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Your hands brush over the glasses laid out so prettily on the table. Filled with wine—red and white. Expensive brands, you could smell it in the air. It's a charity event—or that's what they want to call it. What it really is, is a bunch of rich people, A-list to C-list celebrities, gathered in a room, begging to be given attention.
So, why are you at the Met Gala? Simple. Because she's here. Taylor Swift. A-list celebrity, the diamond no one can reach, on the carpet breaking her nine year streak of not going. Everyone's looking at her and only her tonight, the others know it.
Then, there's her boyfriend—the man that looks like a fucking orangutan next to her. Plain, boring, the definition of a basic white man—masculine, plays football, of course everyone loves a man like him. Makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. It's hard to breathe with how much space his ego is taking up.
He knows he's won the lottery standing next to Ms. Swift. There's rumours about an engagement, but no ring on Taylor's hand. There are people begging at the gates for a picture, guards lining up the carpet, reporters hoarding wherever she goes, cameras blinding people.
The thought of how much Taylor is adored makes you angry almost. Almost—because you don't know if you want to be her, or be with her. Your fists clench around the glass in your hand, threatening to slip out and splash into the ground.
You're all inside now, it's safe, no cameras, no phones—though you're sure someone must have snuck one in. They always do. The glass swirls, tucked between your fingers, eyes piercing everyone else's in the room, except hers. It's making her mad, and you know it.
It's exactly what you want.
This is a game—one you love playing with her. A game to see how fast it takes for her to get jealous, jealous over someone who is far from hers. She knows it, knows that she can't have you but craves you. She needs her fix of your taste on her lips, and you're very tempting.
Fifteen minutes before she approaches you, tops.
No one knows the thing that you both have going on in this room, no one notices the way her eyes are on everyone but her boyfriend, how her body literally wants to jump out of the man's arms and ask you for a dance.
But, no, she has to dance with the football player. Has to make everyone awe at the height difference, has to hear ten people comment about how tall of a couple they are. Has to flip her hair, wink into the audience, charm people, because she is a people pleaser after all.
Has to talk to several people—get herself annoyed because all she really wants is to claw her fingers into your waist and pry you away from the man eyeing you all night. She knows she's making it obvious with the way she's literally glaring into the man, but he doesn't notice.
So, she messes with you, instead.
She wraps her arms around Travis's neck, uses her nails, scratches his neck in a way that makes him raise his eyes—what are you doing—he wants to ask. She gives him the look, which usually means 'just go along with it.'
He doesn't complain much, looking out into the room—probably staring at some pretty boy who caught his eyes. Good for him. Her eyes are reserved only for this one smart girl, leaning against the bar, wine glass in hand, head tilted, talking to another man.
God.
It's the damn slit for her—up that pretty red silhouette, a sight that leaves her breathless and makes something stir between her legs. She gulps, tries to focus, looks back at her fake boyfriend.
Then she feels a presence behind her, eyes snap in the direction—it's your back, and hands around your waist. Her teeth clench, nails digging into Travis's shoulders. Her eyes meet the man's, a sly smirk on his face that say he has what she wants.
"Switch," Mumbled under her breath, arms leaving Travis to wrap around you, the man sidelined, no annoyance on his face because he knows you're coming back to him—it makes Taylor's blood boil.
"What?" A huff escapes you, eyes rolling at her display of possession. You're tired of her bullshit, any more of that and you might crash out on her. In not a good way.
"He's flirting with you." She says, a sneer building in the back of her throat. The arms around your neck clench tighter—as if they're trying to choke you. In public? She smirks simply, acts innocent as you spin her around, pulling her into your chest.
"So what if he's flirting with me?" Sass in your voice is evident, it doesn't throw her off, you've always been a bit of a brat with her. Says the sex is better that way. It only annoys her. She likes you obedient—unfortunately you too like her the same way.
It's a constant battle for dominance with you both.
"You're crazy." A sneer—look of hatred in her eyes. Just how you like her. Angry. "You don't own me," You whisper against her ear, lips almost pressing against the shell, teeth grazing it. It makes her shudder, and you're sure you have her weak in the knees.
"Do I not?" She whispers back, hand sliding down to your waist, 'accidentally' brushing against your chest on the way. You exhale, fingers clenching as you pull away from her ear. She gives you a smug look, tilts her head to the side, lets the blonde hair fall over her face so effortlessly, it only pisses you off more.
"I'm not just one of your many toys." Growled into her ear, it has no effect, she simply rolls her eyes at you, uses her height to her advantage, pulls you into her chest, and shuts you up for the rest of the night. Or, so she thinks.
