#what if griffith was a girl

[myfriendgoo94]

going to the mallllllll 🥰

[bellalilbunny]

Boyfriend reveal <33

[lain1ny0urpcxx]

[talxho]

𝒞𝒾𝓉𝓎 ℴ𝒻 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 🌌

[r0tt1ngang3l]

need me a long haired angelic twink please long haired angelic twink please i’m waiting for you

[todayisafridaynight]

so magical that yakuza 1 and shadow the hedgehog came out the same year........ 2005 the best year for sega honestly.....

[vital-information]

"[M]ost often the figure representing the impersonal logic of protocol is Andy’s deputy, Barney Fife. Played by the immensely talented Don Knotts, Barney is both the comedic relief and bureaucratic foil to Andy’s localism. Running gags are built upon Barney’s trigger-happy nervousness and open love of the Law, with all its binding rules and jargon. He often urges Andy to modernize, to embrace the latest crime-fighting methods and gadgets. Barney’s flaw — and what makes him hilarious — is that he tries too hard to be a serious police officer in a rural town untouched by hard crime. He quotes legal codes to Andy, who either doesn’t know or has forgotten them. Andy doesn’t need to remember the technical name for a minor offense. He understands that townspeople, not codes, are the governing factor, even if that logic sometimes backfires on him.

Watching this show as an older viewer, I came to realize that Andy and Barney symbolize two competing ways of life that struggled against one another in the 20th century and continue to do so today.

...

Though Andy exhibits strength and virtue, he is not hotheaded. Nor is he the brawny hero that busts in at the last minute with guns blazing to vanquish the villain, who almost pulls off the caper. It may take him until the last minute to carry out his plan, but he does not represent the kind of heroic machismo so prevalent in superhero films today. More often than not Andy fights with his mind, inasmuch as he fights at all. He is strong in a silent way, a stoic fortitude without the sturm und drang of Brando or the social Darwinism of late-career John Wayne. Barney, on the other hand, is loud and quick to flashes of emotion. His wiry frame and nervous energy make him a wreck of a deputy, and it’s hilarious to watch him and Andy at odds, however low the stakes. Barney is a ludicrous figure, a clown, blissfully unaware of his arrogance, insecure and egotistical, and desirous of the kind of rules designed to control situations without thought. He exemplifies the neoliberal manager, the one that assumed control in the late 20th century. And though this figure was initially lampooned in American media, it came to be accepted as the only one to rule over a complex world.

¤ When several American television networks dropped most of the country-themed programming in the early 1970s — a move referred to as the “rural purge” — the likelihood that another Andy Taylor or Mayberry might be seen on TV was slimmed. In an attempt to market to suburban and urban audiences, major television networks mostly forgot about aging and rural populations. Suddenly there were fewer shows reflecting their lives. The kneejerk reaction is to consider rural audiences and their shows hillbilly, retrograde, simple-minded, or even racist. But it would also be callous to ignore other audiences altogether just to have around-the-clock Westerns and episodes of Red Skelton. I began to wonder what my parents would have watched without reruns of The Andy Griffith Show. Could it be, like some have said, that people enjoy the series because it presents a whitewashed utopia, a conservative paradise before Soul Train, MTV, and BET? In her article “Remembering Mayberry in White and Black,” memory studies scholar Kathleen McElroy writes about African Americans like herself who identify with The Andy Griffith Show even though only one episode in the entire series features a black actor with a speaking part (“a Chopin-playing football coach in Season 7,” McElroy notes). She cites several black writers who watch the series because it reflects their own experiences living in the rural South and who were not alienated by the paucity of black cast members. But even though some African-American viewers like McElroy conjure these “extra-memories,” as she calls them, to “complement […] Mayberry’s narrative,” what about the white viewers who voted for Donald Trump because they believed him to be a white, wealthy savior who could return the country to the conservative 1950s — in other words, to a time before civil rights? Why should anyone have to fill in the gaps of a television series with extra-memories to enjoy it? A site of both memory and oblivion, The Andy Griffith Show can be pleasing to some and uncomfortable to others. It’s a show that some might enjoy because it presents a white utopia and one that others can identify with because of its themes of doing good, serving communities, and reducing one’s ego. And viewers like McElroy and the writers she cites in her essay manage this tension by conjuring extra-memories to account for the erasure. It is possible that some people see in Donald Trump’s nativist message a return to Mayberry. But those who may suppose that miss the entire point of the series and equally misunderstand the philosophy of the character Andy Taylor. Writing for The Awl, Shani O. Hilton mentions that Griffith was often called “white trash” as a kid. When he created his series, Griffith didn’t “take a crack at edgier storylines involving race or gender,” which other series of the time did and usually failed offensively. Instead, he crafted a show about life in a small, working-class town where a given day’s itinerary might include little more than napping and watching the evening’s program on television. Mayberry is obviously utopian and overwhelmingly white, but Sheriff Andy Taylor not only believes society can always be made better but also understands no social project grand or local could usher in some kind of everlasting peace. The best you could do in Mayberry is good enough, and doing good is a daily job."

Grafton Tanner, "Make America Mayberry Again" for the Los Angeles Review of Books

[222anderson]

“Gretchen told me that you like Aaron Samuels…”

i wonder what they're talking about

[fishgirl514]

bangs too long now i got the griffith special

[skzstannie]

"Did you know?"

SKZ-> ot8 x 9th member! reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort wc: ~4,500 cw: slight violence, swearing, reader has to go to the hospital

summary: some online rumors cause turmoil within the group, and it seems the members’ concerns were certainly not without reason

A/N: Here's another angsty 9th member fic for you guys, hope you enjoy! My requests are still open, so if you have any ideas, feel free to send them in!

Likes/reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!

Part 2 | Happy Scrolling! | Masterlist

Today was the first date of your North American tour, landing you guys in the beautiful city of Los Angeles, California. Your managers allowed you the morning to explore the city, given you had constant security. They made you specifically promise to abide by these rules, as you had a habit of sneaking off to see fans on your own. What can you say? Security could be annoying, and your fans were always the sweetest.

This little habit of yours not only made management anxious, but also your members. They knew you could be innocent and credulous when it came to other people, always wanting to believe there was good in everyone. While this may be true, people's best intentions sometimes went out the window when confronted with their favorite Kpop idols.

"Ok, first the art museum for Hyunjin, then Griffith Park, and then the nice breakfast cafe down the street from the venue. Anything else?" Chan reads off your planned itinerary, glancing upwards at you guys.

"Yea, I said I wanted to go to the Santa Monica Pier. They have the cutest attractions there," you say, repeating yourself for what felt like the hundredth time that day. You were the only one wanting to go, all the other members not wanting to risk getting sick on fair food and carnival rides before the concert.

