#i still don't know how to do coloring in the end

[cxvii666]

“DOWN WITH THE TRUMPETS”

“when i get down, i get respect now”

feat. denki k.

wc: 780

mdni 😴

“don't talk with your mouth full, it's bad manners.”

denki kaminari is a yapper.

he can talk for japan.

about nothing, and everything. about his little hobbies and interests, like the time he got really into origami for two weeks and folded fifty paper cranes before getting distracted by baking videos. about a bug he saw one time that kind of looked like pikachu if you squinted. about an anime he watched five years ago that reminded him of a tiktok he saw yesterday—actually, no, it reminded him of two tiktoks, and he’ll pull them both up even though you’re in the middle of eating.

he doesn't even realize he's doing it. he just talks.

before you started dating, he once spent two full hours explaining the entire five nights at freddy’s lore to you. he even brought a whiteboard. he drew a timeline. there were arrows, names, color-coded events. he kept glancing at you nervously, like he was waiting for you to run. you thought he was fucking psychotic, but according to all his friends that was his weak attempt at flirting.

he talks in his sleep too. full conversations. one night, around 3 a.m., he whispered, “gregory… you have to hide.” and you just laid there, staring at the ceiling, wondering what choices in life had led you here. he was completely out. you even poked him and he just mumbled something about “security breach.”

you didn't sleep much that night. he did.

you hear him on the phone all the time. he’s loud. his voice carries. you don’t even need to be in the same room to catch half the story. in group calls, he’s that guy—never letting anyone finish a sentence, always jumping back in because he just remembered another detail, or because he needs to relate something someone said to a completely different topic.

he narrates everything he does. it’s like living with a one-man podcast. making a sandwich? you’re getting a full tutorial with sound effects. brushing his teeth? he gives ratings to the toothpaste flavor like he’s doing a mukbang. finding a sock under the bed? live drama, complete with shocked gasps and a full backstory on how the sock ended up there.

he doesn't mean to talk so much, honestly, he can't help himself. he just… gets excited. he thinks out loud. he loves sharing things. his brain moves fast, and his mouth just tries to keep up.

"s-so sorry baby, your pussy just tastes so—mmf."

so sometimes you have to shut him up. the only way you know how.

his long eyelashes flutter against flushed cheeks, those bambi eyes of his wide and glassy as he looks up at you from between your thighs.

his fingers gripping the fat of your thighs as he drags your pussy back down onto his mouth. tongue greedy, he mouths at you like you're divine. slow, wet, sloppy kisses, tongue flicking then flattening, dipping in and out like he’s tasting something sacred. he hums against you, needy and messy and so, so fucking eager.

but as he pauses to catch his breath, you realise, he's still running his mouth.

with eyes locked onto the sticky mess he's made, his mouth is still moving, lips slick and parted as he mumbles god knows what into your pussy. eyes fixed on the mess he's made, like he's hypnotized. and the worst part? you can feel it. the vibrations, the breathy whispers, the praise he's spilling straight into your cunt. you strain to make out the words, and between the rush of blood in your ears you catch bits and pieces. "t-thank youuu, so fu-ucking good for me, you’re perfect, so warm, so wet, love you, love you, love yo—"

you roll your eyes and cut his praises short with a forceful tug of his hair. not too hard. just enough. it makes him whine into you, the sound all breath and heat, and you feel his hips twitch against the mattress. he loves it when you take control. he melts for it.

"denki, sweetie, what have i told you?" you sigh contently when his tongue starts doing circles on your clit, "no talking while you're eating."

he doesn’t answer with words—he knows better. just moans, all obedient and desperate, nodding his head so fast his blonde locs shake. sweat glistens on his forehead, some strands of hair sticking to it. you brush them away gently, and his amber eyes snap up to meet yours.

they're wide. glassy. brimming with devotion.

he's docile, pliable. he listens, does what he's told.

and for now, he's quiet.

but you'll keep him here until he's learnt his lesson.

[lover-of-mine]

so ryan said that more plaid shirts = texas, but a staple LA outfit for eddie has always been henleys…..

is there something meta about how eddie will take off the plaid shirt, leaving him in only the henley, to go help the 118

No, because this is something that has been happening, @stagefoureddiediaz touched on it on her costume metas for 8b, but like, when he's in Texas, he's in plaid, it's also a thing in Eddie begins.

But in 812, when he's questioning if it was the right decision, that is a henley and it is a very "Eddie in LA" outfit even though he is in Texas.

And in 817, the talk with henren we have the henley being hidden by the plaid. But it is a different style of plaid.

But the fight, he has an overshirt, but no plaid and the shirt is just a regular black long sleeve.

And at the end of the episode is also not a henley. But we have the plaid. And how odd the shirt fits. And that rust type orange.

And it's interesting because when playing with it in a positive light, it's a color used to invoke warmth because flames, so it can be a comforting tone, it's about resilience. But it's also associated with headstrongness, and that paired with the emotional turmoil that's always associated with checkers and patterns on the show got me 👀👀 (it being Buck's therapy color also got me perking up like a dog, because it can also be about creating stability, which is what I assume they wanted to invoke with Buck there, how he craves stability) (the scenes here are Buck therapy season in 403, when he tells Eddie he should've been the one who got shot in 414, when he talks to the lawyer and the scene at the station where finds out Lena is there, leading to the lawsuit, when he saves the guy in the windshield and finishes the lawsuit arc for real, when he finds out about Daniel, when he tells Maddie he is in therapy and when he talks to Chris about being a player and Shannon in 701, this all plays with Buck wanting stability but being stuck in his ways)

The orange is one of the colors of the season tho and he conveniently matches Buck's furniture and while my deranged ramble about how the kitchen represents El Paso, the living room represents LA and the dining room is the limbo of "i want to reach you but i can't" is a deranged ramble, Eddie having the conversation with Pepa in the living room while all packed is interesting. And the fact that we are picking the orange thread back up. Considering Buck starts 817 in orange just for Eddie to end in it and still be in it.

Not to mention the white henley connotations.

After Shannon's funeral, when he stands up to his parents about wanting to be in LA, conveniently with Pepa's support, before the tsunami, something that triggers what could've been the biggest loss of his life but ends up establishing him and Buck as partners, and the beginning of Eddie's breakdown happens in a white henley. The white henley opens cycles for him.

White is historically transformative for Eddie, another example of the white is the Kim scene, and while this isn't a henley, this does have a similar fabric to the henley he's wearing in those stills.

I don't know if we are gonna get him in just the shirt, but holy fuck I'm excited if we do end up getting the symbolic moment of him taking the flannel off just to put on his lafd turnouts and have some mayday moment.

[nerdygirlramblings]

finally, the courting contract and Ren's response

previous

You leave the briefing off-kilter. You didn't expect to ever put yourself in Spinner's orbit again, assuming Laswell would connect him to his nefarious doings other ways. But you can't shake the image of him holding you close, the predatory look in his eyes as he told you he didn't believe in putting birds in cages. The way you could tell he wanted to put you in one. No matter how much you want to get back to normal, especially after your heat, you know you can't go back on your scent blockers. That thought is almost more upsetting, and from the soft grunt behind you, you know Ghost can smell your distress. You'd told Price a few weeks back you could control your scent, but you're doing a shit job of that now.

As if called by your thoughts, the smell of his autumn fire invades your senses as a warm hand falls on your shoulder. "Why don't ya take the afternoon, Ren. Tha' was a lot ta come back ta, yeah?"

You want to jump on his excuse, use it to get some space, but between the heat and being told you'll have to try get Spinner's attention, your omega is begging you to stay here with your pack where it's safe. Except they aren't your pack, you grudgingly remind her. They might not want to be your pack. And she does nothing but howl and weep at that thought. Knowing your scent is still laced with distress, you try to dial it back enough to softly say, "I think I just need ta rest a bit."

