I know I kissed you before, but I didn’t do it right. Can I try again, try again, try again? Try again and again and again? – Mitski, Pink in the Night
Taylor is sitting in a London café, sunglasses large enough to dwarf her cheekbones, when she gets the text message from Harry – or, more specifically, Harry + heart.emoji + lipstick.emoji + rainbowflag.emoji (emojis, his own drunk addition). Her tongue toys with the straw on her iced coffee as she unlocks the phone to see what it says.
heard you were in town. me too! care for a catch up at mine?
She considers the proposition as she takes another sip. Taylor’s not really in London for fun – she’s promoting her new album, and on a tight schedule at that. On top of that, she has all sorts of Lover promotional materials to give the ‘okay’ or ‘hell no’ to sitting menacingly in her email inbox. Then there’s Harry himself who has been all over the place lately, flowering into this genderless icon, which is something she has, until now, deliberately made no time to deal with. ‘Genderless-sometimes-ex-sometimes-it’s-complicated-lover’ is a concept for Harry to sort out, without her, and report back if he likes.
*buzz* - another message.
I have wine – and news!
but most important, wine.
So – “when he likes” is apparently now. Now, but with wine. She takes the final draw on her ice coffee with a loud slurp and drops it on the table in front of her.
[dot dot dot. . .dot dot dot. . .dot dot dot – the pause makes her chest feel weirdly tight, and then -]
i’ll be home in an hour so any time after then. but if you get here around the same time, you’ll get to see something from a new photoshoot :D
‘A new photoshoot’ – vague. The smiley – she knows that one. His ‘lmao this isn’t serious but if you judge whatever this is I’ll give you a look like something inside me has broken in half’ mood. The first time she’d gotten it, he’d opened the door done up in lipstick the shade of a fresh strawberry. It hadn’t been for a photoshoot, then. Neither had the lacy underwear the time after that, or the floral sundress – for around the house, you know – the time after that.
I’ll be there.
Harry’s primary London house is such a hedonistic dream that it always kind of makes her want to throw up. She’s been in and out of celebrity homes for some fifteen years (and has a number of her own!) so the amount that Harry’s impresses her is a mystery. Perhaps it’s the aura that radiates off of it – she’s been reading about those a lot ever since the world started to fall down. Walking down the long driveway makes her feel like she’s six years old at Disney World and staring up at Cinderella’s castle, glowing pink against the night sky. She was never sure if she wanted to be the princess or see the princess who lived there. If that makes Harry the princess – well, she tries to supplant those thoughts with the childish awe she felt back then.
His door has this big metal knocker on it, as though he’s still living in a world where doorbells don’t exist. It’s almost too big to wrap her fingers around, though not too heavy for her to give it a few firm raps. The door opens immediately – not via a servant, but by Harry himself. She catches herself on the door frame when she gets a look at what he’s wearing, suddenly feeling a little faint.
Harry is wearing fishnets. Honest-to-god black-as-sin fishnets are clinging to his skin, leaving little indentations in the meatier parts of his thigh and bunching up around his ankles and toes. His modesty is somewhat preserved by leather shorts that leave a little to the imagination – at least, if one were to imagine removing them. He’s wearing a white button up that’s wide open, begging the question as to why he’s even wearing it other than to frame the butterfly tattoo on his stomach. His cheeks have bronzer out to here, emphasizing his cheekbones that are already unfairly beautiful. The lipstick on his mouth is a natural enough pink that if it weren’t for the everything else, if she weren’t looking, it might slip under the radar. Harry’s hair is disheveled in a way she knows drives him crazy and would usually lead to a Cindy-Lou-Who top knot if he clearly wasn’t trying to have some sort of effect on her. If he wasn’t trying to give off a sort of ‘I’ve-already-been-fucked-but-I’m-ready-to-go-again’ realness.
“Hey,” he says with a self-satisfied smile. She should kiss it off his face, but the outfit has short-circuited her brain so severely that desire has been divorced from action. Taylor manages to smile back when he grabs her hand.
“Hey, yourself,” she says. The fact that it doesn’t come out hoarse and horny is something she’ll take as a win. Taylor Swift controls the narrative – she has dignity.