"Yes, and I already acknowledged the fact that we will not be going there today. And we, includes you, meaning you will also not be sneaking off to go by yourself," Chan pointedly looks to you, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

"What makes you think I'd ever do that?" you give him a cheeky smile, tilting your head ever so slightly.

"Don't look at me like that. You know exactly why I'd think that."

You drop your innocent act, giving him a bored look in return.

Chan gets notified that the vans have arrived, so you all pack up your things and head to the hotel elevator. The boys roughhouse in the hallway, Seungmin almost tackling Jeongin to the ground. This is quickly stopped by Minho, reminding them they can't get hurt before the concert tonight. They roll their eyes at him but oblige.

Leaving the hotel, you all jump in the cars, embarking on the short drive to the art museum. Your van consists of Seungmin and Felix sitting in the middle set of seats, while you're squished in the back between Chan and Minho. The air is weirdly tense and quiet, everyone seemingly too occupied with their phones. Besides Chan describing the itinerary this morning, everyone has been quiet all day.

You feel Chan's watchful gaze slide to your screen, and you pull away, leaning towards Minho. "Do you mind?" you sass.

"I do actually. What are you looking at on there, any cute boys?"

"Give me a break, we have a dating ban," you scoff, turning your phone back off and sliding it into your crossbody bag.

You continue to sit in silence until you arrive, not wanting to deal with Chan's wandering eyes on your Instagram feed.

Finally arriving at the art museum, everyone piles out of the vans. Fans line the sidewalk, and a grin spreads across your face. You step out of line quickly, wanting to go over to a particularly young fan. She looks around 8 or 9, and she has a poster of you in hand with a black Sharpie. What's the harm in giving this young girl a quick signature?

Within your first few steps, your arm is aggressively pulled backwards, and you stumble into Minho. He gives you a stern look, and you know, especially with this many people around, not to question him. You fall back in line, looking back to give the young girl a sympathetic smile as you're guided the rest of the way into the museum.

You guys walk through the entrance of the museum, officially out of sight from all the fans. Minho gives you another pointed look, finally releasing your arm from his grasp. "We told you, no funny business today. Tonight's important, and we need you in one piece for it."

Your eyes widen at his tone of voice, not appreciating the seriousness behind it. You know you tend to break some rules here and there, but it's always light-hearted. You'd never intentionally put yourself or anyone else in danger.

You guys explore the museum exhibits in peace, security doing an excellent job of keeping the fans outside. You, not having much of an interest in art, spend most of your time watching Hyunjin and the way he admires the artwork. He really is an artist at heart, and you love the way he can appreciate each individual piece.

While staring at Hyunjin, who's admiring an intensely beautiful painting of a riverbed with flowers, you suddenly feel eyes on you. You quickly spin around to be met with the stares of Felix, Jisung, and Jeongin. They quickly look away, busying themselves looking at the statues next to them.

You give them a squinted look, walking over to them. "What is wrong with you guys today? Why is everyone acting so funny?" you confront them, furrowing your brows.

Jisung stumbles over his words, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Felix jumps in, giving Jisung a strange look, "We were just talking about how beautiful you look today." He comes over to you and wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side.

You don't stay there long, removing his arm from around you and walking away. "Weird," you mutter to yourself.

You guys finish up in the museum shortly after. Piling back into the cars, you're once again stuck between Minho and Chan. This time, however, Chan keeps constant conversation with you. He rambles on about the concert that night, what he had for dinner last night, practically anything to keep his mouth moving. While this is still strange behavior, you prefer this to radio silence.

Arriving at Griffith Park, you guys make your way up the hill terrain. All the guys want to take pictures, planning to post them to Instagram later that week. You think the perfect spot for pictures would be the Hollywood sign, so you start to make your way towards it.

You don't think to alert anyone, as it's within eyesight, and you prefer to take your own pictures, anyway. You came prepared, bringing your tripod in your backpack.

Before you make it very far, only walking about 25 feet away from the group, you hear your name being yelled. You turn back around, seeing an angry Minho storming towards you.

"What'd we say about going off on your own? Why are you being so difficult today?" he asks, his voice rising with every word he spits at you.

You don't know what's gotten everyone's panties in a bunch today, but you've just about had enough. The atmosphere has been tense all day, and you're officially sick of it.

"Why is everyone being so tense today? Gosh, I'm only going up to the sign!" You throw your arm behind, motioning to the spot only about 50 feet away from where you and Minho stand.

"No, you will not be going up there, especially not by yourself. Stay with the rest of the group and stop being stubborn!" Minho's overly-critical eyes stare you down. He steps toward you, grabbing you by the elbow for the second time that day.

You wretch yourself away from him. "I've had enough with being man-handled today. I'm done! I'm going to wait in the van. Have fun without me!" you yell at him, stalking off towards the parking lot.

You see everyone had stopped what they were doing upon hearing the loud yells, and they're all watching you as you hurriedly make your way back to the vans. Your face flushes, embarrassment taking over your features.

You pull on the door to the van, realizing it's locked. You stomp your foot and whip around, finding everyone still staring at you with varying expressions. "Someone please unlock this door before I have a mental breakdown," you beg, feeling the beginnings of an anxiety attack taking over your body.

The driver, just feet away sitting on a bench, searches for the keys in his jacket, finally unlocking the door for you. You climb in, slamming the door behind you.

You stumble over the front row of seats, laying down in the back away from the concerned gazes of your members and the rest of the staff. Your chest feels constricted, the air in your lungs feeling limited in supply. Tears stream down your face at the unwanted advances of an anxiety attack.

The fight with Minho paired with the building tension all day, along with the nerves for tonight's concert mixed into a deadly concoction in your brain, all too much for you to handle.

You're not left alone with your thoughts for long, the door to the van opening only minutes later. Hyunjin crawls in, shutting the door behind him.

"Hey, hey, shhh. It's ok, everything will be ok," he coos, rubbing your back. He's squeezed himself down in between the middle row of seats, his elbows resting on the armrests beside him.

"I'm sick of today," tears slide down you cheeks, your voice audibly shaking. "Everyone is being so distant and mean. What'd I do?"

"No honey, you didn't do anything. Everyone's just a little stressed for tonight. There's been some stuff circulating around online putting everyone on edge, but it'll all be fine," he reassures you, trying to roll you onto your other side so he can see your face. Your mind is too pre-occupied to register his words, letting them travel in one ear and out the other.

You allow him to turn you around, uncomfortably shifting in the small space. Your glossy eyes meet his, and he's quick to wrap you up into a tight hug, your own arms squished against his chest.