"Well then," Soap pipes up from somewhere behind you, "why don't we all head to the barracks. Nothing needs doin' right away. Ye can go shopping wi' Adam tomorrow."

Before you can respond either way, Price speaks up, "Actually, Soap, that's brilliant. Let's head off base for a little. Maybe hit the shops, get some scran. Can't promise we'll be as helpful as Adam, but I bet we can help ya find something."

Two hours later, you find yourself in a shopping center near base, different from the retail park you’d gone to with Adam for the first op. Though he'd warned you they wouldn't be as helpful as Adam, Price surprises you when he pulls out several tasteful dresses in a style similar to the first one. Holding them up, question clear on his face, you can't help but smile and nod. A sales clerk comes over, glancing hesitantly between you all, the others intimidating even in their civvies, and asks, "Can I get a room started for you?" He directs the question at you despite Price holding the dresses.

"Er, sure," you reply, watching him walk away with the clothes Price selected. Something in that action opens the floodgates as Gaz and Soap practically dive into dress racks. You smother the giggle that bubbles up at seeing your team trying to help pick a dress. Ghost's only contribution is taking pictures of the dresses and sending them to Adam. After the first six, Adam responds with pictures from the last few events supporting the dinner's nature charity.

While the auction was nearly black tie in attendee attire, the riot of color from the previous nature charity events sends Gaz running to put back nearly every dress they've found so far. Instead he and Soap start grabbing anything jewel-toned. Frills and layers, silks and chiffons, it all ends up over the changing room door. One after the other, you try the on the fabric concoctions. At first, you simply slip a dress on, note how it looks and feels, and move on. It’s when Soap calls out, “Ach, lass, how long does a little dress take?”

The teal fabric falls back around your ankles. “Er…did ya want ta see them?” you tentatively call.

Sounds of a scuffle reach you, a yelp and the distinct sound of fabric being slapped. “Ignore ‘im lass,” Price calls. “Unless ya actually want ta show us.” There’s a hesitant note in his voice. It feels out of place and warms you imagining him nervous in the waiting area.

Thankfully, the teal dress is fit, so you walk back out, watching your feet instead of their reactions. The silence at your appearance stretches for long, uncomfortable seconds until you finally glance up. Ghost is gripping the arms of the chair he’s sitting in, muscles tight. Price’s lips are rolled together, and you can’t tell what he’s holding himself back from saying, though based on how wide his eyes are, you hope it isn’t bad. Soap is literally hanging on the edge of his seat, and Gaz simply looks awe-struck. You take a breath to calm your nerves before saying, “If this is yer reaction ta each dress, we’ll be here all day.”

Soap barks out a strained laugh, saying, "Wouldnae mind at all."

"Well, ya really did put the whole shop in the changing room. I can't promise ta come out in everything, yeah? I do'n really want ta be here all day."

They don't respond as you walk back to the gowns they picked out. You already know the taffeta of the blue one will be too uncomfortable, and the one in an array of sunset colors won't let you move enough. They see the ombre pink with the asymmetrical hem and the deep purple velvet with virtually no back, but it's the white slip dress with silk overlay that elicits the most reaction. The fabric whispers over your skin, and with hidden slits along the front and the back that make it easy to move in. The silk layer has a riot of tropical looking flowers on it: deep pink blooms and bright yellow petals curling over vibrant green leaves and little blue blossoms.

When you step into the waiting area, you're startled by a deep purr reminiscent of a Bristol Fighter. The surprised looks on Price's, Gaz's, and Soap's faces show you how uncommon it is for Ghost to react like this. Price quickly gets over it as the purr fades off almost as fast as it came on. "Yer a sight," he says, looking at you. You want to hide from the intensity of his gaze but your omega won't let you.

"I think that's the one," Gaz says.

Your smile is tentative but warm. "I think so," you reply. "Let me get back into my civvies an' we can grab some supper."

You put the unselected dresses on the rack by the changing room and pass the white dress to Price. Ghost is standing awkwardly near the shop entrance, but you don't see or hear Gaz and Soap. Eyebrow raised, you look at your Captain, asking, "Where are the others?"

"Said they needed ta grab somethin' and ta meet 'em at Chinese," Price tells you, large, scarred hand carefully taking the dress bag from the salesman. He herds you in front of him, gently brushing his fingertips along your low back as you precede him. Ghost joins you as you leave, trailing in Price's wake.

The Chinese is a large buffet on the other side of the shopping center. At this time of day, it isn't too busy, but you hear Price mention the base, and when the hostess leads you into the restaurant, it's to a table in the back, facing the door. Price and Ghost sit on the outer edges, herding you into the center seat. Gaz and Soap aren't here yet, but they'll be able to see you when the get here.

It's strange to be sat between your captain and your leftenant, silent as they both currently are, but the wait for the others isn't long. Soap spots you immediately and heads straight for the table, nearly knocking into a poor pensioner carrying a plate piled with desserts to his table. Gaz isn't much better, weaving around other patrons for the fastest route to where you are. As they sit, both men share the same smug look.

"Jus' show 'er," Ghost grunts, looking at the sergeants.

"Ren, lookit wha' we found fer ye!" Soap whisper shouts, putting a flat felt box on the table. He's watching you the way Mama usually watches the triplets on Christmas, eyes alight with anticipatory glee.

You reach out, flipping the lid up and sit back, a little startled, and then shocked and surprised that the kaleidoscope of butterflies isn't taking flight. There are several different sizes and colors, a riot of piercing blues, vibrant yellows, rich-hued oranges, and deep reds framed in pitch black or pure white. It isn't clear what they're made of, but they're all paused mid-flight in a large arcing collar that will protect your neck. Glancing between Gaz and Soap, you blink back tears. "It's...it's lovely," you choke out. "But it's too much. I remember Laswell's budget for my clothes the first time, and between the dress and this, I know we've gone over."

"Consider it a courting gift," Price murmurs, shocking you straight to your core. The gasp that escapes is entirely unconscious. You try to gather the words for a response, shifting to see Price better, but he continues talking without looking over at you. "We've been wantin' ta talk wi' ya about courtin', about yer place in the pack, for a while now."

Ghost make a noise that can only be a grunt of agreement, and Gaz and Soap are nodding encouragingly. It's only when he turns to look you in the eye do you realize the agreement and encouragement weren't for you, weren't to show you they all want you, though that's a secondary effect, it was to shore up your captain who's looking as uncomfortable as the day he mentioned Ghost's rut. Is he scared of your reaction?

"Told ya when I offered ya the spot on the team we were open ta courtin' ya," Price reminds you. "What I didn't say was we'd already agreed we wanted ta court ya if ya were willin'."

"But," you stammer, "ya didn't even know me! How could ya want ta court me?"

"Because yer amazing, Ren," Gaz says, smiling gently, trying not to spook you. "We knew what others were sayin'. We knew ya were strong and capable. Hell, we knew a few alphas made arses of themselves tryin' ta court ya all the wrong ways." Ghost chuckles darkly, and you wonder if they know about the alpha you'd put in medical.

"When ya had yer heat," Price says, drawing your attention to him again, "we drew up a courtin' contract." He places a single page on the table in front of you. It's shockingly short but thorough, stating that the 141 Pack would like to court you. "The 141 Pack will, in the course of their courting of the omega, never impinge on the omega's career or make demands that demean or diminish the omega's service. As much as is possible, the integrity and safety of the pack will come before everything else; no member of the pack will be transferred off the 141 task force unless a specific request is made, in writing and with the consent of all pack members, to both Captain Price and Station Chief Laswell. During the courting, the pack will find non-barracks lodging that meets the omega's needs for a nest and / or other safe space. After the courting period, the pack may maintain this lodging or find alternate housing that continues to meet the needs of the pack. All members of the 141 Pack will take shared compassionate leave for any ruts or heats that arise in order to support the impacted pack member(s). Non-compassionate leave is not required to be shared by any members of the pack. At no time either during or after the courting process is the omega obligated to undergo a full bonding / claiming."