He leads her into his princess castle, allowing the door to shut with a loud thunk behind them.
The wine he grabs from his cellar is expensive, she knows, in the nouveau-riche way that Harry falls for every time. They sit on the floor of his living room, cross-legged on a plush, patterned rug that was probably woven by a craftswoman in Japan somewhere. She’s long since removed her chunky heels, so she can fully appreciate the softness of the rug under her feet. It’s easy to imagine the intimate moments of Harry’s life when they’re alone like this, him padding through his house at nine AM with sleep in his eyes, crushing the neat lines of a vacuum under his bare feet. This was never a life they would have shared full time – they knew this, even seven years ago. Still, the ghost of an alternate timeline where this is their always haunts these wine-soft afternoons. It fills their pauses in conversation every time – she, making breakfast in silk pajamas, and he, trailing behind her, wearing – and being called her –
“So, it’s for an arts magazine called Beauty Papers,” he says, breaking a post-pleasantries silence very full of the whole fill-in-the-blank-what-are-we vibe. Harry fidgets nervously with a button on his shirt.
“Promo for a new album?” she asks. Harry nods.
“It should be out this winter, I think. I want it to have,” he worries his lip with his teeth. Taylor knows this mood; he’s still perfecting his elevator speech. “Very free energy. I want it to be very joyous. So –”
He gestures at himself as though that’s all the explanation she needs. Harry has a tendency towards running their relationship on inference, which is often sexy but always maddening. However, if this is going into the public sphere, her getting nothing but inference is a little unfair. She drains her glass of wine and sets it down neatly on a white marble coaster. Her hand is shaking a little; the flash of anger surprises her, as does what comes out of her mouth next.
“Are you finally coming out, then?” she asks. Harry clenches his fist into the carpet, brow furrowed, suddenly looking the unhappiest she’s seen him in a very long time. Taylor should care that she’s spoiled her goodwill so early into the evening, but she can’t pull herself away from the frustration over these non-answers Harry has been giving her for years. She’s not a goddamn interviewer. She’s –
She’s something, anyway.
“Are you?” he responds in a way that puts her heart in her throat. Oh – that’s why he was so eager to get together. He thinks they have two secrets.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. Harry sighs and flops onto his back. His open shirt splays out under his arms in a way that would be sexy if they weren’t both so goddamn upset.
He turns his head to look at her; his face is crumpled in pain.
“I saw your new music video, T. Notified of its existence by the YouTube Algorithm. You didn’t even text me to say you were – you didn’t invite me to –”
Taylor rubs the back of her neck, feeling so, so tired.
“I wasn’t,” she says. Her turn for inference. This is the trouble with Harry – he gives what she can give, which is just enough, and never enough. “I thought you wouldn’t want to since, you know –”
Harry heaves a shuddering sigh. He looks up at the ceiling and wipes away a tear quivering at the corner of his eye with the back of his curved thumb.
“Because I haven’t,” he says in a hollow voice. “Because you think I haven’t.”
Taylor flops on her back with a frustrated grunt. She splays out her arms, fingers close enough to Harry’s hand that he could close the gap if he wanted to. He stares at the space between them but doesn’t move to reach her.
“Because everyone thinks you haven’t. Jesus, Harry. Would you have even come if I’d asked?”
Harry gently pokes her palm with his index finger.
“Probably not. But I would have liked to be asked anyway.”
Taylor pokes him back, a little less gentle.
“If you make it clear you don’t want to attend before you’re asked anywhere, then nobody is going to want to invite you to stuff. You can’t say ‘It’s none of your business’ about this and then expect to be invited to the party.”
Tentatively, Harry entwines his index finger with her own.
“I don’t want to be invited to the party. I want to be invited to your party. Your party about this.” He rolls into his side, keeping their fingers entwined. She can’t help but ogle his pecs (his tits, between the two of them) as he turns to face her. Taylor pulls closer; his eyes are red. If he wasn’t in fishnets, if he wasn’t prying, if he wasn’t trying to say everything by saying nothing then she’d pull him in for a kiss.
First, it’s time to be plain. This has been a long time coming for both of them.
