Chapter Text
The prophecy
Please I've been on my knees
Change the prophecy
Don't want money
Just someone who wants my company
Let it once be me
Who do I have to speak to
About if they can redo the prophecy?
Cards on the table
Mine play out like fools in a fable, oh
It was sinking in (sinking in, oh)
Slow is the quicksand
Poison blood from the wound of the pricked hand
Oh, still I dream of him
Please I've been on my knees
Change the prophecy
Don't want money
Just someone who wants my company
Let it once be me
Who do I have to speak to
About if they can redo the prophecy?
Late May 2025 – Florida
The moment the headline broke — TAYLOR SWIFT BUYS BACK HER MASTERS IN HISTORIC $360M DEAL — her phone exploded.
Hundreds of notifications flooded the screen: texts from friends, DMs, news alerts, congratulatory emojis, confetti GIFs, industry kudos, and an all-caps voice note from Selena screaming “YOU FUCKING DID IT.”
But one message stilled her completely.
Joe Alwyn:
I’m genuinely happy for you. They were always your words. You deserved to bring them home.
Taylor read it once. Then again.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t flinch.
She just stared at the words, her chest tightening around a quiet ache that wasn’t quite grief, wasn’t quite longing — just… the final note of something that had already ended.
Not with anger. Not with bitterness. Just the soft thud of a door gently, permanently closing.
She set her phone down, face-down on the table.
The champagne sat beside her, still fizzing. Jack and Margaret were in the kitchen, laughing as they filled glasses and played her old demos on the speaker like they were brand new again. Travis was out on the deck with Andrea watching the storm, proudly telling her how he’d kept the secret for weeks without slipping — even when his brother nearly got it out of him.
But Taylor stayed still, hand resting on the table, eyes a little distant.
Because before there was this moment — before the press release, the wire transfer, the tearful phone call with her lawyer — there had been another night.
Another porch.
Another storm.
A card.
⸻
Flashback – July 2023
Upstate New York. Gigi Hadid’s house.
The storm had passed, but the air still crackled. Taylor sat hunched on the back porch, cardigan pulled around her like armor, wine untouched beside her. The porch light flickered once before holding. Everything around her was quiet — except for the wind stirring the trees, and the low, restless ache in her chest.
She couldn’t sleep.
She wasn’t sure she even knew how to be alone anymore.
Joe was gone. Matty had never stayed. And for the first time, she was starting to believe she might have burned through every last bit of love the universe had once offered her. She felt like a fool.
She was empty.
The Reputation re-recordings loomed ahead, dark and sharp-edged. That album had bled love. Real, dizzying, terrifying love. Singing those songs now felt like walking through a house that had burned down — the shape of something familiar, but full of ash.
She didn’t know how to find her way back.
She heard the screen door creak and didn’t turn. Just stared into the dark trees.
“You want company?” came Marielle’s voice.
Taylor shrugged. “Sure.”
Marielle stepped out quietly, barefoot, and settled beside her with a small cloth pouch. She opened it slowly and pulled out a deck of tarot cards.
Taylor let out a small, dry laugh. “God, seriously?”
“You could use a shift in energy.”
“Is that what the cards say?”
“No,” Marielle said. “It’s what I say.”
Taylor stared out into the trees. “We saw what he said.”
Marielle nodded. “We did.”
It had been two nights ago. The clip had found its way into their late night dinner conversation — Travis Kelce on his podcast, talking about how he’d wanted to give Taylor a friendship bracelet with his number on it. Laughing, a little sheepish. Embarrassed in the way a man is when he means something and no one believes he could.
Everyone had teased her. Taylor had laughed along. But something about it had lingered.
And now Marielle had a deck of tarot cards on the table.
“You want me to ask the cards if I should date a football player?” Taylor asked, her voice flat, bitter. “Because a tortured indie boy and a private British actor weren’t enough?”
“No,” Marielle said simply. “I want you to ask for what you actually want.”
Taylor didn’t answer. She was quiet for a long time.
Then: “What if the prophecy is already written?”
“Then you write a new one.”
Taylor shook her head. “I’m tired, Mar.”
“Then ask for something better.”
Marielle lit a small candle between them. The flame was steady. She handed Taylor the deck to cut. Taylor did — slow, fingers trembling.