Tucked at the bottom is the kind of clause the military requires: "If the courting is unsuccessful, all pack and non-pack members would still be considered valued member of the 141 task force. However, if desired, any pack or non-pack member of the task force may request a transfer which will be supported with full-throated recommendations of service from both Station Chief Laswell and Captain Price."

It's everything you would ever want from a pack: the space and support to be you. You knew the team had your back before, but to see it laid out so unequivocally makes your breath catch in your chest. Looking at the paper, with signatures already from the four men around you, Laswell, and the base commander, you whisper, "This doesn't feel real." You swipe at the tears you can't control, catching them before they hit the page. You look up at Gaz and Soap who are wearing warring expressions of yearning and fear, vacillating in that space between achieving your dream and having it destroyed.

"'S real, luv," Ghost whispers, putting a hand over yours. "We wan' ya ta be our omega."

Somehow you find the strength to nod your head and softly say, "Okay." You're staring at your hand under Ghost's, so you don't see their faces, but it's impossible to ignore the way Ghost's hand tightens infinitesimally on yours, or the whoop of glee from Soap, or Price's heavy hand as it drops to your thigh while he leans over and says, "Thank ya for givin' us a chance, Ren."

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[paramythas]

𝐍𝐄𝐎 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 but vague shapes and colors. Snatches of sound overlaid in them like a track being played underwater in another room. Her most notable, most realistic dreams are always, always memories. At first, shapes and colors are all this one is. Slowly, however, the dark becomes more navigable. Vague shadows become cases full of weapons. She sees no one in front of her, because the Blacksmith is beside her as she strides through her collection. She's only looking, of course- it had taken deliberation (and forcing herself past making a similar choice to Little Red) but in the end, giving up Hush simply wasn't feasible. The person she was is flawed and fragile, but she's someone that exists because of someone important. She can give up relying on his memory, but she can't quite give up the 'self' he'd help her grow into.

Even if now, she has to keep growing.

"You have choices. You always did. And in choosing to acknowledge their consequences, you have taken a step forward. Who you become... this too is a choice you'll have to learn to live with."

Whatever she decided to become would have been what the Blacksmith made of her. What she would have melted her down and reforged her into. Someone not her. Neither Trivia nor Neo. The choice had been left to her (had truly been only hers for the very first time) and Neo had realized, after peering through some of the weapons, that none of them felt right. None of them felt like her.

Behind her, the Blacksmith had waited, expectant.

Fire. Time. Fire. Choose, said God.

It had felt wrong, somehow. Her past selves had always been choices either made by others or to spite them. She knows now that as much as 'Neo' had felt like she'd finally become herself, in the end she hasn't fully reconciled with herself. Neo demanded what she thought she deserved. Trivia still wanted it to be given; without her needing to ask. Like she mattered to someone.

To have what they have...

It was special, what she'd had with Roman, no doubt about it. Neo had no qualms about admitting that without him, she wouldn't be who she is- who she was.

That, of course, was part of the problem.

"I want to become who I should be on my own," the voice she'd never thought she'd have exists in this place of could-bes and will-becomes. Lower than expected, but airy, light- could be as cutting as a shattered mirror's edge if she wanted it to be. She likes it. She'll miss it. "... but I won't be able to do it there. Isn't there anything...?"

Not for the first time, the Blacksmith smiles warmly. This time, however, there's a hint of mischief in her odd, mechanical smile.

"You really are a most clever young lady, Neopolitan."

"...My friends call me Neo."

The Blacksmith's smile widens just a touch.

"Neo then. Since you've decided, you should go." The portal is open then. Sudden. Swift. Shimmering.

"What? Don't I get to... decide-?"

"Trust me. It's better this way."

And strangely... she does.

Still, she hesitates, brings a hand to her throat and shakes her head. She's not broken. Not anymore. And before all of this, she hadn't been either. Squaring her shoulders, Neo twists her parasol up to rest on one and steps through with more confidence than she really feels.

When her eyes snap open, it's to the brilliant, searing phosphorescence of hospital lights. Squeezing her eyes shut once more, she reopens them slowly, adjusting incrementally to the brightness. For a moment, the vague thought of how badly she must have fucked up to be taken to an actual hospital crosses her mind but... the sounds are all wrong. There's none of the sterile silence or the static-esque hum of hospital machinery. Just the faint, distant sounds of a building going about its day- our night, given the time on the nearby clock- despite harboring a woman with an IV in her arm and a pulse monitor on her finger.

...and, it would seem, a somewhat less deathly-pale gravity user.

Curiosity fills her as she draws her knees up, curling her arms around them and leaning her head on her knees. While she observes him, she takes silent inventory of herself- Aura replenished, a bit of soreness here and there, a few scrapes from debris flying when he second Ability user had kicked up all that wind. But nothing her Aura wouldn't fix up in a few hours. Sooner if she got real food in her rather than just the IV.

Maybe she'll use whatever paycheck she gets from this for a fancy dinner.

That thought in mind, she realizes she doesn't know what happened after she passed out. And while Chuuya looks better, she remembers the injuries. How much they'd bled, how they'd gotten to muscle below the skin. He doesn't look like he's in pain, at least, but for all she knows they have him pumped full of the good stuff.

She doesn't really think about doing it- she simply sends the clone outward, bending over him to peer at him more closely.

It's strange to think of him actually resting- he seems like he's always doing something, from what she's managed to observe. One of those 'I'll sleep when I'm dead' types that she could never understand. Right now, that grumpy expression that seems permanently etched onto his face has disappeared, gone somewhat slack in his sleep. He looks... oddly peaceful, which makes her think that yeah. Maybe they did give him the good stuff. Satisfied, her clone leans in, brushes hair away from his face and the adhesive edges of the tape helping cover the injuries on it. Presses the back of an ungloved palm against his forehead, checking for fever.

From what she can tell, secondhand, there isn't any, and she withdraws the clone, pushing herself to the edge of the bed to get to her feet.

However long she's been out (two days, this is the second night) she needs to move. Needs to do something to stop feeling as though even her bones are full of static. Then maybe, if she's careful, she can sneak out of HQ- she can't imagine where else Chuuya would feel safe enough to pass out like that, except perhaps his own apartment- and to a convenience store to get something filling.

As if on cue, her stomach rumbles, and she frowns down at it, exasperated.

I'm working on it, okay?

For a few moments, Chuuya's attention slips away from Neo entirely to focus on himself and all of his subordinates buzzing around him and the room. Most of his weight is leaned against the structure immediately behind his back, doing an impressive but predictable job of looking as nonchalant as he can, but the blood loss is dizzying and he can't hide his paleness.

He remembers her again when she approaches and brushes his arm but its a small moment of panic as she stumbles and falls.

"Hey-!"

Luckily, his men all around him are quicker right now than he is, and keep her from hitting the floor. Injuries and collapses on the job aren't really all that uncommon, and despite being a crime organization, there's a certain sense of camaraderie and group cohesion that couldn't be found anywhere else, in his experience.

When he says "Make sure she's alright," its more of a formality. She fought alongside them and put in the work like anyone else, did the bulk of the fighting. That's worthy of respect for anyone.

The medic team aren't long in arriving, and Chuuya finally slides to sit so that his injuries can be tended without him likewise passing out, as best as they're able to here. Because Mori was a doctor first and foremost, competent medical personnel in the Port Mafia held a lot more prestige and importance than they might normally, but for good reason ; they were the lifeblood of an organization that can't go to regular hospitals because of all the crime that they were involved in, when regular doctors were mandated to report things like gunshot wounds to the authorities.