"Everyone's finishing up out there, then we're going to head to the venue a little earlier than planned. Does that sound ok?" he asks, affectionately running his fingers through your hair.

"Yea," you sniffle, pressing your face firmly into his shoulder. "I don't want to sit by Minho. Please don't make me," you cry harder at the thought.

"Alright, alright, shhh. You're only working yourself up more. You know we have to stay in our assigned vehicles, but I'm sure Seungmin and Felix will switch spots with him and Chan."

After a few more minutes of consoling from Hyunjin, everyone else has finished their photoshoots. Hyunjin leaves, but not before giving you another firm squeeze. Seungmin and Felix pile into the van first, both of them coming to sit beside you. You telepathically thank Hyunjin for asking them in passing.

Felix rests a comforting hand on your knee throughout the ride to the venue. Chan and Minho are silent, completely engrossed in their phones once again.

Once at the venue, you stay far from Minho, not wanting to deal with his negativity. You notice the security is amped up a bit compared to last tour, guards standing at every door leading to your dressing rooms. You figure it's because your band has gotten so much bigger, the Stay Family always growing exponentially.

In your dressing room, Felix occupies the chair by the mirror, your stylists brushing shades of brown and pink across his eyelids. Changbin stands nearby, the hair stylist just finishing up with a couple extra spurts of hairspray. You lay on the couch while you wait, playing Among Us with Jeongin and Hyunjin who reside in the other dressing room.

Changbin and Felix offered to go with you to your dressing room, and you gladly accepted their offer. You explained to them you didn't necessarily want to be alone; you just didn't want to be by Minho.

The stylists start to work on you once they're done with the boys. They finish your hair and makeup just in time for soundcheck, applying some last minute powder to your nose before sending you off to the stage.

Rehearsals go by smoothly. You and Minho are able to put your issues behind you for now. Your fans are so important to you, and the last thing you want to do is ruin their night because of some petty argument.

Management sends you off to the dressing rooms once again, satisfied with the quality of the soundcheck. You follow your members off stage before departing down a separate hallway in search of the bathroom.

You walk for another few seconds, taking a few random turns before your met with the door to the ladies' restroom. You do your business and take your time getting back to the dressing room as you guys don't go on for another hour. The venue your playing is beautiful, so you take a slight detour, admiring all the nice architecture.

You're startled from your peaceful thoughts once again by a furious Minho. "I cannot believe you'd go off on your own again. After all we've told you today, how could you possibly think that's ok?" he throws his hands up in disbelief, his tone snarky.

"I had to use the restroom! You guys have never had a problem with me walking around the venues by myself, why now? You have been up my ass all day. Leave me the hell alone for awhile." You push him out of the way, ramming his shoulder with your own in the tight hallway.

"Do you think this is fun for me, huh? Yelling at you all day long? Did you ever stop to think for one second that there may be something bigger going on here?" His voice sounds exhausted, leaving you slightly concerned because you still have hours of performing to do. However, your anger gets the best of you, and your concern gets pushed deep below the surface.

"Well, I'm sorry that I can't read your damn mind. If there's something bigger going on, then why hasn't anyone told me? I'm a big girl, not some toddler. I am a part of this group the same as everyone else, so why are things being kept from me?"

Minho starts to speak, but you immediately cut him off, not wanting to hear the lame excuses you're sure he's come up with. "You know what, I don't even wanna hear it. My mental health has went to shit today because of you, and if I wanna be able to perform in 30 minutes, I need to be away from you. We can talk about this later," you finish, rushing off to your dressing room, leaving Minho standing alone in the hallway.

Everyone seems to have deemed your dressing room the hangout spot until the concert officially begins, as all the other boys have gathered around, making themselves comfortable amongst the laid out furniture in the room.

You all make conversation, laughing at Changbin's cringey jokes; you're happy for the distraction, allowing your mind to wander from the fight you had with Minho.

10 minutes before you go on, management comes to fetch you to get ready, providing you all with in-ears and microphones.

Your pre-performance jitters have made themselves known, but you've been doing this long enough that you can turn that nervous energy into excitement.

5 minutes before you go on, you and the boys gather in a circle. Chan leads, knowing exactly how to get everyone hype before going on.

You're all standing now just outside of view from the fans on the side of the stage, waiting for your cue from management. Once they give it, you all make your way out onto the stage, relishing in the sounds of the screaming Stay that form the crowd.

All is going smoothly as you finish your center part during the bridge of Lalala, and you make your way to the side of the stage, waiting for the part in the song where you re-enter the choreo. With all your attenton focused on the performance, you fail to notice the commotion coming from the crowd just a few feet from you.

Your attention is pulled away from the performance when you're tackled from behind. You scream in agony and fear, having landed painfully on your wrist. If the snap you felt is anything to go by, it's definitely broken. However, this isn't your main concern at the moment. You open your eyes, and they’re immediately drawn to the shiny pocket knife the man has in his hand. He's quick to slash a small cut into your forearm before he is aggressively pushed off of you. Your attacker is taken down by security; they immediately throw a pair of handcuffs on him, taking him off stage.

The crowd has broke out into panicked cries, all of Stay wondering what happened and if you're ok.

Your members are quick to rush over to you, abandoning the remainder of the Lalala choreo. While it's felt like an eternity since you were tackled, it really only took security a few seconds to get the situation under control, and only a few more seconds for your members to surround you.

"What hurts?" Chan panics, crouching down beside you.

"My wrist," you sob, totally overwhelmed from all the commotion. The crowd is still roaring and your wrist throbbing like crazy. The cut on your arm is no comparison to the pain radiating from your wrist.

"Alright, let's move her off stage," a paramedic pushes through the barricade your members have formed around you and helps you stand to your feet. You quickly move off stage, wanting to get out of the crowd's view as soon as possible.

Once off to the side, one paramedic inspects your wrist, gently grasping your forearm to hold you steady, while another wraps the cut on your other arm.

"It definitely looks broken. We should get you to the hospital to get it X-rayed and possibly casted," he explains.

Minho steps up next to you, your earlier arguments swept from your mind. "I'll go with her. You guys finish up here. Probably should cut the setlist short anyway; we're already behind schedule."

You follow behind the paramedics, them leading you outside to the ambulance. Minho walks beside you, providing you familiarity in this uncomfortable situation.

The ride to the hospital is silent except for the beeping of the machines the paramedics have you connected to. Minho holds your unbroken hand the whole ride, your disagreements on the backburner for the moment.

The more time that passes, the sorer your body becomes. Your arms feel heavy, and your back feels like it was beaten with a hammer. You realize you've probably been in shock this whole time, and the attacker did more damage than you originally thought.