“Think of what you need,” Marielle said gently.
Taylor closed her eyes.
Please, she thought. Please let it not be over for me. Please let there still be something left I haven’t broken. Let someone come. Let someone stay. Please change the prophecy.
Marielle drew a single card and laid it face up between them.
Knight of Swords.
One word underneath it: Swiftly.
Taylor stared at it, pulse kicking up.
“What does it mean?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
“It means someone’s coming,” Marielle said. “Someone honest. Fast. Someone who doesn’t hesitate.”
Taylor swallowed. “And the word ‘swiftly’?”
Marielle tilted her head, her tone lighter now. “Maybe it’s just for you.”
Taylor looked back down at the card, lips parted. She didn’t believe in fate — she didn’t even believe in happy endings anymore — but something about that card made her chest hurt.
“Does it say it’s him?”
Marielle’s smile was small. “The timing’s not nothing.”
Taylor laughed once, bitter. “He’s a football player.”
“And he’s real. And kind. And — look, I don’t know anything for certain,” Marielle said,. “I think it could be him. The energy’s there. And—if I’m reading this right—he’s going to be very good in bed.”
Taylor let out a surprised laugh that cracked halfway through. “You read that in the cards?”
“I did,” Marielle said with a shrug. “I don’t know him personally, obviously—but the vibe? Yeah. Big energy. In every way.”
Taylor wiped at her eyes, laughing and crying all at once. “God. That’s ridiculous.”
“Or it’s exactly what you need.”
Taylor stared at the card. She wanted to believe. She wanted something, someone, to pull her out of the fog.
“Please change the prophecy,” she whispered again, barely audible.
And somewhere, the universe listened.
—
Present —
The city lights glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside, the mood was glowing with warmth and laughter. Taylor and Travis stood side by side, glasses of champagne raised high. Jack and his wife, Margaret, joined them in the cozy living room, smiles wide and eyes bright.
“To new beginnings,” Margaret toasted, clinking her glass gently against Taylor’s.
Taylor’s smile was radiant, but her eyes shimmered with something deeper — relief, pride, and a quiet sense of victory. “I can’t believe it’s really done,” she murmured, her voice soft but sure. “All of it. Finally mine.”
Travis slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “You earned every bit of it. And I’m so damn proud of you.”
Jack nodded, grinning. “It’s rare to see someone fight for their art like you did. You’ve made history.”
Taylor laughed, the sound light and free. “It wouldn’t have been possible without all of you. And the fans, of course. They’re the real MVPs.”
Travis kissed the top of her head, voice low just for her. “You’re my MVP.”
Her eyes locked on his, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink until it was just the two of them — breath mingling, the hum of the city fading to a whisper.
Later, after the guests had left, they retired to their bedroom. The door locked shut behind them, and with it, the rest of the world disappeared.
Taylor barely had time to take a breath before Travis was on her, guiding her backward until her knees hit the bed. She let herself fall into the softness, sinking into the plush duvet as he followed, covering her with his body like he needed to shield her from everything but him. His size alone should’ve been intimidating—massive, solid—but all she felt was safe. Desired. Owned.
His eyes raked over her like he hadn’t seen her in years, dark with hunger, his lips already curled into a wicked grin.
“You’re staring,” she teased, her voice thinner than she meant it to be, already breathless under his gaze.
“Can you blame me?” he said roughly, his palms sliding down her thighs and squeezing, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to her core. “You’re stunning, Tay.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but his lips were already on hers. The kiss was slow at first, teasing—like he was reminding her who she belonged to—but it didn’t stay slow. It turned hot and greedy and hungry, like he’d been waiting for this all day. Maybe longer.
Her sweater was gone in one swift pull, and she shivered as cool air met hot skin. His gaze burned as he looked down at her—bare beneath him, breath catching, body already thrumming.
“Fuck,” he groaned, palming her breasts like he couldn’t decide whether to hold them or worship them. His head dipped, and then his mouth was on her, tongue circling her nipple before sucking it deep into his mouth.
Taylor gasped, her back arching involuntarily, pleasure spiking as his teeth scraped just enough to make her cry out. He grinned against her skin, flicking his tongue again before sucking harder, dragging sounds from her throat she hadn’t meant to make.