When they report that Neo's main problem is she collapsed from exhaustion and not any previously unaccounted wounds, its a relief, even if they don't know each other all that well yet, and it allows him to re-focus on the job that still has a few loose ends that need tying.

While a couple of doctors hover around him, patching up the wounds to his face and trying to somewhat put his arms back together and wrap them, he gets on the phone with Mori to give a short verbal report, which helps him stay conscious a little longer and maintain at least a little of his pride in a job gone not-as-well-as-it-could-have.

The enemy base was successfully located and sieged ; a few individuals might have escaped, but the bulk of their gang was either dead or in custody ; two Ability users, both dead ; two fatalities of their own ; he had gotten a little messed up (Mori would find out it was more than a little when he returned to headquarters, he'd deal with that bridge when he got to it) ; Neo had performed well ; there would be a more detailed report when he returned.

Much as he wanted to stride out on his own when he was done with the call and his wounds were all wrapped, he knew better than to try. Sheer stubbornness was the only thing that kept him awake this long, and it wouldn't be the first time someone had to carry him back to headquarters. It was just usually either after using Corruption or getting blackout drunk.

It's a small blessing then that Neo's about as unconscious as he's soon to be. They were shaping up to be decent allies, but she didn't need to know he could get that weak just yet.

He spends the entirety of the car ride back to Yokohama lightly snoring in the back seat, and has just enough energy returned from it to walk his way into the infirmary himself, because really, the rest of the organization didn't need to see him so beat up either. It's typically not good for morale when an Executive can't even limp in through the door on their own two feet.

Mori was, predictably, less than pleased by the state of him, but he's also a pragmatic and unemotional man when matters are serious, so his concern comes in tired sighs and clipped, half-hearted lectures about being more careful, even as he knows its a one-off and that Chuuya's not likely to take any more serious injuries like that any time soon.

Even more predictably, he puts Chuuya on medical leave from all duties for at least a week, orders an overnight stay for a day or two before he'll be discharged to go home, and that Mori would be conducting a nerve test once Chuuya's wounds completely heal to check for permanent damage in a week or two just to be on the safe side.

Neo's treatment is a lot more straightforward. Bed rest, monitoring vital signs, and an IV drip until she regains consciousness, and any further concerns about her health and collapse could be addressed when she was awake again.

With nothing left to do except follow the Boss' orders, Chuuya got as comfortable as he could in his infirmary bed and tried to sleep off the damage.

[skay-ali]

Wild Girl

It's a prologue, based on a series that won't leave my head. Why the heck did they have to cancel it? Well, it's an idea, with which I come back or show that I'm still alive. Ahggg, college is killing me. I hope you enjoy it.

Okay, I love all the careless reader stories.

Now I can't get the idea of ​​a reader shipwrecked on a remote island with a bunch of strangers out of my head.

"Your last action was very strong," your father spoke coldly.

"Well, you shouldn't have done that," you protested angrily, still hurt by what you knew.

"I'm an adult, and your father, you can't dictate what I can or can't do."

"Please, seriously, are you going to say that?"

"You were a very disrespectful girl."

"And what are you? I don't think I'm at least what you are."

"___, stop responding to your father."

"Seriously, Mom, after what he did to you."

The woman remained silent and, with a serious face, didn't speak again.

"Pack your bags, I don't want to see you at home for a while." With those words, your fate was sealed.

"Ahhhh, you don't know how much I hate you," you screamed.

You went to your room, destroying many things, your eyes red and your throat burning from screaming.

On your trip, you didn't say goodbye to anyone.

It's not like any of your family had shown up when you drove to the airport. It was your punishment.

But what was supposed to be a retreat for troubled ladies turned into hell after the plane crashed and you were stranded on an island.

You spent horrible years. They weren't days, weeks, or months... they were years.

Years filled with pain, intense struggle, disappearance, and suffering.

Many of the girls you developed bonds with perished... each one falling.

It was funny how their families sent them to save them from their problems or correct them, only to end up exposing them to great danger and even harming them further.

Your skin was wasted, your pale color was now red from the burns, your hair was a mess, so much so that you had to braid it so it wouldn't get damaged too much, you even cut it, your lips were cracked, your clothes became so worn out that you and your companions had to make your own clothes.

You had to learn to hunt animals, gather food, and create shelters from time to time.

You had to make sacrifices and survive.

It was a miracle that when you lost hope, when you saw one of your last companions leave, her baby being carried by you, when you were so broken, desperate from the loneliness, the loneliness that increasingly surrounded each of the island's inhabitants.

Someone, a mysterious person, managed to spot them in the vast sea. They were saved... you, two traumatized girls, a baby without its mother, more than five corpses of innocent women with a life ahead of them that was snatched away from them.

It was an interview where you returned.

Everyone in the league was watching, interested in the story. Well, in part, it was because one of its members was very interested in the story, which closely resembled his past.

You were the only survivor who spoke. You and a baby by your side. You couldn't separate yourself from him. The psychologists and psychiatrists who examined you called him your attachment person.

All the anxiety, what you experienced, was controlled by your interaction with the little boy. You went crazy when they took him away, thinking about the thousands of dangers he could be plunged into.

You couldn't break your promise to the only person who ever truly loved you, the person who gave you comfort during your time on the island, who listened to you and tried to understand you. Your best friend, your sister.

"___ Welcome, it's a pleasure to have you on our show."

"Well, I'm glad to be here, especially so you'll stop being a nuisance with all your invitations," you joked.

The audience's laughter filled the room.

"You're one of the few survivors of the retreat trip, finding your light. Tell me how that whole journey felt."

You weren't planning on talking when you returned to the world.

Especially since no one cared when you were missing; they just left you for dead.

But you had to go against your story and take down the guitres who wanted to exploit your story and pain to the fullest to line their pockets.

"It was very hard, being a teenager with no experience surviving, in a place without internet, without adults, without food, a roof, or clothes."

"The girls, my classmates, had to do terrible things to survive," you looked emotionlessly at the camera.

They were difficult memories.

The questions continued; you were reserved about some, very open about others.

You were giving people what they wanted.

"Tell me, do you think there's someone to blame?"

"What?"

"Yes, the plane failed, right? Surely someone was to blame."

"The truth is, I don't know." "It was something that happened quickly. I was on autopilot for a long time, trying to believe it was all a dream, that I wasn't on an island."

"But I'm sure of one thing: my father, my own father, was the one who sent me to this nightmare."

"He'll probably defend himself by claiming it was punishment, but it was his pride."

"It was my mother's fault. She accepted that my father would punish me just because I tried to defend his pride."

"It was easier for her than having to deal with her daughter, as she had done before."

"It was my brothers' fault. They never cared about what was wrong with our father. To them, I was the one who was wrong."

"While my fellow islanders are now with their families, overcoming their trauma, I am alone."

"I left society alone and am returning to society alone."

"Your family still hasn't contacted you?" You just denied it.

It was done.

It was only a matter of time before the internet discovered your true identity.

You didn't care anymore.

The press would have someone else to harass.

You needed to heal, find a new life, find a place, and keep your promise.

Take care of the only memory of your friend.

If looks could burn, Batman, the famous millionaire Bruce Wayne, would be burning from the fire in his companions' eyes.

It turns out someone did recognize you, or rather, your new fan, the other millionaire with plenty of resources to investigate your identity within the group, who decided to look for you out of self-interest, more compassion for your story, a need to help you that arose within Green Arrow.

To him, you were just a girl who went through the same horrors as him. He knew you needed help.

That harsh image on television wasn't the real thing. You were burying your feelings, and that would end you at some point.

But Oliver didn't stay silent when he found out about you. It was a huge outrage, because you could have avoided everything if only your family hadn't interfered in your life.