“Harry, I don’t want to talk around this anymore. I don’t want to talk around –” she pauses, terrified of what needs to be said. “I don’t want to talk around how queer this is anymore. Especially not if you’re going to share it with the entire world before we have a single candid conversation.”
Harry pulls their entwined fingers to his chest. He tilts his head down, not meeting her eyes.
“You’re right. It’s not fair to you. I’m sorry,” he says. Taylor unloops her finger from Harry’s to entwine their hands instead. The anger inside her is being drained away by the smell of his warm skin. Her favorite floral perfume is daubed behind his ears.
“I don’t want you to be sorry. I just want you to tell me what’s going on,” she says. Harry rests their entwined hands against his cheek.
“Do you want my explanation because you want to know me better, or because you think it has something to do with you?”
“Both,” she admits. Harry nods against their hands. His stubble scratches her wrist.
“Think I might be a bit of a girl,” he says with a wavering voice. “Not, like, all the way probably. But enough. And I think – I don’t think everyone needs to know that, exactly. I would prefer people didn’t know everything. But I want them to know. . .something. I want people to see that part of me like you have.”
Taylor chews over the long-suspected, oft-repressed admission. A bit of a girl.
“I considered using that video to –”
It hurts to say it. Harry allows her a little mercy.
“But you got scared. It’s okay.”
He gives her a kiss on the back of her hand.
“So are you a,” she pauses, making absolutely sure that she asks this in the most correct way possible. “Are you a she, then? Is this – are we, like. . .lesbians?”
Harry lets out a choked laugh.
“Fuck. Oh God. I don’t know. Do you like girls? Do you like me as –”
Taylor rubs her hand over her face. It’s hotter than the sun – god this is so fucking gay.
“Yes, I like you as. I like you in this way. In the. . .gay way. I think.”
Harry tucks into her. His – her stockinged legs are rough against Taylor’s bare skin.
“Okay then,” Harry says. Then, her mouth twists into a smile. “Let’s go, lesbians!”
They kiss for hours before they finally come to their senses and fall into Harry’s bed. Then, they can’t help themselves, and kiss there too. Acknowledging the lesbianism of it all has added a new layer of sensuality to their kissing that Taylor hadn’t even thought was possible. Each familiar inch of Harry feels brand new, as if this entire time she’d been unwittingly accruing points that would allow her to level up to Harry 2.0. Harry, she/her collector’s edition. Harry, Harry, Harry.
Once she’s so wet she can barely stand it anymore, Taylor gropes behind herself to unzip her dress. It would be possible (and hot) for Harry to finger her under her dress, but the thought of not having all of Harry (and, in return, giving her all too) is unbearable. Harry gently pushes her hands away after watching her struggle for a moment and pulls the zipper down with ease. Off goes the dress onto the floor. Harry helps her unhook her bra; she shrugs out of it and removes her (absolutely trashed) panties. Now – Harry’s clothes.
Harry’s shirt is long since discarded on a living room chair, but her leather shorts and fishnets are very much still on, and very much starting to chafe. Taylor fusses with the button on the front of the pants, trying to not get distracted by the sight of Harry’s gorgeous tits. How the two swallows on her collarbone point towards them while the butterfly cups them from underneath. They’ve always referred to them ‘jokingly’ as tits, but this is the first time she’s been allowed to see them as they really are through Harry’s eyes. Taylor mouths at them as she unzips Harry’s pants. They’re different than her own, muscular and dusted with hair, which used to seem like a binary distance the width of a cavern. Now, in context, she can see how they’re not very different at all. The divot down the middle, and the puckered, pink nipples. Taylor’s palm, sprawled across Harry’s chest, dipping at the pit of her diaphragm.
“You’re so pretty,” moans Taylor. She worries at one of the nipples with her teeth, which makes Harry produce a little squeak that travels hot to the pit of Taylor’s belly. Taylor pulls off Harry’s leather shorts and tucks her fingers into the back of the fishnets. She pulls both the underwear and fishnets down her legs and over her toes and then deposits them off the side of the bed. Before returning to Harry’s upper half, she gives a kiss to Harry’s ankle and the heel of her foot. Then, she kisses up Harry’s leg until she reaches Harry’s belly. Harry’s stomach is a flat plane, sans hourglass, but it’s not so different from athletes she’s wondered at in magazines.
