I Know Places (Taylor Swift Imagines) (GxG)

Lover on a Leash

bf taylor, femme reader

You sigh as you walk into your flat, toeing off your heels. You don't bother putting them back on the rack---your back is aching like a bitch.

You move like a robot to your kitchen, running a hand through your still-sweat-damp hair, grabbing a bottle of expensive wine that Taylor bought you the fifth time she apologised for breaking up with you again.

It burns on the way down, bitter on your tongue, does nothing to drown the taste of her lips on yours.

Your phone chimes in your pocket, and against every better judgment you have, you hope it's Taylor. You hope she's texting to beg you to come back, that she fucked up bad, that she never stopped loving you, that whoever shared her bed after you were in it was nothing like you.

But it's not. It's Selena. Inviting you out for a girls' night on Saturday. She typed, Taylor's gonna be there like it's any help.

You guess Taylor hasn't told her a thing yet. She never does.

I'll think about it you tell her, then put your phone on silent, convincing yourself you won't have to check it every five minutes for the rest of the evening just to see if Taylor texted.

You do.

You plop down on your couch and put on a show you and Taylor used to play in the background while having sex.

You can't stop checking your phone, hoping, hoping, that name pops up.

But it never does.

At two AM, you finally accept that it never will so you grab that half-empty bottle of wine back and down it.

It's nice to drink an 800-dollar bottle of wine like water. You're never gonna need it for dates anyway.

You wake up on the couch with a dry mouth and a worse headache. The wine bottle is tipped over on the carpet. You're too tired to care.

You blearily grab your phone.

One new message.

01:56 AM - Taylor:
I miss you.

Your throat closes. You stare at the screen so long it goes dark, then light again. You reread it a dozen times. Like maybe if you do, it'll suddenly say everything you needed her to say.

But no. Just that.

Three little words that used to mean everything. Now they just mean she's bored. Or drunk. Or lonely. Or all three.

You don't answer.

Not right away, anyway.

You get up, rinse your mouth, ignore your reflection because your eyes are already giving too much away. The kind of sad that's permanent. The kind of sad that looks like love if you squint.

You crawl into bed with your phone clutched in your hand like a lifeline you should've cut a year ago.

It buzzes again.

09:08 AM - Taylor:
I know I don't deserve you. But I still want you, Y/N.

It hurts. It always does.

She wants you like a possession. Like a favourite sweater she keeps putting in the wash and then acts surprised when it comes out frayed.

Your fingers tremble.

You type:
Then stop letting me go.
Delete. Re-type.
Then why do you keep leaving me?
Delete. Re-type again.
I'm not a toy, Taylor.