You finally find yourself in a hospital room, Minho pulling the chair up beside you.

"Well," the doctor says, pulling your X-ray up onto the screen, "This cut doesn't require stitches, just keep it bandaged and medicated. We'll give you a Tetanus shot for it, though, since it was done with a knife. As for your wrist, it's definitely broken. The good news, though, is that it doesn't look like it will require surgery. What color cast do you want?"

You're expression appears dazed to Minho and the doctor, your mind completely preoccupied. "Black," you mumble, just loud enough for him to hear you.

The doctor nods his head, disappearing from the room to retrieve the supplies to apply your cast and the shot.

You look to Minho, finally feeling like you have processed everything that's happened. "What the hell happened? How did that guy get past security, and with a knife especially?"

"Honestly, we're not sure. Management and security are reviewing the camera footage now. We were trying to be cautious; there was so much extra security tonight. It should've been impossible for anyone to get to you."

You process his words, a realization forming in your mind. "Did you guys know something about this beforehand?" Your eyebrows furrow. If they knew something, they for sure would have told you, too, right? "Is this what you were talking about in the hallway before the concert?"

"Y/N," he sighs, giving you a look full of remorse.

"No. I don't want any bullshit," you snap, "Did you or did you not know something was wrong before the concert? Is that why you have been giving me a hard time all day?" You start to put the puzzle pieces together, the day replaying in your head.

The overprotectiveness, the extra security, them not wanting you to go on your phone- they knew.

Minho looks to the ground, his shoulders slumping. "Look, we find out about some rumors going around online this morning, but-"

"Get out," you say, your voice tense.

His head snaps up, his remorseful eyes meeting your fiery ones. "What?"

"I said, Get. Out." Your unbroken hand aggressively points to the door.

"I'm not leaving you here alone. Let's just talk about this-"

"You had all day to talk to me about this, but now that I'm injured and traumatized you want to talk about it?" Your incredibly angry, and your words are filled with venom. "Get out, get out, get out!"

"Do you really think it's the best idea to be by yourself right now?" His eyes are filled with sorrow, his hands in dire need to reach out to you.

"If you don't leave right now, I will scream."

His watchful gaze rests on you for a couple seconds, before he finally gives in, rising to his feet. He walks toward the door. "We'll send a car to come get you when you're ready. There's security out here waiting, and your manager is out in the hall. I'll see you when you get back to the hotel."

He disappears out the door, once again leaving you alone with your thoughts. How dare they not tell you? There are threats going around online about you, and you're the last one they tell? In what world does that make any sense?

The doctor comes back in the room just a few minutes later. He's quick with putting your cast on, and he sends you on your way, requesting you stop by the front desk to sign a few documents before you go.

You follow him out the door, meeting up with your manager and security right outside the room.

After signing the paperwork, your manager leads you outside to the car that has been called for you.

Fans must've found out which hotel they took to you, and the outside of the hotel is flooded with Stay. Normally, you'd be ecstatic to see so many of them. However, you're exhausted and hurt, so you bring your hood over your head and stare at the ground, thankful for the security that surrounds you.

You climb in the back of the car, your manager following suit. "Why was I not informed about the threats online?" you question, your eyebrows furrowing in anger.

"The concert was going to go on no matter what, so we figured it'd be easier to get you out there if you didn't know about them."

Your jaw drops at her statement. "That is not fair, how can you just assume that? I had a right to know about this," you argue.

"This isn't really up for discussion. It's the way we chose to handle it, and that's that."

You're in disbelief at her careless attitude. "How did the guys find out about it then?"

"Nosy little shits," she laughs, but you're not sure how she's finding any humor in this situation. "They saw them online themselves. We practically had to threaten their contracts to get them not to tell you."

Your heart constricts at this new information. Emotions flood your system, and you're suddenly feeling incredibly guilty for your interaction with Minho in the hospital room. All the arguments between the two of you flood your mind, and remorse rushes your body.

They have just been trying to keep you safe all day. Trying to keep you off your phone, not letting you wander by yourself, the whispers behind your back. It all makes sense now. And you realize you've been a royal bitch all day to the wrong people.

You turn to look out the window for the remainder of the drive, knowing it's useless to argue with your manager. What she says goes. This doesn't mean you're not angry with her and the rest of management, though. This conversation needs to be had in a professional setting, not in the backseat of a car when you're by yourself.

Once you arrive at the hotel, your quick to jump out of the car, wanting to be away from your careless manager. However, you stand directly outside the door, patiently waiting for security to escort you to your room.

They walk you all the way up to your shared room with Seungmin, and you're not surprised to find all of them waiting for you when you open the door.

They're conversations halt, all eyes snapping to you. You walk in and set your bag down on the bed. Your eyes well up with tears for what feels like the hundredth time that day. "I'm so sorry," you cry, afraid to meet their concerned gazes. "Today has just been so overwhelming, and my manager sucks, and my back hurts, and I have been so rude to you guys all day-," your words are cut short by another sob wracking through your sore body. You sniffle some more, bringing your sleeve up to wipe at your face. "Min, I'm so sorry for kicking you out. I should've just listened to what you had to say. I'm such a horrible person."

All the guys are quick to stand, not wanting you to rile yourself up anymore. Hyunjin comes over to you first, gently guiding you to sit on the bed. Everyone else follows, all of you now gathered on the queen sized bed. "Listen," Minho starts, comforting you, "Absolutely none of this is your fault, you hear?" He pulls you down next to him, his arm coming up around your shoulders. "Today has been an awful day, and you don't need to work yourself up about how you treated us."

"Yea, but-"

"No buts, you need to rest. We are not mad at you."

"Not one bit. We love you so much, and we're so sorry you had to go through that. Are you ok? How's your wrist?" Chan asks from the edge of the bed, placing a comforting hand on your ankle.

"It hurts, but the doctor gave me some painkillers to take for the next few days. My cut didn't need stitches, but I have to keep it bandaged until it heals," you explain, your words coming out steadier than before.

Your cries eventually calm down, leaving you sniffling every now and again. Felix notices you've calmed down, and he nudges your leg, opening his arms for you. You crawl into them, relaxing into his calm and comforting embrace. The rest of them are quick to follow, creating one big group hug.

You know this situation is certainly not over. I'm sure you guys will press charges, and you'll probably have to release a statement of some kind. It seems that management and you guys have come to a silent agreement to deal with everything in the morning, and you couldn’t be more grateful for it.

