reputation - track preview/outline based on the 15 Taylors
(a hypothesis based on the below scene and their order)
(notice poor shake it off Taylor fell on her ass again during the curtsy, lol. some things never change..)
Now for the tracks. Each of these versions of Taylor could represent a theme or a set of feelings for each song…
Track 1 - Biker chick Taylor - this Taylor is strong, she held up 2 bikes. this Taylor taking on the world. she’s a Badass Track 2 - ‘Blind in love’ taylor (who is wearing a necklace with a long chain and a gold object on it, maybe symbolic of the locket… Track 3 - reputation taylor - this taylor was crucified at the stake. this taylor seems to be the culmination of all taylors of the past …
Track 4 - Red taylor - who was mean to fearless taylor :( and called her fake and earlier kicked her in the face. Red era taylor is bitter. bitter about love, maybe. and this taylor is never ever, ever getting back together with someone. (outfit) Track 5 - hopeless romantic love story taylor ON TRACK 5 (send help). maybe it is acoustic (guitar)
Track 6 - “Look what you made me do” the one song we know already - thats the taylor pulling the receipts on everyone (clearly!) and also being a drama queen Track 7 - This is award show / celebrity taylor, perhaps from 1989 era, holding the mic (proverbial) trying to play nice w/everyone, the one everyone tells to shut up. this taylor was eventually silenced Track 8 - Met gala taylor ……
Track 9 - Confident in charge taylor (from the choreographed dance). This taylor’s got moves, don’t deny it. she has her act together. knows what she is doing. Also this taylor is sexy and she knows it. Track 10 - Taylor who loves her friends, loyalty theme. Or, the taylor who is just like who she is in YBWM… the girl next door who likes a boy who she believes belongs with her.
Track 11 - Anxiety/not ootw/zombie taylor. Track 12 - shake it off, just let it go taylor. During SIO this costume is during “cant stop wont stop moving, … it’s gonna be alright” Track 13 - Snakey / betrayal taylor. Fed tea by snakes. the one who says the old taylor is dead. this taylor doesnt seem to take any shit
Track 14 - prisoner taylor. did she try to make the best of the situation? she doesnt seem so happy at the end .. w/ her arms crossed.
Track 15 - this is present day “ts6″ taylor and the only outfit we dont recognize - cause we don’t know this taylor yet at all, but this is who taylor is today despite everything about her reputation. all we know is that she is making taylor’s reputation follow her where ever she flies. this is a new taylor. and fittingly, the last track. she hasnt been introduced yet. but we do know she has some limitations. namely, a broken airplane wing that might not be allowing her to fly just yet.
you want to paint the underside of your coffin with glow in the dark stars so you’ve got something to look at. when you were in mass last sunday god spoke to you directly and asked you to please stop it. you’ve been trying to stop it.
she’s wearing a red dress that hugs her waist so tight that you picture your hands searching for your sanity somewhere in the folds of that body. between thighs like that. is this objectifying her? you worry to yourself, smashing lipstick on.
your head already hurts, and there’s a girl who is puking in the corner. you ask her if she needs anything, and she tells you she likes your dress, and you say thank you do you need water, and she says, it’s okay i’m going to die here, and you say, okay let me bring you water. so you bring her water, even though the other girls look nasty at you when you cut the line. it’s not for me, you try to explain, weakly, over bass that is breaking your eardrums. nobody likes a hero. the girl is surprised you’re back. she spits up daintily, almost neatly, and drinks the water in a single chug. she tells you to go back to partying, so you do, because she tells you to.
where the hell is your friend. it’s not like she promised she’d stay next to you but here you are and here she isn’t, which is either rude for both of you or just the average way of things.
nervous hands bring you back to the bar where at least you can linger and pout and think about god, and his hands, and the sun coming up tomorrow on the bones of your body. where if you keep your eyes down and don’t look up you won’t remember that all places of worship are churches and here you are, nursing a vodka tonic you finished five minutes ago, praying about hell while women cagedance not more than six yards from where you sit.
a man in a suit - an honest-to-god suit - comes up to you. the cloth is powder blue. he asks if you want a drink. you don’t. you say yes because your mother taught you not to turn down free things. he orders you something you don’t like and you lean across the bar and tell the bartender nicely that unless he wants you to die you will be drinking a shot of fireball and nothing else, thank you. the bartender says, i don’t want you to die.
you don’t say, okay, but, what if someone would finally let me die. that’s dark. that’s something you stow for your friend who has a good enough sense of humor.
you smile at the man, take the shot, wave at him, ask him to come dance, melt away into the crowd with that ability you learned somewhere in high school. now you’re alone again and can’t go back to the bar because the man will be looking. you remember you’ve got a phone finally.
you ask your friend where she is. she doesn’t reply coherently, but you like the addition of the cat emoji.
