Taylor Swift, worldwide famous American singer songwriter, didn't date. It just simply wasn't in her blood, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many times she gave it a hopeful try, she would always screw up. So what better way than just give up? Fucking with no strings was fun anyway.
Trigger warning: sex, strong language, mentions of suicide and death.
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She met Karlie Kloss at a filthy and dimly lit bar.
It was a bad day for the singer; first, she had woken up and the stranger she had so gleefully slept with the night before had been still under the sheets of her bed. In her apartment. Then, when she had calmly tried to kick her out in the best and kindest way possible, that model had started weeping like a baby would when they're being deprived of their favorite sweets. She had begged her to please understand that she wanted to see the singer again, which was basically her saying that she wanted them to date. But Taylor Swift wasn't made for dating. Going out, bringing a boy or a girl to a fancy restaurant and then initiating a romantic relationship with them — it wasn't her. Taylor Swift, worldwide famous American singer songwriter, didn't date. It just simply wasn't in her blood, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many times she gave it a hopeful try, she would always screw up. So what better way than just give up? Fucking with no strings was fun anyway.
"Another whiskey, please," Taylor muttered, voice hard and angry at no one in particular. She recalled her new publicist, how that afternoon she had filled her head with complaints about how bad her reputation was. Fucking bitches won't bring you more publicity! or Perhaps a good, fake relationship would give you more fame, or again, Aren't you tired of this lifestyle? Stop using people as fucktoys and start dating like one normal human being would do. The thought of Tree Paine made the blood in her veins boil. "Ugh, make it double, please."
Once her glass was in front of her, she took off her black blazer and unfastened the first button of her ivory button down shirt. Her long golden wavy hair was a mess, and she pulled it with an unenthusiastic hand. Taylor shifted uncomfortably on the seat, its lacerated leather rubbing against the black fabric of her silky pants. They were too tight around her thighs, and she mentally damned her stylist for being so fucking stupid and deaf to her requests.
"Had a bad day?"
That was when a voice so soave, so feminine and gentle, reached her ears. When Taylor turned around, an angry and deep frown on her slightly pouted lips, she came face to face with an incredibly beautiful woman — probably in her early twenties — and grumbled.
"Listen," she began, finishing her shot of whiskey and slamming the glass against the dirty counter. "If you're here to fuck, I'm not in the mood tonight."
Her reputation was well known in the world, and even though she currently looked horrible, she knew that this stranger knew who she was.
The woman was, to say the least, bewildered. Her thin and nude lips hung open for a second, before her graceful frame gently but hurriedly lowered on the seat beside Taylor. "What?! No, I—I'm not looking for that. Oh God, no, I'm—I mean, you're stunning and all but I would never—I—," the stranger stuttered, cheeks pink and eyes wide in embarrassment. Taylor noticed the color of her irises; jade green. "—I'm making this worse. I'm sorry, I'm just—I didn't want to disturb you. You just look like you're in a really bad mood and—,"