~ ~ ~

Part 2

[softspiderling]

✦ . * ocean blue eyes pt. IV | r.c

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

author’s note: ive been working overtime on the plot so just be aware that i am cooking. Also this part is very text heavy! Tagging @zyafics bc i don’t wanna be yelled at again and @ghostofwriting bc <3 Hope you enjoyyy

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

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youruser new york i have a surprise coming for you soon

view all 13.570 comments

ynbrazil I guess you're in New York today

➞ ynswift I don't wanna need you this way

ynalways 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

ynsboyfriend WHY NEW YORK AND NOT DETROIT

➞ samira_johnson … I think you know why

ynsbaby New York how does it feel to be mother’s favorite

➞ sunburninmiami *everyone’s favorite

↳ ynsbaby you’re so right😔

sarahcam 🤭🤭🤭

➞ youruser 🤫

empirestatebldg on the edge of the seat

allhailyn booking my tickets as we speak

ynylnsbaby PLS no more, I have FOMO😔

ynswift HUH?

whationlylistentoyn YN PLS WAIT I HAVENT BEEN PAID YET😭

➞ ynonly REAL😭😭

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liked by sarahcam, popeheywardphotography, youruser and 982.083 others

loewe Kildare’s own Rafe Cameron and Cleo Griffith for LOEWE’s Summer collection 2024 campaign

Photography Pope Heyward

Creative Direction Carla Limbrey

Creative Partner Ollie Walters

Styling Scarlett Peters

Hair Lana Grubbs

Make up Kiara Carerra

view all 5.721 comments

kiecarerra absolutely breathtaking

➞ kiecarerra and Rafe is there too, ig

➞ cleogriffith 💘

suckerforrafe It’s Rafe’s world and we’re just living in it

popeheywardphotography my baby did that

➞ cleogriffith YOU!!❤️

rafeonmymind this is so COOL

cleogriffith 🖤

sarahcam ATE

rafefan OMG

allaboutrafe I would use those strings on his pants to *** ****** ** *** ***

➞ jjsandrafes girl….

youruser 🤩

❤️liked by cleogriffith and rafe

rafesgf Kiara Carerra as in the Kiara who was at Rafe’s bday party?

➞ raferaferafe not you again…

eloiseeee Pope doing the photos for Cleo’s shoot is goals😭

────────────

Cleo’s phone:

Rafe’s phone:

────────────

liked by rafe, sarahcam, empirestatebldg and 2.941.031 others

youruser so excited to announce that I’ll be playing a show at Times Square on the 7th of June! This is such an iconic location and I can’t wait to celebrate 1 billion streams with you 🩷 get tickets through the link in bio and story, & hopefully I’ll see you thereee🫶🏼

view all 12.921 comments

empirestatebldg locked and loaded🫡

allaboutyn kfkajaoasoaolgksoflggwpap

ynfancam God (YN) only gives his strongest soldiers (me) the hardest battles (not being in NY when she’s doing a show)

sarahcam taking over NY🗣️

➞ youruser🫡

ynylnfan Nobody talk to me😔

jimmyfallon Wait so you’re in the neighborhood? What if you pop in for a chat?🙂‍↕️

➞ youruser Let me check my schedule Jimmy🤭

kiecarerra AHHHH IM SO EXCITED!!!!

➞ youruser can’t wait to finally meet youuu🤍

whationlylistentoyn sobbing

sunburninmiami OMFG I GOT TICKETS!!!1!1!!

➞ ynnnnn4lyfe HOW😭 the tickets were sold out in MINUTES

➞ ynylnsbaby So happy for you😭

cleogriffith queen is taking over New York👑

➞ youruser stoppppp😭😭😭

ynsgf this is so sick and twisted of you😭

➞ ynsunshine screaming crying throwing up😔

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

author’s note: tell me what you think 🙂‍↕️

[whoopsyeahokay]

Control Freak

summary: prompt fill. Wally needs to be in control at all times, or else the world is going to end. unless he's with you, the only person who can step in and take over without his brain screaming at him. (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut lite. flashfic. Wally Clark is brat. consensual mindfuckery. sub-adjacent!Wally Clark. possessive mentality. Wally Clark has control issues.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🍑

Control Freak

Wally is always in control.

Running the show. Calling the shots. Cool and confident in the driver's seat.

Friend group can't make a decision? Wally spearheads a whole itinerary. Mama can't tell the neighbor that their new hedges encroach on the Clarks' side of the property line? Wally plasters on his best smile and convinces Mr. Griffiths to take action.

MVP of the football team; Coach's favorite player to come along in a decade. Enmeshed with student council to the point that they listen to his ideas without question. Teachers adore him, peers want to be him. Hell, Bud Binns trusts Wally enough to let him close the auto repair shop on his own, acting manager when Bud can't be on the floor.

Wally's image is the perfect combination of natural and intentional—a little bit of charm, a lot of matching auras—to ensure he gets what he wants from the world, and it works.

He's not oblivious. He knows it's an anxiety thing. The reins need to be tight for him to feel safe, solid, secure as he moves through each day. In the past, he tried loosening up a little and learned he's just not built to relax how his nervous system needs him to. Because if he does, everything breaks.

So, Wally stays completely. utterly. in control.

...

......

.........

Except with you.

Standing on the other side of the gym, talking to Some Guy as you help Claire hand out cupcakes for her campaign to be Homecoming Queen. And Some Guy is smiling at you like you're the center of his universe, all straight teeth and crinkled eyes, and Wally hates him instantly. Faster than instantly. Wally's waited to hate him since Some Guy was born, and that hate activates on sight.

Wally festers at Rodney's table, unable to drum up the magnetism that Rodney recruited Wally for to get those sweet votes to be elected Homecoming King. A girl tries to chat to him, lovely and shy and almost in awe of him—just what he likes—but he can't focus. Hardly hears himself as he answers her questions.

Did he just agree to something?

Hopefully not.

His gaze keeps drifting back to you every second. You and Some Guy. Laughing with each other. His hand on your shoulder, your demeanor totally open and friendly, and why are you entertaining that kind of interaction with someone who isn't Wally, huh?

You hand Some Guy a cupcake, tell him something Wally interprets as flirty, and then Some Guy waltzes away with a blush that Wally wants to wipe off Some Guy's face with his fist.

You're not supposed to do that.

You must feel Wally's eyes on you, because you turn your head, placid, and catch his eye. Stare for a moment before a slow, easy smile spreads on your pretty pink lips, giving Wally an obvious elevator look before cutting your appraisal short to address the next potential voter.

Unbothered. Unaware that Wally is this close to losing his shit where he stands because he can't do a damn thing about it.

No one knows about this arrangement between you and him (your prerogative). Not yet, anyway, so as much as he wants to, he can't charge over there and make you understand that that smile and those eyes are for Wally only.