some terrible part of you slips into your skin now, the ache of wanting out. so you go out.
and there’s the girl in the red dress.
you feel yourself choke like a car engine and it’s gosh dang embarrassing.
she’s laughing, blowing smoke up at the building. a man is standing next to her, but she makes eye contact with you. you ask her if she’s willing to bum you one. you’ve never smoked in your life and you’re terrified of them like guns. she nods and slips you a clover. you don’t let your hands shake in the glow of the lighter, only after, only when she smiles at you and asks you how you’re doing.
how am i doing? i’m very lonely and i think god abandoned me and it feels like a train wreck inside me. i feel myself reversing. my headlights are going out. tomorrow already hurts.
instead you shrug and say something inconsequential. you say, that’s a nice dress. even manage to keep how hard your heart is pounding out of it.
isn’t it? asks the man. you now remember he’s here. you have the urge to smoke suddenly. inhale deeply.
sorry to bother you, you say, just got too loud in there.
she nods, looking at you, mouth in a pretty smile. not bothering, she says, it’s okay. want to go back in with me?
her outstretched hand is soft and cold. you drop the clover. once inside she shouts over the music to you about how men are creeps. her lip touches your ear while she speaks. her hand doesn’t leave yours. she pulls you to the dance floor. your heart feels like a carousel.
she dances. your throat is dry. she takes your other hand and makes you dance with her, a silly little twisting thing. your palms are sweaty and she is laughing. she leans in to speak with you, pressing up against your body. there is lightning shooting out over your skin. she smells like roses. her hair seems soft.
she’s whispering something and for a second, the sound of corroding stops in your brain. like the train finally derailed and now it’s dead and can leave you out of it. like stuff gets quiet even though you’re drunk in public on a friday night.
so this is worship, then, you think.
you say, sorry, and she says ? for what? and you can’t speak.
OKay I’m literally trash lmao I had to make this cause, Vernon is my ultimate bias and I’m a hoe for him always so.. Lets get into this~
[Beware of CAPS, I’m too excited lol]
FIRST OFF, THIS IS WHAT INSPIRED ME TO MAKE THIS POST- LOOK AT THE BULLSHIT:
WE ARE ALL DINO HERE:
LMAO SERIOUSLY THOO WHERE DID THOSE BICEPS COME FROM? AND I TOLD YA’LL BEFORE THAT HE WAS DOING THIS SHIT ON PURPOSE CAUSE LOOK I’M-
HE CONTINUED WEARING MUSCLE SHIRT AND THESE WERE BOTH WHEN HE WAS AT THE AIRPORT COMING TO AND LEAVING L.A.
But look at that VEIN OkAY…
He came back with the sleeveless shirts like, “You THOUGHT it was over”
I was over here like:
Real quick tho.. LOOK AT HIS THIGHS
DAMN THOSE JEANS FIT HIM WELL ;)
And do you guys remember this?
CaUSE I SURE DO! Imagine what his abs look like NOW THO.. Cause this was only from 2015 or early 2016 I think.. JISOOS CHRIST..
THIS IS WHAT FUCKED ME UP YESTERDAY THO LOOK AT THIS FUCKERY:
SINCE WHEN? WHERE AND HOW?
LOOK AT HIS CHEST MY- Th0SE PeCS ah shit..ok..
I’m sorry, I’m SH00K
Alright! So here’s my theory: By this time next year he’s gonna be SWOLE. MARK YOUR CALENDER’S NOW. i’M TALKING BUILT LIKE S.COUPS IS.. I’M NOT READY FAM I mean we shouldn’t be surprised because, he has said that he’s been working out sooo.. I’M JUST WARNING YA’LL NOW BEFORE HE FUCKS US ALL UP SO YOU WON’T BE LOOKING LIKE THIS-
BUT LETS BE HONEST, WE’LL STILL BE LOOKING LIKE THIS:
Above them, Cabal ships drag thick black smoke across the flickering twilight, and flames rise from the Tower. Legionnaires scour the streets, seeking out the cries of the wounded and afraid.
“Hush,” he says again, as the child starts to sniffle, and he pulls her into the shadows cast by an apartment block as a patrol makes its laborious way past. He was made to protect, made to serve, but he feels clumsy now; the hand on her shoulder is almost larger than her head and she has no armor to protect her bruised and burned skin from his rough gauntlets. When he tries to wipe the tears from her face he worries that he will be the one to break her.
He followed her screams, just as the Cabal did. He had no rifle to kill the Legionnaires that would have silenced her; dispatched the first one with his boot-knife but was not quick enough to catch the second unaware. It is dead, but his chest-plate is cracked and burned and the thing that eats the Traveler has also eaten his Light.