You don't stop, though. You make her watch other men getting close, hands reaching your waist, but not reaching it, you slipping away just in time. She's so into it. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, the vein in her hand flexing, and she suddenly doesn't give a fuck that everyone's staring, because all she wants is you.
She takes her chance, slips in behind you when you're too busy getting another drink, her hands find your bare waist, one resting on your hip, the warmth making you gasp softly. Then her lips are on your ear, pressing a kiss to it that in no way can be played off as platonic—but she doesn't care.
"Mine," She whispers, and you chuckle at that. It's bitter—it catches her off guard. Your body turns, eyes meeting hers once again. "How many times? I'm not just going to be one of your many toys." You huff.
"Oh, oh no, darling. You're so much more than that." Her hand comes up to brush a strand of your hair out of your face. Your words stumble a bit, eyebrows scrunching at what she said. So much more? So much more in what way?
"Tell that to your orangutan of a boyfriend. Clearly he has the fashion sense of one—who shows up in a plain, boring old black suit? That's so embarrassing. How do you even do—" You have to groan in between your sentences just to show her how frustrated you were.
She looks at you, smiles, the look in her eyes making you cool down—just a little. "You don't have to worry about him," She whispers, pulling you closer, looking down at you, noses almost touching.
"Oh, really? Is he cheating on you too?" A smile on your face, full of satisfaction when you see her face drop. You loved pissing her off, didn't you?
"No. He's—I already told you he's a beard." She says, hand palming the fabric of your dress. "No, actually. You did not. Maybe it was one of your other girls that you told—" You're cut off once again when she groans.
"There are no other girls. It's just you, you're the only one that's mine." She says once again, staring down at you with an almost offended look—as if you had called her a whore. (Not that she would complain if this was a different context).
She lets out a soft moan, head tilting back as her back hits the wall. Your hands are all over, desperately trying to pull her out of the clothes on her, lips smashed against hers. It's aggressive, just how she likes it, their breaths mingling, short pants whenever one pulls away.
She does the same to you, hands grabbing at the fabric roughly, palming your ass through it before ripping it off—not even trying to not tear something.
You're both too far gone to care by this point.
A small growl leaves your lips and you push her down to her knees. Your thumb runs over her bottom lip as she looks up at your now naked body. A breathless gasp escapes her.
"You're mine, do you understand that?" Your voice comes out stern, but she only sticks her tongue out, a wicked smile on her face because she knows she could have you down on your knees for her in seconds if she wanted.
"Aww, am I? How sweet," A mocking voice, one that fuels your already short temper.
"Brat," you hissed out, trying to take back control of the situation. But, her fingers trail up your leg, nails scratch—grazing it gently, and you feel them buckle.
"Says you," Her head tilts, another mischievous grin that you do not like. Her fingers gently wrap around your thigh, squeezing in a way that makes your head spin.
You could try to be bold, and fail miserably. Or, you could let her take over and have her tease you for weeks about it. Both of these options aren't in your favour.
"I think we should work on your attitude problems," you shoot back, hand squeezing her neck softly, enough to make her choke back a moan.
"I think you like it." Bastard. She knows. "What makes you think that?" You fire back. It's of no use—because she's right. Unfortunately, she always is.
"So, if I just..." She stops, her finger pressing against your underwear and you let out a small gasp, fingers loosening around her neck.
"So wet, I can feel it through the cloth. I think that's a pretty good sign, don't you?" Fuck you, Taylor. You simply hiss at her.
She simply gives you a look, presses her lips against your underwear and hears her favourite sweet little moan slip out of your mouth.
That's when she knew she was a goner for you.
Her fingers hook onto the waistband, pulling them down until she can pull your lips between hers. You gasp, fingers entangling in her hair immediately. Her hands grab you to keep you steady as her tongue reaches out, flicking your nub.
You whine, pleading already. "So much for being the one in charge." She smirks against you, knowing you're too far gone by now to process what she's saying.
Her nails dig into your thigh as she buries her head between your legs, listens to your moans and oh fuck. Her cock hardens between her legs the more you drive yourself crazy. "Taylor," Gasped out, whines leaving your mouth as you release into her mouth.
When she pulls away, she wipes some off her chin, and holy shit she looks good on her knees for you. You could never get used to it. A sigh leaves you as she gets back up, looking at you with such intimidating eyes.
She pushes you to the wall this time, leaning in close to your ear, teeth biting down, pulling the skin to make you hear her loud and clear. You don't back down, hands trailing down down to her cock. You only give her a few jerks, watch it twitch and she groans right into your ear, grabs your hand and pins it above the wall.