You could have spent a mini-vacation on an island if only your father, who had a lot of resources, had noticed and desperately searched for you.

He exploded in anger at his crime-fighting partner.

The truth was revealed to all his other companions, who also didn't react well.

Then reality hit Bruce. You, the girl who thought you escaped because of your last fight, in an instinct of rebellion.

In reality, you didn't. You ended up in a dangerous place, defenseless, waiting for someone to save you.

He was a hero, but more than that, your father. Even so, he left you to rot on an island, without knowing it.

"Hey, do you think we'll ever get off this island?" a redheaded girl asked.

"I wish I could say yes, but that possibility is becoming more and more impossible."

You looked at your friend. It was her last piece of clothing in good condition; she was the only one still wearing it, an explicit agreement to protect her and her baby.

"That's so sad. A group of girls arrive on an island and die, leaving only their corpses." Autumn lowered her voice sadly.

"Don't say that. You're supposed to be the positive one." You took your friend's hand and squeezed it.

You felt like everything was ending, the world was collapsing around you.

"But it's true, what awaits us, what awaits my baby." You didn't say anything; you shed tears of pain, sadness, and hopelessness.

So did your friend. You approached the woman, carefully placing your face against her chest, trying to comfort yourself, to comfort your friend.

She did the same, wrapping her arms around you.

"I think... I think... when your little person is born, she'll have a great mother, a great island paradise, and many aunts who will give her love."

"I don't think I'm going to see her grow up."

"What are you talking about, Autunm? Of course you'll see her grow up."

"I don't know. I feel like it won't be like that."

"Well, it will be. Just trust me."

"___"

"Autunm, no, please don't continue."

"No, ___, you have to listen to me."

"You were one of the few most likely to continue living."

"You have her too, so stop."

"We don't believe in fake dreams."

"They're not fake."

"I need you to take care of it." He pointed at his stomach.

"No."

"No?"

"No, because you'll do it. Don't leave me with a big burden," you protested angrily.

"Yes, I think I will." "But only if..."

"I'll take care of it, only if..."

[misspelledwordswizard]

GOD THE COLORS WERE SO PERFECT I WANT TO GRAB THEM AND GIVE EACH ONE A KISS

YOU KNOW? I'LL ALSO GIVE YOU A KISS FOR BEING SUCH A WONDERFUL AUTHOR OF SOMETHING SO BEAUTIFUL

Ahskakass THANK YOU <333

I don't know if this was a request, but it gave me this idea to do it as another in the series of kiss marks. Because, why not?

Holographic Pigment

— Don’t you dare take another step!

Blue threatened in a defensive position while staring at me intensely, focused on not letting me get closer.

As serious as he was, this was still a comical situation, when he was so dedicated to pushing me away and I continued to chase him around the inn, while the other three watched closely with amusement, having already been hit by my fervent attacks.

On my lips was a special lipstick that I bought today in the city where we stopped, which caught my attention the moment I saw it because it reminded me of them. A holographic pigment lipstick, the color varying depending on how the light hits it.

And this same lipstick was stamped on the faces of the three boys who had already passed through my treacherous clutches of love. Only one left.

Red, Vio and Green watched from the corner, a soft laugh coming out of them occasionally, they avoided it so as not to suffer the wrath of the one in blue. The three were covered in holographic kiss marks.

It all started when I went to test my new acquisition, putting it on my lips and showing it to the boys, who seemed to approve. But I couldn’t see very well how it would look, so I gave Red a kiss on the cheek to see what color the mark would be.

And one kiss led to another, which led to another, and another. He didn’t seem to complain, laughing shyly with his cheeks flushed as he let me continue my onslaught of kisses, and it wouldn’t be very fair to give all that love to just one of them, right?

So Green was next, a little reluctant, but in the end he let me go willingly, letting out a few cute sighs with each new kiss that marked his face.

When it was Vio’s turn, I genuinely expected him to push me away when I approached, but instead he just huffed before rolling his eyes and approaching me himself, saying something like “just do it already, I know I can’t escape this”. But even though he said these things I saw the little smile that appeared on the corner of his lips as I distributed kisses on his face.

Now, it was Blue’s turn. And of course he hated the idea. He started to protest as soon as I got closer, and seeing that I didn’t stop, the empty threats started to appear. Until the chase began.

In a matter of seconds I was chasing the boy all over the place, certainly annoying some strangers, we made a whole lap of the inn before ending up back in the room, and now he was cornered.

— Come on, let me give you some love!

— No way! How humiliating.

— All that’s left is you and I won’t give up. I even reapplied my lipstick!

— Stay away!

I laughed at his exaggerated reaction, it was fun to tease him, but it was even better to see the blush that formed on his face.

When I advanced on him again, Blue tried to dodge to the side. Let’s face it, it was impossible for me to catch him. He’s a hero with experience and agility, and on top of that he’s tiny. It’s like trying to catch... a little mice. An angry little mice.

So it was a good thing I had three more little mice by my side. As soon as he tried to escape from me, the other three were quick to catch him, holding him and immobilizing him, facing me, ready to receive my attack of kisses.

— Nooooo! Traitors!

— Good job, boys.

With a muffled laugh, I approached my target and held his face between my hands so he wouldn’t move, and then I placed a kiss on his right cheek. Followed by another on the left, and another on the forehead, and another on the nose, and a few more quick kisses on the rest of his face before finishing with a kiss on his lips.

Satisfied, I let go of his face and stepped back to appreciate my masterpiece.

— Perfect!

— How humiliating...

[things-about-cars-in-posts]

And the honor continues for two reasons, dear @1990mx5! The first of which is to go over how your assumption is correct... but not in the way you think. I did already know every last bit of the info (in the second post, at least), but where the effort really went on -besides making the writing flow and captivate, but that goes for every post- is the images!

To exemplify, let's look at the ones showcasing 4 v. 5 lugs.

Of course, I could've used any four lug and five lug car, but I wanted the choice to make some sense. At first I considered using the Volkswagen Lupo and the 4th gen Polo that launched partway through its life.

The two were a size apart in the brand's range at the time, and illustrated how five lugs have crept downwards with luxuries and safeties increasing car bulk: the prior Polo (which the Lupo was based on) used four lugs, and further back in time so did even the Golf above it.But then I had another idea - what about the Mighty Boy?

That way, I could bring up another kei-sized 80s Suzuki in the form of the Samurai to illustrate how some offroaders have 5 lugs when you'd expect 4!

But then, as I struggled to come up with a 5 lug vehicle matching the absurd shape of the Mighty Boy, I came up with the NC Miata joke, which amused me to no end (and incidentally somewhat illustrated my earlier point about modernity pushing 5 lugs downmarket).

So I went and searched for a picture of the pair, finding few and far between of just the two (and none where the lugs were even visible on both) - but then I saw a picture of an NC wearing Enkei RPF1s.

These may be the most popular aftermarket rims in the Miata community, so there's plenty of pictures of NAs with them, and they display the lugs pretty well. Plus, this Copper Red is very close to the NA's Merlot Mica - so if I could find a picture of a Merlot NA with the same rims from the same angle, wouldn't that be nice?

So I looked, and I found some close ones, but either with a hardtop on, which I felt clashed, or with a tan top up, which I felt clashed even more. So I turned to more common shades, and black turned out to be the ticket.

These ones' angles aren't a perfect match and the interior colors are different, but I figured this was as close as I would get. So I superimposed the pictures...

scaled the NC's down to match...

...and cropped a section of the common area that made a sensible cut.

And that is the story behind two pictures of that post.

...SIKE! I also made another edit, scroll up to see if you can spot it :)

Also double sike, technically, because the source of that first NC picture also featured a closeup of the rims that somewhat matched one I found in my quest for a matching NA picture, and that's the pair you see later on in the post - of course, superimposed and scaled and cropped and the usual shebang. One of them's even color corrected.