She is wearing yellow. A summer dress, for a celebration. When he offered her his gore-spattered hand she took it at once, and did not look back at the splayed and broken limbs visible beneath the rubble around her as though she knew there was no one left to wait for. He brushed dust and chips of concrete from the tight black curls on her head, and when she tried to smile her gap-toothed smile at him despite it all he knew that he would die the second death to save her.
They pick their way through dust-covered streets and alleys, one grimy hand holding his armored fingers, the other wrapped around the silent shell of his Ghost. He told her to keep it safe, and she clutches it to her chest with an intensity that would do any Titan proud.
To those behind the Wall, love and service. To those outside it, fury and fire. He is young: the Order’s maxim has never meant much to him, but here at the end of an Age he feels each word burning in his chest and he wraps his Mark around her shoulders like a cloak, like a little Hunter, to keep the nearness of the night from her as best he can.
When they hear the distant bursts of gunfire he waits until the chatter fades, then leads them in a different direction even though it gives him hope to know the City is still fighting. Perhaps if he ran to the violence he would find weapons or more Guardians, but he will not risk it. And so hours pass as they slink across the city, and as slowly as his wounds force him to move she still takes ten strides for every one of his. She has only one sandal, silver leather wrapped around a tiny leg, but he thinks that a single piece of armor is better than no armor at all.
He finds a battered pulse rifle in a street that leads to a square, tries not to wonder where its owner went. The magazine is full, but it is all he has and there is no Ghost at his shoulder to synthesize ammo. He bends to pick it up, never letting go of the hand that holds his own, just as a troop of Legionnaires turn the corner in front of them.
He pulls the child behind a crumbled wall. Waits one heartbeat, two; no slug throwers roar in response. Even so, they are between him and the direction he has lead, and he doubts he has the strength to cross the City again.
Love and service to those within. Fire and fury to those without.
The Legionnaires do not notice, but neither do they move on. More join them, and they begin to spiral out in all directions, continuing their search. It will not be long before they find him and the child. A narrow street, once hung with banners but now collapsing from the rooftops down, will lead her west, to the walls, away from Cabal patrols - as long as there is a distraction.
He lifts her chin as gently as he can.
“You have to run,” he whispers. He is bad at whispering. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“That way,” he says when she stares at him in silence, pointing with his outsized hand down the shadowed street.
He gives her a delicate push, points again. She blinks, once, then toddles into the dark, Ghost held close as though it will protect her. Perhaps, if there is a way to undo this disaster, it someday will.
He props the rifle atop the ledge, lifts his visor and sights with naked eye. There are so many, he thinks, and then bites back a laugh - there are only eight.
Love within. Fury without.
The rifle barks. One Legionnaire dies and the others spin in confusion, firing in the direction of his cover. He ignores them, squeezes the trigger again. And again. And again.
Love within. Fury without. Love within. Fury without. Love within. Fury without. Love within -
Something tugs his arm. He looks down into the eyes of the little girl, and pure terror finds him.
“I said run,” he growls, but she does not, her face set in a scowl. He shakes his arm and she does not let go.
A micro-rocket bursts against the barricade and he ducks, throws his body over her, sprays the rest of his bullets in response. The child buries her head in his cracked armor, her frail body shaking.
Never has he been so afraid to die.
He feels a fool. He tosses the rifle down, wraps one arm around the child and pulls her close. With the other he slams his visor shut. He takes a deep breath, and then another, and when at last there is a break in the constant fire he lurches to his feet, lifts the child to his chest, and runs.
It is hard, so hard, to move full Titan-plate without his Light to drive it. His body aches. Something inside is probably broken, and he does not know how long it takes a body to heal without a Ghost.
A slug hits him in the back and he stumbles but his armor holds, and he sprints down the street where he tried to send the child, the sound of jump-packs following behind. He ducks his head and cups himself around his charge, makes himself as big as he can, plows across the debris-choked pavement. The girl begins to cry again, though to his ears it is not the sound of fear but of fury, and before long he is roaring with it, and the two of them roar together down the long, narrow street as explosions scatter bits of ruins that once were homes. He does not know where he is going, knows only that he must go somewhere, that he will not stop until the child is safe or his legs no longer work; that when he has nothing left he will throw her from him and tear the Cabal apart with fists alone, Light or no.
He has stopped counting the impacts. Every step is a knife in his chest. The Legionnaires must be close but he does not turn, lest the shield that is his body fail. He can feel himself slowing, a sensation that fills him both with wonder and despair, but he cannot force himself to let her go despite his promise. Something cracks against the back of his leg, and he is too tired and too hurt to correct. He lands heavily on one shoulder, slides ten grinding yards, arms still wrapped around the child. At the very least, they will have to rip him apart to get to her. Maybe, if he dies quickly, they will not notice her at all.
