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"I'll be your Father Figure..."

fatherfigure!taylor with a pretty, sweet thing a few years younger than her.

fatherfigure!taylor who drinks whiskey on the rocks. The amber liquid glows like fire, swirling around in the crystal like it's got something to prove. Ice clinks together as she sighs. The liquid burns your throat but Taylor's been able to adapt to the sting. Her throat works around the booze and her eyes flicker to your gaze, staring you down as her finger circles the rim of her glass. She stays unblinking. "Come here, baby." She coos, using her free hand to beckon you closer.

fatherfigure!taylor who dries your tears with her sleeves. In the warm light of her study, Taylor looks up. She follows the sound of quickened breaths. They sound wet and frayed. When she sees you standing halfway behind the doorway and half in the threshold—much like a child hiding behind their mothers' leg— a frown creases her brow. You're standing there in a satin nightgown; the one she'd bought you earlier that week. Fat teardrops are slipping down your cheeks, but only the remnants on crying shake out from your breath. Taylor sighs. Motions for you to come in and you do—practically falling into lockstep for her. She helps your legs slot beside her hips, holding you steady as you're comfortable on her lap. She rubs the tears away with the soft sleeves of her blazer. She pets your hair, strokes your back, whispers sweet nothings into your ear, pressing kisses into the juncture of your neck.

fatherfigure!taylor who protects her sweet girl. She's got her palm flattened on your back, heavy as she shepherds you through crowds of stars. The two of you are at a VMAs after-party. Taylor nods to a bald man with hefty forearms, watching closely as he unclicks a velvet rope and lets you into a secluded area. Taylor ushers you onto a couch with her. Drinks are delivered, liquor glinted beneath the light "Drink up, baby. I've got you."

fatherfigure!taylor who offers unsolicited advice. She stands behind you in the mirror, silk wrapped the gentle curves of her body. Her hair is a mane about her shoulders. The remnants of your rendezvous against her cheeks like droplets of blood in milk. "They'll only ever want you to rise." She says solemnly, hip pressing against the door frame. Hers arms cross. Rings glint on her fingers, sparkling even beneath low light. "It scares them when you reign. But persevere; you're a young woman deserving of the good of fame." She walks up behind you, hunching over herself to press a kiss against your shoulder. "Let them fuck around; let them find out."

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more nikki!

[blender + photoshop | NO AI WAS USED]

ref under cut:

When she wringed that sports bra, i was like "what a waste of sweat"

mustve been the wind

Feb - Apr 2025, different tree bark textures & colours

One wit named Rhaenyra “King Maegor with teats,” and for a hundred years thereafter “Maegor’s Teats” was a common curse amongst Kingslanders.