"I'm still in charge, whether you like it or not," You give her a cocky grin, only to mess with her because you both know the power she holds over you at that moment. "You're so pretty," She whispers, breathless, hopeless.
"And you're a liar," Your eyebrows raise, pulling a moan out of her, she grinds into your hand. Her voice is so whiny by that point. Your other hand wraps itself around her neck, choking slightly, pulling more whimpers out.
The smug look on your face again, another growl leaving her. "I'm not a liar."
"Oh? So you do hate me?" Your squeeze and she whimpers, legs weakening. Her grip on you slips, and she falls to her knees before you, letting you give her an evil smirk. Her eyes are droopy, almost falling shut as you apply more pressure on her throat.
"Answer me," Your voice is breathy, barely heard over her whimpers, but she stays shut, not giving you the answers you need. There's only one solution to that. Your hand comes down on her cheek, and she audibly moans.
"Answer me, or it'll be harder next time," Your voice is stern, and she whispers—so softly, "I do hate you."
"Wrong answer," You force her to look up, tilting her head back by her hair. She only gasps, doesn't defy, seems to you that the need to control has suddenly left her. "Sit on the couch, do not squirm around. Understood?"
"Understood." She barely forms coherent words. You give her a look, and she shakes her head—jumping to correct herself. "Understood, ma'am."
A smile, a beat passes and you let go of her hair, only to watch her crawl back to the couch. You lick your lips, mouth watering the sight of her. So pretty. Your fangs poke the edges of your mouth, already needing a taste of her.
She watches you shuffle through the closet before returning to her, her lip caught between her teeth in anticipation. Her fingers shake, clawing into the couch impatiently as her arousal for you mocks her. Taylor Swift does not submit for anyo—
"Hands." She presents her hands to you, flexing the wrists, watching you for your next command. Her stomach bubbles in anticipation. You make her turn around instead, bringing her hands behind her back, a hiss leaves her.
Another slap to her ass.
"What did we say about whining?" You whisper into her ear, pulling at the earlobe in a way that makes her whine almost immediately. "No noises," She breathes out, and you tut. "I didn't say no noises, I love my pretty girl's noises. I said no complaining." Your hand slides up her waist, wrapping around her bare stomach, and she shivers.
Another slap to the thigh.
"On the couch, c'mon." She obeys, sits down, spreads her legs, you lick your lips. Her cock stands up between her toned abdomen. Perfect. "What happened to always being in control, hmm?" You smile at her, trying not to crack up.
Your hand strokes her again, and her mouth opens in another gasp. "I can make exceptions for you." You scoff at her.
You catch her off guard, straddle her, position her right below your entrance and watch her squirm to be inside. "What are you doing?" She looks up at you with adorable wide eyes, oh how pretty they would look rolling back—
"You thought I would give it to you so easily?" You tut at her again, pushing her hair behind her ear. "I want you begging for me, I need you to show me how desperate you are," you whisper into her ear, and her hips try to jerk up.
"I want you—I want you. You've been... driving me insane." She begs, but you shake your head. "You can do better than that." It's a matter of fact. "I need to fill you, please. Please, let me show you."
"Show me what?" Your interest piqued.
"How much I belong to you."
A smile, bitten bottom lip, and you're moving down, letting her intrude you, and she groans so prettily, throwing her head back into the armrest. Your hands use her shoulders to settle yourself before bouncing on it.
Your fangs dig into her neck, and her eyes close, mouth open in a silent 'o' as she thrusts into you. "Mine," You whisper, and she simply nods, whimpers flooding out of her mouth, too tired to argue because you feel so good on top of her.
"Come for me, angel," You whisper once more, wiping the blood off your teeth and she finds it so hot, legs already shaking underneath you.
You tend to have that effect on people—her especially. She tries to protest, but the look in your eyes only quiets her down further. She loves when you take control—though she would never admit it to you or herself.
"There's nothing I hate more than what I can't have," She confesses, and you scoff, rolling your eyes. "Who says you can't have me?"
She looks up. Oh, you're a goner.
"Taylor! Taylor, please. Oh, my god." Your face is pushed into the pillows, her cock ramming into you from behind, hands grabbing you roughly in all the right places. She growls into your ear, pulling your head by your hair.
"You're mine," She whispers and your eyes roll to the back of your head, back arching as you beg her for a release. A hand comes down on your ass again, putting you back in your place as you cry out for more.
"Need you so bad," You moan out, face pushed into the pillow again, forbidden from speaking and god, you were going to come.
"So, you agree you're mine?"
A hum. An empty promise. You both know you're never going to see each other again.