(Wondered at – and more, too.)
When she kisses back down to Harry’s hips, she pauses. Harry has always hinted at wanting to carry a child. For the first time, Taylor imagines what it must be like to know that your body will never be able to do what you want more than anything. To have an intrinsic need for something you can never have.
Taylor strokes Harry’s hipbones – she’ll give her what she can, even though it’s not enough.
“You have childbearing hips, you know. I bet you’d just glow if you were pregnant.”
Harry keens, grabbing onto the pillow behind her head so tightly that her knuckles turn white. Taylor gently rubs her stomach and kisses just above her belly button. She can imagine what it would be like to feel a bump there and know there was life inside Harry. Not Taylor’s baby, necessarily (hell, she’s not sure if she ever wants a child at all), but a gift given to Harry by someone else. A shared delight about the life growing inside her. The opportunity to be auntie Taylor, giving Harry a sweet fraction of the love she needs.
“You’ll be a great mom someday,” she says as she kisses down to Harry’s inner thighs.
“Fuck,” Harry says through ragged breaths. “T, you’re gonna make me cum, and it’s gonna be – I’m sorry.”
A deep pang of sadness fills Taylor – Harry is ashamed that her body is –
“Don’t be sorry. You have the most beautiful clit I’ve ever seen.”
With that, Harry cums untouched all over her own stomach. Taylor is mesmerized by the arc of it; somehow, it’s different than anything she’s ever seen while having sex with men. Deeply feminine, because it’s on Harry, who has pink marks of her fishnets indented into her thighs. Because the lipstick on her mouth is now red-pink from Taylor’s mouth and smears delightfully up to her nose and down to her neck. The smudge of mascara at the corner of her eye as she looks down at Taylor with wonderment. Taylor brushes her finger through the cum, licks some of it off her finger, and says the stupidest thing imaginable –
“That’s pussy, baby.”
Harry laughs, throwing her head back, a breathy hysterical thing. Taylor crawls up between Harry’s legs and pulls her as close as possible. They tumble to the side, smearing cum all over Taylor’s stomach and dripping it onto the bedsheets.
It is unbelievably hot.
“I’m so wet right now,” she says, grinding against Harry’s thigh. Sparks of pleasure rush through her entire body. “I’m so close.”
Harry whines and shivers. She kisses over to Taylor’s ear.
“Can I eat you out?” she murmurs.
“Please,” Taylor moans. They break apart and Taylor spreads her legs wide. It’s been seven years since their first time doing this, yet Harry is as enthusiastic as ever. Her hair bounces into her own eyes, so Taylor holds it back. Harry’s always found displeasure at hair getting in the way of oral sex (especially when it was long) so Taylor snaps a hair tie on her wrist and asks, “Do you want me to tie up your bangs?”
“Oh, thank you,” Harry sighs. Taylor gently bunches them up into a pouf on top of her head and wraps the tie around it. Then, Harry gets to work, pushing two fingers inside her and licking her clit. Harry’s stubble scratches against her legs, giving her sensation on the inside of her thighs. She presses again and again inside Taylor, cum surely flowing all over her hand. Even though they’ve done this dozens of times before, the fact that Harry is (somewhat) a girl who is into her as a girl adds a whole extra layer of emotion. Harry is eating Taylor out in kinship. She’s saying – what’s mine is yours. She’s saying – I see you. She’s saying – it’s okay.
Taylor cums, squeezing Harry’s thighs between her legs. Her whole body shakes with pleasure. Harry licks her through it until she’s too sensitive. Immediately, she feels like a limp noodle. Harry lifts her head; her face is soaked with cum. She wipes it off her face with the heel of her palm, then throws herself onto Taylor for a kiss. It’s sticky and there’s cum just. . .everywhere but she’s too happy to care.
“Was that okay?” says Harry into her mouth. Taylor can’t help but laugh. Her first mindblowing experience with lesbian sex, and her partner wants to know if it was okay. She strokes Harry’s cheekbone and over to her ear before flattening her hand and sliding down, down, down to her heart. Then, she kisses Harry again.
“Yeah,” says Taylor. “It was alright.”