But hold up, you may say. I never explained the second reason for why I mentioned you. And well, that's more of a technical reason.

You see, that was what I was going to do all along with the tri-spokes addition, but then I realized it would've been neater and more sensemaking to just reblog your reblog instead. So I opened the reblog editor under your reblog and painstakingly migrated all the post over to that one.

As I was finishing up the post, I noticed I'd made an error in the first addition (the one that you had reblogged - don't worry, it gets less confusing). So I went and corrected it.

When you reblog a post, you reblog that version of it, so future edits of it won't show up in your reblog, or indeed in others' reblogs of your reblog. This means that your reblog of that addition still features that error (go see if you can find it!). So, to avoid perpetrating it, I opened up a new reblog editor under my addition and painstakingly migrated all the post over again.

Okay, so why didn't I reblog your reblog of that addition (the second one, the one I am reblogging here, sorry did I say less I meant more confusing)?

Well, I was doing it. And then as I was writing this post I noticed I had to edit that addition too. So actually now there are two more edits hidden in that pair of Miata pictures.

Yes that means I had to migrate this post over too.

Ugh.

There's also a very cool story about another picture in the post, but it's almost lunchtime, so-

*looks at clock*

*almost two hours past lunchtime*

What? This was supposed to be a quick, couple-minute post! How did I get sidetracked like that? I swear this never happens.

the car tower has donned its gay apparel.

(see my car tag for other pics of its glory)

[notyourmamasdeerbat]

WIP Weekday!

Thank you, @spinfins for the tag. Lovely to hear from you, as always, I'm afraid I have very little to show except some of the ending of Chapter 5 of Carry the Dagger! It's almost there. I swear it. I'm coughing blood and it's punching my lights out but by the Maker if I don't crank this fucker out by the end of the week. Rook lore, mild angst and messy handwriting under the cut!

“A message for you, dweller.” The Caretaker appeared in a flurry of blue light, disappearing as quickly as it had come as it handed Rook a thin stack of folded vellum. 

Neve took one look at the correspondence and its traces of leaf rot and colorful ink and turned on her heel. “Goodnight, Rook. Try to get some rest.” 

“You too,” the Veil Jumper murmured absently, frowning as they fanned out the missives in their hands as if to sort their unmarked exteriors. 

Lucanis lingered for a moment in the shadow of the sanctum's stairwell, frowning. Rook cast him a slight smile. “Go. Rest. I appreciate your help today. If it is good news, you'll be the first to know.” 

The assassin nodded once, gaze stalling hopefully first on the papers, then on Rook’s face, before his shoulders unwound and he flitted out the double doors into the courtyard. 

Rook slumped into the tattered armchair by the shelf, the ruined artifact above casting shards of too bright light through the shadows around. They exhaled roughly, bracing themself, and began to read. 

Rook- 

I am sorry. Never before have I encountered possession as you have described. I do not know how to help your assassin. Keep vigilant. These things so seldom last long, and even rarer still do they end happily. 

It is however gratifying to hold your words in hand. I can only wish you luck, and beg for your unerring support as it has been given us many times before. I will continue my studies when I have the time. I will consult with the spirits, the sylvans and the Lady Morrigan. Perhaps some kernel of knowledge remains unearthed. 

Yours in hope, health, and deepest condolences,

Irelin

Rook’s heart clenched itself in a giant, nauseous fist. Bad news all around. Condolences. Rook didn't want condolences. 

They turned the letter over. In a rough, sharp hand, there was more in paler ink. Like it had been left out in the sun for a time before being sent. The parchment rustled. 

Rook. Don't do anything stupid.

-Strife

The Veil Jumper smiled grimly. It was unlike Strife to be so emotional. Affectionate, even. Rolling their eyes, they set aside the sheet of vellum to reveal the hastily sealed paper underneath. They pulled its edges upward until the thin layer of beeswax cracked, revealing the familiar flowing scrawl of red ink that made their stomach churn and their heart soar in tandem. 

Hey Rook (I like the name. Suits you. Old dwarf had taste), 

Thanks for checking in. Don't worry about me, I keep busy. Please for the love of the Maker, Andraste and whatever gods aren't actively trying to fuck us all collectively in the ass– be safe. Don't take risks for your possessed friend. (Don't be prickly, Irelin told me) Be cautious. Be careful, or I swear on the void I'll hop the next fucking ship to the Fade and beat your ass myself. Watch the skies for whatever dragon nonsense is happening. The world is not ready for another archdemon, but shit if we won't have to be. I'm ready. I think. For whatever's coming, my bow is drawn. I'm tired of waiting.

You seem to be running with the right crowd (still not sure. A possessed Antivan Crow? Really? Mythal'enaste, why can't you be normal?) Your detective sounds lovely, like she's got a good head on her shoulders. Listen to her. 

Again, DON'T TAKE ANY STUPID RISKS. 

Yes, I can hear you say it. “you're one to talk, lethallin”. Living Gods, shut up, would you? 

And now you'll laugh. 

And Rook did, just a little. 

I'm safe here. Don't worry about me. I know I said it twice, but I want to drill it into your brain. Do not. Come looking. For me. It's just trouble, and I'm never working with Strife anymore anyway. They need your help more than I do. You were never great at transcribing. I've got Damari here. I know what we're both feeling, but in a pinch he'll have my back. He's an asshole, but he doesn't want me dead. Or you. Teresa says hello. Kassa misses you, even if she won't admit it. 

Just don't I love you. Don't forget it. Be as strong as I know you can be. DON'T FORGET TO CALIBRATE ANY REFRACTION LENSES YOU FIND. You still suck at that. Ask Lutare for help. Tell her she's my hero. And tell Harding I said hello, and if she dies I'll fucking kill her. If you die I'll fucking kill her. I don't know, I'm doing a lot of killing lately. It helps. 

Compassion keeps wandering where your tent used to be. It's been upset for days. Damari is working on it (ironic, I know. Prick.) 

Keep me updated. You're in my prayers. The ones that work, anyway. Dareth shiral.

Your brother, until the end of days,

Revas. 

Rook blinked away the tears gathering like molten glass in the corners of their eyes and cleared their throat, that familiar wound in their chest scraped raw and bloody. They set down the letters in their lap, taking a deep breath and closing their eyes to keep the tears from falling. 

Ahahahaa it's fiiine. Don't ask questions! I won't give you any answers! :D (Genuinely your guess is as good as mine at this point) Soft tags for beloveds! Whatcha guys up to?

@draco-illius-noctis @andthekitchensinkao3 @fenrelmercar @nananarc @nevarrantorte @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @davrinsleftpectoral @hedwigoprah @jenn2d2 @sunny374940 🫶

[chamerionwrites]

Okay you KNOW I have complaints (Gilroy treat the women of color right challenge: impossible), but some notes-scribbled-on-back-of-hand favorite things about the final arc of S2:

Cassian and Melshi and Kay playing space poker and giving each other shit and giggling tipsily, 15/10 no notes

Luthen "The ego that started this fight will never have a mirror or an audience or gratitude" Rael's first response when he knows he's caught: "Do you want to know why?" Dedra (and by extension the ISB) does not in fact give a single fuck. The authorial restraint exhibited in writing him a meaningful sendoff but NOT allowing him the what-radicalized-me speech that all evidence suggests he's got in his back pocket. Immaculate characterization, A+ literally killing your darling, A+ not letting your fave run away with the narrative when it's time for the narrative to run away with him.

Relatedly, the smug little arrest theatrics Dedra has clearly been rehearsing and fantasizing about. They both want a main character monologue sooooo bad. Made for each other (evil version) tbh

God help me but I do love a can't-rescue-the-captured-spy-but-can-make-their-death-as-peaceful-as-possible plot point, that whole hospital sequence is so tense and good

KLEYA MY BELOVED

Top secret Death Star program not immune to CC-ing the wrong person over space email (gritty realism)

@ my past self tweaking Luthen for his theatrics and referring to that sacrifices speech as "his best space king lear audition:" how does it feel to have the gift of prophecy?