It takes insurmountable effort to stay put at Rodney's table and pretend everything is normal for the next forty-five minutes, but Wally does it. Somehow. Fraying at the edges, steadily losing his mind as he watches the litany of conventionally attractive dudes rope you and Claire and Chloe into conversation.

About what? Pompoms and rom coms? What are you talking about to Some Guy 2.0 that has you giggling like that?!

As soon as Rodney dismisses him, Wally's off, slicing across the gym on a mission.

You don't acknowledge him when he steps over the threshold of your personal space, still discussing tomorrow's cheer practice with Claire, easy-breezy and aloof, as if Wally can wait; his time—his sanity—doesn't matter. Winding him up until he's so tightly coiled he could spring into orbit.

Finally, you greet him with a smile, eyes knowing as they travel up the length of him again from shoes to sockets. You don't speak, just tilt your head in the direction of the door as you gather your bag. A quick hug for Chloe, a wave to Claire, and you swan to the exit, Wally hot at your heels.

You stay a step ahead of him, hips swaying, smiling at acquaintances in the hall. Meanwhile, Wally's losing it by the second, the top of his head about to blow off, he's so frustrated. And you just. Don't. Notice.

Pleated skirt bouncing, legs on display, waist beckoning Wally's hands to grab hold bruise, mark your skin to make sure everyone fucking knows you're off the market. Totally disregarding that you told Wally you don't want to advertise anything too soon; want to enjoy the bubble while it lasts; want to be selfish with him.

Can't hurt to leave a mark or two anyway. Who'll know it's the impression of Wally's teeth on your throat?

You lead Wally to his car, wait patiently for him to open the door for you, staring at your phone as you slide into the seat and get comfortable.

The longer you don't speak, the more Wally's blood begins to feel electrified, shooting signals to his brain that everything is wrong and he needs to fix it.

This isn't how he planned his day.

When he tries to instigate conversation, you answer with a hum or a slanted smile. Wally white-knuckles the steering wheel the whole way to your house, his gaze intense as he watches the road and thinks obsessively about how to get you to say something, anything.

As soon as he pulls up to the curb, you're out, flouncing toward the walkway that leads to your front door. Wally watches you stop halfway and turn to look over your shoulder, gaze sharp when it lands on him.

"Let's go," And it's a command that Wally's entire being is persuaded to obey, a trained mongrel jumping at the snap of your fingers.

He practically falls out of his car, tripping over his feet as he hurries behind you. Up the front steps, through the door, and into your quiet house. He doesn't know where your parents are, if someone's home, or if you and he are actually alone.

Still barely acknowledging him, you head to your room, once again stopping when Wally lingers at the bottom of the stairs, fidgeting and uncertain. You jerk your head to the side to indicate he should follow, and so he does, taking the stairs two at a time.

You gesture toward your bed where he takes a seat; spine straight, eyes tracking you while you close the door and deposit your backpack on your desk chair. Pull your hair out of its tie, toe off your shoes, humming to yourself as you go, as if you don't have an audience that's desperate for your attention.

After less than a minute of trying to sit still and accept your pace, Wally's face crumples. Eyes pleading, lips slightly twisted, hands wringing in his lap. He releases the smallest whimper, a tiny noise that fills the room, and finally gets the acknowledgement he's tweaking for.

You pivot on the spot by your desk and stare at him, considering. After a brief moment, your features soften. Eyes just for him. Smile just for him. You just for him. No one around to interrupt or distract or dissuade.

He almost sobs in relief when you get close enough for him to touch, fitting yourself between his legs. One hand on his shoulder, the other combing through his hair.

"What's wrong, baby?" You ask like you don't know. Like you aren't single-handedly responsible for why he's suddenly shaking apart in your presence.

His hands clench in his lap as he regards you, begging to reach out but too afraid you'll deny him.

"You need some attention, don't you?" You run your hand from his hair to his jaw as you lean in closer, brushing the tip of your nose against his. "Tell me."

Wally exhales sharply and nods, his voice caught in his chest.

You take pity on him. Lift one of his hands to place it on your waist. The other you guide under your skirt and encourage him to squeeze your ass cheek.

"You can touch me," You tell him, soft and kind, lips grazing his as you speak. "You don't need my permission, baby."

But he does, that's the thing.

As much as Wally wants, he can't just take. Not with you. His brain recoils at the idea, hate hate hating it more than anything. More than Some Guy and Some Guy 2.0, and how they looked at you like you were dinner.

Thinking of doing something to you without you telling him it's okay, that he's good, that he's pleasing you by obeying your every command, sets Wally's teeth on edge.

Wally whines when he feels your warm, supple flesh under his hands, thoughts instantly coming to a standstill. His lids get heavy, breathing deep, willing his fingerprints to fuse to your skin as he kneads your ass. Really absorbs how you feel and lets it soothe him.

The tension bleeds from his muscles.

The world falls away.

And Wally feels secure and solid for the first time since he joined Rodney in the gym to network Homecoming Court votes.

He exhales, long and rough, lifting his chin to gaze up at you through his lashes. A thick swallow, and then, "I need you. Please."

"Is that it, beautiful boy?" You trace his lower lip with your thumb, dipping in for a quick, biting kiss before pulling away to hear his answer.

"Please," Wally chokes out, sounding pathetic and not giving a single shit about it.

He feels his cock stir in his jeans. The intensity in your eyes coupled with finally, fucking finally, being able to feel your soft skin under his hands making his body react like he's still thirteen and an opportune breeze gets him hard.

You lean back, eyes never leaving his, smile morphing into something wicked, deliberate, as you lift your skirt and hook your thumbs into your panties. He's completely rapt, high-pitched white noise muffling every sound outside the narrow space between you and him.

He chokes, weak, and begins to tremble when you start to peel your panties off in a show that makes Wally's mouth go dry. You take another step back so he can see more of you, and unzip your skirt to let it puddle at your feet, stepping gracefully out of it with a smirk.

Fuck, you don't even have to touch Wally, and he gets goosebumps. Body so sensitive already that one accidental twitch will set him off.

"How do you want me?"

The question makes him whine. No, absolutely not, don't make him choose, please don't, he can't—

"Shh, hey, I've got you." You assure him, tone kind, and then you're ordering him to, "Show me that fat cock, baby. Let me see how much you want me."

Wally does as he's told, undoes his fly and shoves his jeans down and off one ankle, forgoing the other just to get you in his lap faster.

"Please," He begs, voice pitched high and needy, "Please, I need it so bad, baby, I'm so messed up, please."

You bite the corner of your lip, expression hot and dark, and then climb into his lap in feline motions. Shirt pushed up to show off your tits because you know Wally can't get enough of them when you ride him.