Gunfire interrupts his thoughts, along with the sound of footsteps and the roar of Cabal. Hands grab him, drag him out of the street, but still he does not uncurl. He sees Hunter cloaks, Warlock robes, a Titan mark.
“Hush,” he tells the child, head still tucked close, while they cower in a doorway and around them Guardians fight.
“Hush,” he tells her, over their surprised cries of pain.
“Hush,” he tells her, over and over, until at last all is silent and he dares to lift his head and stand.
He helps the child to her feet, and though he leans against the doorway it is her tiny hand in his that keeps him upright. He looks around at their saviors: most are near as bruised as he is. They nod their heads, pat him on the back, and he opens his mouth to ask for forgiveness, for leading the Legionnaires here, but a Hunter shakes her head as though she knows what he will say.
Two Guardians lie dead. Truly dead. One Hunter, one Titan wearing the Mark of the Gatewatch. He waits the half-second for their Ghosts to revive them, feels sick when they do not rise. He swears that he will learn their names and add them to the Order of the Pilgrim Guard.
Someone makes cooing sounds and tries to take the child, tries to give her water, but she refuses to let go of his hand, refuses to surrender his Ghost. For a moment they stand there, all seven of them in a circle around her, and it is as though a different light has risen to bond them all.
They need ships. Weapons. Food, maybe. The child, at least, must eat. The Hunter offers water again, and he wonders how many new scraps of fabric she has taken for her cloak. A different Titan, this one wearing the Mark of the Six Fronts, hands him the dead Hunter’s rifle - then looks down at the child, still clinging to his hand, and passes him a sidearm instead.
They turn their backs to the Tower, and continue their slow march to the western wall. Perhaps they will find supplies along the way. If not, so be it - they are still Guardians, and they will save what light they can.
Love within. Fury without.
The Cabal have no word for ‘retreat.’ Soon, they will learn that the Guardians have none for ‘mercy.’
“My date is tonight and I can’t cook to save my life so I was hoping maybe you can cook something and I could pass it off as my own,” Harry says.
Y/N giggles, walking down her hallway and into the living room where she can see her door is wide open, she closes it and turns back to Harry. He’s looking at her with a hopeful look in his eyes and a charming smile that Y/N can’t deny.
“Of course, I mean you helped me move, it’s the least I can do” Y/N smiled, “what time is your date?”
“Seven,” Harry says.
Y/N places her lower lip in between her teeth and her hands on her hip as she thinks, “okay yeah, I can do that, is this like a I want to actually date you date or a tinder type thing?”
Y/N rolls her eyes and hold the door open, “I’ll do it, but I do not agree with your motives.”
Y/N is the girl across the hall who tries to help Harry find a girl to settle down with, but Harry wants Y/N so he sabotages all his dates.
Harry was the first to notice Y/N.
She was standing next to her moving truck, pulling her hair
into a ponytail with the blue scrunchie wrapped around her wrist. She was
cute-not the normal type Harry would go for-but he would still try. Y/N was
cute, and somehow dressed modest on the hottest day of the year, a white
t-shirt tucked into a pair of sky blue shorts and sneakers, Harry was sure he
hadn’t seen a girl with as much clothing as she had on, and that spoke loads to
his character and choice women.
Summary: You finally find out how your big cousin earns her money - she’s the flag girl for the illegal street races in your neighborhood, and now she’s dragging you along. And that’s where you meet the Hawaii-shirt wearing, orange-headed Oh Sehun, ace street racer and smartass. Scenario: street racer!au Word Count: 6,337
I need a name for my department, but they’ve just rejected Magical Accessories Development and Testing,” Draco says, reaching for his pliers again.
“They’ll reject anything that’s not an acronym,” Potter says with a shrug. “Save yourself a lot of bother and just come up with one straight off.”
“The Ministry and all their bloody acronyms,” Draco mutters, using the pliers to grasp a cog and carefully slide it free. He holds it under the magnifying glass clamped to the edge of his worktable and examines it for physical damage. “I ought to make it something that spells out COCK.”
Potter shakes his head. “They won’t let you. I tried to name my class Training In Tactical Situations and they turned me down. Besides, K’s a tough letter.”
Weasley snorts. “But never let it be said that Harry Potter gives up easily,” he says, and lightly punches Potter on the shoulder. “And you’d know all about the letter K because you tried Knowing Necessary Offensive Basics next. And then Casting Under Noticeable Tension.”
“No, no, then it was Training With Advanced Tactics, and then Casting Under Noticeable Tension,” Potter corrects. “And then Casting Reliably And Proficiently. Oh, and Beneficial And Long-Lasting Spellwork. I really thought they’d take that one.” Potter grimaces. “But no, then they reported me. Apparently what I was doing is considered harassment. I had to write a formal apology and everything.”
Weasley rolls his eyes. “Which you titled So Honestly I’m Terrible-Feeling And Really Truly Sorry.”