Luthen teaching Kleya that cool spies don't look at explosions (before they go off) was a great little spy-story tradecraft bit

Krennic remains an all-time great space fascist for me and Ben Mendelsohn remains a scene-stealer. The way he grabs Dedra by the FACE and shoves her back down into her seat was crazy work

Partagaz also launched himself straight to the top of the villains list. Love that* for him [*fucking around and finding out]

Honestly imo one of the most consistently strong bits of S2 - both in terms of political commentary, and of thematic continuity with Rogue One - is mercilessly drilling down on all the ways the system eats its own. All these guys (& Dedra) think that empire is their pet leopard, that it follows their commands and gives them power. But it was always only ever Palpatine's pet leopard (and it still eats his face in the end!)

I've been having lot of feelings about getting to see Yavin as a physical space where people live and eat and sleep. Even if I do find Cassian's house a bit silly (sorry it looks like a real estate brochure for some kind of treehouse meditation retreat)

Fraught Mon & Saw holocalls are exactly what I ordered from Star Wars I would watch a whole season about that

Draven looking Bail Organa straight in the eye with zero shame and the galaxy's most blandly noncommittal "You could make that case" running cover for the guys he's also completely furious with: there he is! The bastard man I know and love! (Completely hapless at controlling his operatives #notmydraven but this was good. And lowkey hilarious)

I did also enjoy his increasingly quiet & pensive face as he catches the scent of good intelligence while everybody else squabbles

Raddus sighted! Merrick mentioned! This is blatant Rogue One fan pandering but I fear I am not immune

Vel being asked to suss Cassian's story out and just. asking him

Kleya my beloved (Part II)

MY BOY WILMON LIVED

[kaiserouo]

(prev | next | first)

10/10 best company ever to work in

also getting the icon was a fucking hassle

add contrast → soft invert color (transformation function kinda like 1 - sigmoid) → binarize → gaussian blur

i guess i did learn something from that computer vision class

[pokeybananas]

I think also things that are sparkling also can potentially fit in this category. The biggest thing for me is she seems to reserve clothing covered in sparkles for the stage, when she's performing!

Let's look at the 2025 Grammys dress!

This dress is worthy of something she would wear on stage. It's a striking color, It puts her as the center of attention, because we are meant to pay attention to her. She was even yupping it up on the carpet. I don't know if I would call this character an ingenue, or coquette, but I have never seen this woman act this way on a red carpet, especially near the end of the video. Putting her hands flat in front of her and sticking her butt out?!

Mirrorball also features the lyrics "you'll find me on my tallest tiptoes, spinnin' in my highest heels, love. Shinning just for you". Apart from talking about parasocial relationships, and all that jazz, this outfit is the very definition of mirrorball. Her heels are so high, and the stilettos are so thin, walking in the shoes is a performance. Just standing in the shoes is a balancing act ("I'm still on that tightrope",and "try and come for my job"). Trying not to accidentally show your butt or front butt would be a challenge in that dress! (Her thighs though!)

I know Taylor occasionally mentions pageants in her songs. Something I learned about them (thank you "Toddlers and Tiaras") is that you practice your walk, you practice your posing, you practice not falling in those crazy shoes ("all I do is try, try, try")! When Taylor mentions pagents in her work it's usually dorgatory, but I bet it's something Taylor's team hired out a consultant for at one point to teach her how to walk and act in those kinds of shoes (just a note, please don't wear heels that tall for extended periods of time a lot, it can mess with your calf muscles).

Taylor was wearing those heels ALL NIGHT. She did not take those shoes off (I was keeping track) (at least at the televised parts). She is a performer to the very core. And she's very good at it (she's had almost 20 years of practice)

The Mirror Atlas: An Intro to Taylor Swift’s Reflection

I’ve been fascinated by Taylor Swift’s use of mirrors for a long time and the deeper I look, the more prophetic it becomes. Mirrors in her world are never just props. They’re signals. Symbols. Tools of revelation and concealment. A mirror might reflect a self, or fracture it. It might hide a truth in plain sight... or hold someone else entirely.

Now, nearly a decade after Kaylor, I remain ~unashamedly~ convinced that there is still a story being told. Whether it’s past or present, I don’t claim to know. I’m willing to wait, watch, and listen as it all unfolds. One thing is for sure, it's impossible for me to ignore. When I see a compact mirror in Karlie Kloss’s hand at the 2025 Met Gala, I can’t unsee it. The mirror is a portal—and she opened it on camera.

It’s no secret that Reputation was misunderstood when it dropped. What amazes me is that, even now, most of the fandom still doesn’t seem to get it. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe Taylor only ever meant for it to be revealed in hindsight. And maybe that’s why the rerelease is taking so long... When it comes, it’s going to be just as devastating as the first time watching it go over people’s heads again.

As I explore this, it's important to note that I see the mirror theory and eye theory in the same vein. So, if the visible eye on the Reputation album cover really is Karlie’s (and I believe it might be), then what we’re looking at isn’t just a concept album. It’s lore buried so deep, it’s taken years to even begin surfacing. Yeeeears to really start clicking.

This post is the beginning of a larger project, tracing the moments where mirrors appear in Taylor’s visual storytelling. Not as decoration, but as active participants in the mythos. This is about symbols that shimmer with double meaning—about what Taylor tells, and what she leaves unsaid. These are three mirrors that matter.

We begin in the present, with a mirror held by someone who’s never really left the frame.

1. Karlie Kloss, The Compact Mirror, and Met Gala Moments

On May 6th, 2025, Karlie Kloss posted a carousel of “getting ready” images to Instagram following the annual Met Gala. Her look that night? Glamorous, gleaming, and a little too Reputation coded, especially given who's watching. However, the morning after brought the smoking gun.

In one image, Karlie holds a compact mirror. The reflection shows an eye that doesn’t quite look like hers. It appears softer, rounder. There’s a flash of blonde bangs in the frame.

Peculiar, for sure...

A video in the same post, sped up to near-invisibility, shows nothing unusual at first. But slowed down, the reflection seems to catch the shape of someone else entirely. Some say it’s Taylor. Some say it’s just a trick of the light.

But to those of us watching closely, it’s giving the Call It What You Want Miss Americana clip all over again. Five years going strong.

Even the background audio adds weight. The song playing over Karlie’s video is “U Weren’t Here I Really Miss You” by Cult Member and Mia Martina. Released in 2019, the title alone echoes themes of absence and longing. It’s soft and moody and truly feels like a fever dream. If this was a curated moment, the music choice may be the quietest clue of all.

At the same time, Taylor is currently selling a compact mirror on her official site. It’s etched with the lyric, “Are you ever dreaming of me?” from Delicate.

A lyric about vulnerability, desire, and the terrifying risk of being truly seen. The mirror in Karlie’s hand lives in a video viewed thousands of times. Sure, they're not the same object, but they speak the same language. One asks the question. The other hovers near the answer.

Oh, the compact mirror... This wouldn’t be the first time it's made an appearance in their shared visual universe. In 2015’s Bad Blood—the cinematic music video where Karlie played the knife-throwing assassin Knockout—compact mirrors flash a couple of times.

In one shot, a mirror is held by Selena Gomez's character, Arsyn, and reflects Taylor (her character, Catastrophe) mid-battle. Right after, Arsyn blows smoke off the mirror into Catastrophe's face and she falls, shattering the glass wall behind her. In another moment, Gigi Hadid’s character, Slay-Z, holds a compact that functions more like a weapon than a beauty tool. The mirror isn’t for touch-ups. It’s used to see, to target, to surveil.