You let him stew for another moment, hips a fraction too far from where he aches, nipping and licking a trail of fire from his pulse point to his ear. Building the anticipation and driving Wally insane. He groans, hands clenching your thighs, reedy little sounds of need spilling from his throat.

"Tell me, baby," You murmur, rising to your knees and taking him in hand to line him up, "Tell me what you want."

"You," He says without hesitation, the word a breath, and he's so fucking desperate now, knows he won't last long, will blow his load too soon because he's fucking worthless like that, but you won't judge him, he's safe with you, "Please, God, I need it, please."

No more teasing. You drop and take him deep in one slick move, pussy so hot, so tight, Wally's eyes roll back and he sobs in relief. He doesn't move because if he does, he really will come before he's even registered the sweet, velvety bliss of being inside you.

His fingers dig into your thighs, your ass, your hips. Moans and keens and fucking kitten mewls pulled out of him as you ride him like a mechanical bull, fucking him to the brink, praising him for how good his cock is, how perfect, how only he can make you feel this way, just him, no one but him, and, Jesus Christ, oh God, yes, yes, yes, "I'm gonna come!"

And that's it, Wally's hips spasm, his back arches, jaw dropping as he cries out in ecstasy, thanking you profusely for letting him have this, letting him have you, holy fuck.

The static crests over him as he comes down. Restlessness replaced with peace. His body is loose, warm, content beneath your weight when he lies back and takes you with him. He can't stop his hands from roaming your back, needing to feel you in the afterglow, to know that you're real, this is real, he's here with you, and everything is better now.

"Thank you," He whispers into your hair as you nuzzle into his neck.

You hum, and he can feel your smile on his skin, "Of course, baby boy. You know I'd do anything for you." And then you lift your head, "Even after you've been a brat all day."

Wally pouts, "I wasn't."

You raise a brow.

His pout deepens. "You were ignoring me."

You huff, chuckling and shaking your head, "I wasn't ignoring you, I was busy." You correct. "You were being a naughty distraction when I was trying to help Claire."

Wally's chest puffs out, proud because, heh, he was distracting you when, the whole time, he thought you were deliberately trying to get under his skin by refusing to even look at him. And then he sobers, pout returning.

"You were flirting with those guys."

"I was doing Claire a favor," You correct, sitting up just enough to look him in the eye, palm cradling his jaw, thumb tracing the arch of his cheek. Soothing, sweet, everything he needs right now.

"I didn't like it." He admits as he averts his eyes. Ashamed and embarrassed and vulnerable in a way he only lets himself get with you.

You don't say anything for a moment, and Wally worries that he's done something wrong by confessing that. Should he be okay with it? Is he allowed to be jealous? Has he fucked up and now you're going to leave him because he can't get his shit together and act like a man?

He feels your lips on his, and his thoughts come to an abrupt halt, brakes screeching. His hands tighten on your hips as he releases a sigh, that relief, that solid-secure-safe feeling, washing through him again.

"I don't care about anyone but you, baby boy," You murmur, and press your forehead to his. And you're so sincere, Wally can hear it, that he wants to cry.

"Really?" God, does he have to sound so fucking pathetic?

But you don't let him ruminate, cut through the self-deprecation with a soft, "Really, Wally. You're perfect. Everything I need and more."

His body goes lax beneath you, sinking into your mattress like pudding, and he gives you a smile. Warm and happy and completely smitten.

Quiet, afraid to disturb the atmosphere, "You're everything I need, too."

Wally is always in control. Until he's with you. His safe space where he can let go without feeling like everything is going to break, because you know exactly how to hold him together.

🍑___________fin.____________

also on AO3!

Order Up! MASTERLIST

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Anxiety.

sub!Wally smut lite. Wally isn't clingy. he isn't. honest. but something about your aura makes him nervous, and suddenly he's all hands everywhere and babbling where he's normally calm, cool, collected, and he needs you to get his head back on right.

[barrenwomb]

mutual 1: what if their periods synced [picture of griffith and guts from berserk]

mutual 2: just had the most insane sex of my life. i'm so lonely & no one loves me

mutual 3: they should have fucked tbh [about blood siblings]

mutual 4: yeah i'm aware i have commitment issues but like, no one ever threatened to kill themselves so i wouldn't leave them. i mean is it even worth it. like

mutual 5: i need to be put on adderall sooo bad. i ghosted my psych btw

mutual 6: i'm having a mid life crisis at 23 uuuugh kms fr. attended my first class in months and the professor called me a good girl. woof 🐶

mutual 7: this omega just had an abortion omg...anyways being a fujoshi actually makes u a feminist because men deserve to be reduced to sexual objects as well

mutual 8: i don't believe in god but if god existed i'd be his little whore

mutual 9: men need to be walked around like dogs

mutual 10: i'm fundamentally unlovable

mutual 11: need someone to get a matching succubus womb tattoo with

mutual 12: i'm so horny i deserve to be put down . i wish someone groomed me

mutual 13: does anyone know if sniffing ibuprofen is bad for your health

mutual 14: got my birth control refilled. anyone need some estradiol? hmu

mutual 15: rip amico mio. e mo si mangia

[papirouge]

*Black people watching every racist White person looking old & hagard at 21 years old*

the reason we Black people age so fine/like wine is because everytime a racist White person calls us "nigger" or any smartass alliteration of it there's a karmic energy transfer sucking their life energy maintaining our youth, while they age in dog years 🤎

[torchlitinthedesert]

I was writing about how Paul started writing with John, and how that story has been told. Once you’ve noticed that Paul wrote songs first, you can’t unsee it. And you can’t help spotting which writers just haven’t noticed, and who is actively going LOOK OVER THERE A SQUIRREL when they have to mention Paul bringing songwriting into the group. (I’m curious to see how the new Ian Leslie book handles this; the first review I’ve seen says the partnership “began in earnest in 1962”, which suggests Leslie has at least looked beyond the usual “they met at Woolton Fete and almost immediately started writing together” take.) Anyway, here’s a LOOK OVER THERE A SQUIRREL compilation, because some of these are outrageous

During the 1960s, the official band narrative presents JohnandPaul as a unit, keeping their contributions carefully balanced. Here’s Hunter Davies, the jumping-off point for most later accounts:

[Paul] played a couple of tunes to John he had written himself. Since he’d started playing the guitar, he had tried to make up a few of his own little tunes. The first tune he played to John that evening was called ‘I Lost My Little Girl’.

Not to be outdone, John immediately started making up his own tunes. He had been elaborating and adapting other people's words and tunes to his own devices for some time, but he hadn't written down proper tunes till Paul appeared with his. Not that Paul's tunes meant much, nor John's. They were very simple and derivative. It was only them coming together, each egging the other on, which suddenly inspired them to write songs for themselves to play.