“Trav—”
“Shh, baby,” he murmured, already sliding lower, his hands tugging at her leggings. He moved slow, like he was unwrapping something fragile—something he’d waited for.
The way he smiled—confident and filthy—made her head spin.
He spread her thighs easily, like her body belonged to him, like it was the most natural thing in the world to settle between them. He kissed the inside of her hip, then her stomach, before finally—
Her breath caught as his mouth met her. One long, slow lick up her center and her vision blurred.
Her fingers threaded through his curls, tugging hard when he groaned into her, tongue working her with maddening precision—lazy swirls followed by quick flicks that had her hips jerking. His grip on her thighs tightened, keeping her grounded, even as her body begged to move, to chase every bit of friction.
“You taste so fucking good,” he said against her, the vibrations from his voice making her shudder.
Her climax hit fast—hot and brutal, tearing through her like a wave she couldn’t outrun. She cried out, her body convulsing, her fingers fisting the sheets as he held her there, devouring every last tremor.
She barely had time to breathe before he was crawling back up her body, pressing hot kisses across her stomach, her ribs, her collarbone. Then, without a word, he flipped her over.
Taylor let him, breathless and pliant, her cheek pressing into the cool sheets as her body trembled.
“Need to see this ass,” he muttered, rough palms gripping and kneading both cheeks like he’d earned the right—and maybe he had. A sharp slap followed, the sting melting into heat that made her moan.
Her knees parted automatically, her back arching, presenting for him without thought. She could feel his gaze trailing down her spine, could practically hear the way his breath caught.
Another slap. Harder.
She gasped, her fingers twisting in the sheets, her whole body on edge.
And then—God. She felt the thick, blunt head of him press against her entrance, teasing her with shallow thrusts, not giving her what she needed.
“Fuck, Trav,” she whimpered, rocking back. “Please…”
He groaned, the sound low and wrecked. “Patience, baby.”
But he didn’t really make her wait. He gripped her hips and pushed in—slow and steady—stretching her inch by inch until he was fully seated inside her. Taylor’s arms shook, the stretch deep and overwhelming, and so fucking good.
“Jesus, you feel good,” he muttered through gritted teeth, pulling out just enough before slamming back in, making her moan into the sheets.
He started to move—deep, powerful strokes that rocked her forward with every thrust. Her breasts swayed beneath her, the friction delicious, the sound of skin on skin filling the room like a heartbeat.
His hands slid up to cup them again, thumbs finding her nipples and rolling them, then pinching until she gasped.
“Fuck, I love these,” he rasped, leaning over her, pressing kisses to her shoulder, his breath hot on her skin. “Love how they bounce when I fuck you like this.”
His pace quickened, his control fraying with every stroke, his hips slamming into hers over and over until the rhythm turned frantic.
The sounds were obscene—her gasps, his grunts, the slick slap of bodies moving in sync. She could barely hold herself up, her arms shaking, the tension inside her coiling tighter and tighter.
“Travis—” she choked out, on the edge.
“I know, baby,” he groaned, dragging her back onto him harder, deeper.
She came apart again, her body locking down, waves of pleasure crashing through her like electricity. She cried out, fingers clutching the sheets, eyes squeezing shut as it shattered her.
Travis followed with a curse, hips stuttering before he buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural moan. His body collapsed over hers for a moment, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, his breath ragged.
Eventually, he rolled them onto their sides, pulling her back against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, anchoring her to him, his hand smoothing over her spine in slow, lazy circles.
Taylor leaned into Travis’s chest, tracing lazy circles on his chest. “You know, it still feels surreal. Singing those songs again, knowing I own every note.”
Travis smiled, brushing a stray curl from her face. “And I’ll be there every step, reminding you how incredible you are.”
Taylor tilted her head, her voice dropping to a tender whisper. “Thank you. For loving me, for believing in me.”
He captured her mouth in a slow, deep kiss, full of promise and fierce protectiveness. “Always.”
They pulled apart, their smiles lingering like a secret only they shared. Tonight was theirs — a celebration not just of success, but of love, trust, and the future waiting just beyond the skyline. Taylor thought to herself, I’ve changed the prophecy.