrytobe]

MY THOUGHTS ON YESTERDAY EPISODE:

[runnerleckie]

WINNIX & marjorie by taylor swift