For my own entertainment, while we're at it and talking about Bad Blood, I wanted to note what I see as Bad Blood callbacks in two of Karlie's Met looks: 2025 and 2016… go figure.

The Met madness is deep within Gaylor lore and it's something that deserves it's own dissertation. For the sake of chronicling, let's turn our eyes to 2019. On the night of the Met Gala themed Camp: Notes on Fashion, Karlie posted a photo holding a compact mirror with the caption: “Looking camp right in the eye.” It was clever and pointed. For most, it was totally misunderstood. For some, it felt like the photo winked.

Camp, in its purest form, is queer—an art of exaggeration, subversion, and coded visibility. The fact that Karlie chose a mirror to make that statement only deepens the meaning. It wasn’t just a nod to the theme. It was a reflection held up to the gaze itself.

When a motif returns like this: same object, same players, years apart... it stops being aesthetic and starts being intentional. The compact mirror isn’t just a prop. It’s a reflection of things unsaid. When Karlie picks it up in 2019 and again in 2025, we’re not just watching a routine beauty shot. We’re seeing something resurface. A deep portal. A time travel. All the love we unraveled and a whisper that says: I'm still here.

2. Reputation – The Disappearing Act

If there’s an era where mirrors stop reflecting and start breaking, it’s Reputation. The visual and lyrical language of this album is all about distortion, erasure, and strategic self-construction. It’s not about being seen—it’s about being watched. And what better symbol to carry that weight than a mirror?

Let’s start with the cover.

EYE THEORY TRUTHERS, RISE.

The Reputation album cover is a grayscale newspaper layout that blankets half of Taylor’s face. Some believe the visible eye belongs to Taylor, and the obscured one? Karlie’s. (It’s me. Hi.) A theory, sure—but the ambiguity holds. The cover itself becomes a mirror. Or maybe a mask. Either way, it’s hiding as much as it reveals.

I need to make my own Eye Theory deep dive (and I will)... but if you're interested now, there are so many lovely Tik Tok creators that are a total wealth of knowledge :)

Digging into the album, the use of mirrors continues. For the sake of this being an intro, let's touch on a relevant music video from this era.

We’ve already seen the compact mirror show up in Bad Blood, where it’s held like a weapon. But in Delicate, the mirror becomes something more slippery—something emotional. In this video, Taylor isn’t fighting anyone. She’s trying to find herself. And the mirrors in the video don’t reflect a consistent identity. They shift. They vanish. They resist.

Let’s break it down.

00:33–00:36 In the opening hallway scene, Taylor walks with her bodyguards through a grand hotel corridor. She catches a glimpse of herself in a passing mirror, and something strange happens: she and the guards stop, walk backward, then charge forward again. It’s as if the sight of her own reflection interrupts the performance. The self in the mirror is the managed one. The one who turns around? That’s the version trying to break free.

00:44–1:02 In the dressing room scene, Taylor stands alone, making wild faces into the mirror. It’s one of the only moments in the Reputation era where she’s truly unguarded, and it’s with her reflection. She isn’t performing for the world. She’s performing for herself. It’s silly, strange, and a little unhinged. It’s honest.

1:03–1:12 But then, the spell breaks. Three women enter the room. Taylor vanishes. And so does her reflection. The moment she’s no longer alone, the mirror erases her. That is not subtle. That is design.

2:34–2:45 Later, in the elevator scene, a woman stands beside Taylor, smiling, applying lipstick, completely unaware of her presence. Taylor is still invisible. She exists outside the reflection, outside the frame, outside the narrative.

To me, Delicate is one of the most emotionally rich videos in Taylor’s entire visual canon. It’s a meditation on freedom—the kind that only comes when no one is watching. The moves she makes in the video are strange, almost feral. And I think that’s the point. She’s showing us how she behaves when the mirror no longer holds her. When she’s unseen and alive.

There are more mirror moments in Reputation that we’ll get to in the Mirror Atlas, but Delicate stands alone in its depth. It isn’t just a pop video. It’s a reflection of what happens when the reflection disappears.

3. mirrorball – Shimmer, Performance, and Emotional Reflection

If Reputation was about erasure, mirrorball is what’s left behind in the spotlight. It’s one of Taylor’s most quietly devastating songs—soft in delivery, but sharp in what it reveals. This time, she isn’t looking into a mirror or breaking one. She’s become the mirror itself.

In the Long Pond Studio Sessions, Taylor describes mirrorball as a song about performing through pain, about the exhausting need to be “everything for everybody.” She compares herself to a disco ball—beautiful because it’s broken, casting fractured reflections for others to enjoy. “If you break it, it’s just made of a million pieces of broken glass.” That’s the metaphor. And it’s not just poetic—it’s literal.

She didn’t perform mirrorball in a mirrored outfit on the Eras Tour, but that detail only makes her earlier choices more significant. In 2018, at the American Music Awards, Taylor stepped out in a full mirrorball dress. A mosaic of tiny mirrored tiles wrapped around her body. She wore it to accept awards for Reputation, the album that she’s still letting us unravel. The look was bold, but intentional. She showed up shining—reflective, beautiful, unreadable.

In 2023, at The 1975’s concert in London, Taylor made a surprise appearance wearing another mirrored mini-dress. It wasn’t just a callback. It was a performance of an identity. She was stepping into a space filled with speculation, projection, and fantasy—and she wore exactly what the crowd would expect. Not because it was her. Because it was what they wanted her to be.

And that’s what makes mirrorball so devastating. The mirror isn’t something she holds. It’s something she becomes. In the crowd’s gaze, in the fandom’s theories, in the industry’s demands—she reflects, refracts, and never quite settles into her own outline. Even her absence is curated. At the 2025 iHeartRadio Awards, Taylor didn’t attend, but sent a performance clip of mirrorball from opening weekend of Eras. She didn’t appear. The mirror did.

Some may believe otherwise, but to me, this isn’t a song about love. It’s about exposure. About what it costs to be adored, interpreted, and seen only in fragments. mirrorball doesn’t reveal who Taylor is. It reflects who we ask her to be.

And maybe that’s the point. I mean, the last thing we’ve heard from her in months was a clip of mirrorball standing in for her at the 2025 iHeartRadio Awards. Now, there's many buzzing fan theories of all sorts stirring around the 2025 AMAs. If she were to break her silence there, it'd be on the same stage where she first wore that Balmain beauty in 2018. it’s hard not to feel like the loop is closing. The timing is too sharp to ignore.

The End of the Intro, The Beginning of an Atlas

So, given this brain dump, I hope it’s clear that my interest lies in the mirror—not just as a visual, but as a motif woven through Taylor’s body of work. What I've started here is just the beginning, but even with only three moments, the pattern starts speaking for itself.

It’s enough to say with confidence: the mirror isn’t just a flourish. It’s a signal. A portal. A language. And once you see it, it’s everywhere.

This post isn’t a thesis. It’s a foundation. A first pass at something deeper, something still unfolding. The Mirror Atlas will grow—moment by moment, frame by frame—as we trace this reflection through Taylor’s universe.

If you’ve noticed a mirror—literal or symbolic, lyric or live—share it. The comments are open. The story is still being written.

And if you ask me, this mirror trail feels less like theory, and more like an invisible string tying Taylor to… her.

[kaythefloppa]

Enough time has passed to where I think we can openly admit how WK has gone through seasonal rot within its previous 2 seasons and how the hype of Season 7 along with the generally positive reception is a really green flag for the show's quality.

[wickedsnack]

i can Feel myself getting to a point with my art where i want things to improve but i think for the first time in a long time i don't know how to teach myself the skills i want

bellyaching in the tags

[sskk-manifesto]

!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[helielune]

my reaction to seeing mob's actual irises is apparently to not draw him with irises

[mrnnki-img]

forced