After the breakup, rock journalism tended to take John’s side, and downplay Paul. Here’s Philip Norman in Shout! (1981), doing a virtuoso hatchet job:

Paul McCartney had always used his guitar to help him make up tunes. His main objective in the Quarry Men, however, was to oust Eric Griffiths from the role of lead guitarist. One night at the Broadway Conservative Club, he prevailed on the others to let him take the solo in a number. He fluffed it and, later, in an attempt to redeem himself, played over to John a song he had written, called I Lost My Little Girl. John, though he had always tinkered with lyrics, had never thought of writing entire songs before. Egged on by Paul - and by Buddy Holly - he felt there could be no harm in trying. Soon he and Paul were each writing songs furiously, as if it were a race.

Did you think, dear reader, that writing your own songs might be a significant artistic breakthrough? No, no, it’s just a backup weapon in Paul’s Machiavellian plot against poor Eric. This is his “main objective”, and he’s manipulated the others into letting him grab a solo. Norman has, by the way, already admitted that the Quarrymen all recognised that Paul was a stronger musician than the rest of the group. Is it reasonable for the best guitarist to want to play a solo? Clearly not.

For maximum whiplash, compare Norman telling the same story 27 years later, in John Lennon: The Life (2008).

The idea of writing original songs to perform, rather than merely recycling other people’s, was firmly rooted in Paul’s mind well before he met John. He had begun trying it virtually from the moment he acquired a guitar, combining melodic gifts inherited from his father with a talent for mimicking and pastiching the American-accented hits of the moment. His first completed song, “I Lost My Little Girl,” had been written in 1956, partly as a diversion from the trauma of his mother’s death, partly as an expression of it. Around the time he joined the Quarrymen, he had something like a dozen other compositions under his belt, mostly picked out on the family upright piano, including a first draft of what would eventually become “When I’m Sixty-four” (which he thought “might come in handy for a musical comedy or something”).

For a fifteen-year-old Liverpool schoolboy - indeed for any ordinary mortal - this was breathtaking presumptuousness. In Britain’s first rock’n’roll era, as for a century before it, songwriting was considered an art verging on the magical. It could be practiced only in London (naturally) by a tiny coterie of music-business insiders, middle-aged men with names like Paddy or Bunny, who alone understood the sacred alchemy of rhyming arms with charms and moon with June.

Just imagine if Norman had published that second version in 1981. Shout! was one of the most influential Beatles books, shaping the narrative for decades to come. Even Norman now admits its extreme bias, but you can still see its lingering influence. (Also, what a natural-born hater Norman is. When he puts his Paul-bashing on hold, he makes up some fictional songwriters to despise instead.)

Next up we have Mark Lewisohn, who doesn’t write Paul as the Evil Grand Vizier, but keeps shuffling the pack to put John front and centre whenever a breakthrough happens. His prologue to Tune In is a snapshot of John and Paul writing together at the very beginning of their partnership:

Towards the end of 1957, John wrote Hello Little Girl and Paul came up with I Lost My Little Girl; the similarity in their titles was apparently coincidental but both were steeped in [Buddy Holly and] the Crickets’ sound…Buddy Holly was the springboard to John and Paul’s songwriting. As John later said: “Practically every Buddy Holly song was three chords, so why not write your own.” Stated so matter-of-factly, it could seem that writing songs was an obvious next move, but it wasn’t. Teenagers all over Britain liked Buddy Holly and rock and roll, but of that great number only a fraction picked up a guitar and tried playing it, and fewer still, in fact hardly anyone, used it as the inspiration to write songs themselves. John and Paul didn’t know anyone else who did it, no one from school or college, no relative or friend… and yet somehow, by nothing more than fate or fluke, they’d found each other, discovered they both wrote songs, and decided to try it together.

When Lewisohn disagrees with the accepted narrative, he’s usually very keen to show you all his evidence for why everyone else is wrong. Here he suggests John wrote Hello Little Girl first, without discussion. Then he quotes John on getting the idea to write songs, before discussing what an important innovation that was. Right at the end, he says they both wrote independently - but John is in prime position throughout.

As you read on, he acknowledges Paul’s pre-Quarrymen songs, framing them as juvenilia (“exceptional for a first attempt by a boy on the cusp of 14”). Giving I Lost My Little Girl a later date than everyone else, Lewisohn notes that when Paul performed it on MTV Unplugged, his “vocal includes a Holly hiccup, pinpointing its creation to post-September 1957”. (Because the way Paul sings something in 1991 must be exactly how he sang it from the beginning.) Lewisohn also ignores the many interviews in which John says he started writing after seeing Paul’s example.

Obviously, these distraction tactics sell Paul short. But I think they harm John, too. If you’re interested in him as an artist, don’t you want to know how he developed? What he learned, how he used those influences to shape his own voice? How he and Paul worked, together and apart? How they saw their partnership, how that fed into their competitiveness, ambitions, or insecurities? Mary Sue Blorbo Leader John is no good to me. And, more than 60 years on, memories have faded and sources have died; we’ve lost so many chances to look at how they really worked. John and Paul both deserve better.

[loneworldgazer]

@pinkkunt-imagines @dwelleroftheobsidiantower

req :I saw Berserk in your tags, so assuming I'm assuming you write for it. I'd like to request either a headcanon or a scenario about Post Eclipse Guts and Griffith having become parents from a relationship pre-eclipse. Like their reactions, interactions with the child, etc. Thank you, bookie. 💖

pairing: Guts x Reader, Griffith x Reader

a/n: ive done your request but there is so many things i am not satisfied by. there's probably a lot of repetitive words and i deeply apologize, enjoy it nonetheless!

tags: hints of violence and manipulation in griffith's, angst to comfort, fluff,

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

Guts wasn't one to soften his heart easily, he pushes away people and let people assume of him by his strength and how much of an arrogant man he is. He didn't bat an eye to people who try to cross him again and goes off to his own path to protect others from him.

He felt that he'd let his weakness slip when he had opened his heart to another person.

There was just something about the way you held the baby in your arms. You wonder what type of hell he'd been through to look at you that way. It was a haunting look not one of no emotion but weakness from the facade he had pulled away from.

"Guts?"

Your voice didn't reach him as he runs out the door. Understanding him will always be never ending, there will be more questions you utter than answers he can think of.

Erica holds your baby, her childlike innocence calling Guts such a bad guy for leaving you just like that and you could nothing but chuckle. The chuckle made your throat hurt from the tears that had started pouring down your ears, darting from the little girl's sight to wipe them away quickly.

Your hands extend to the teapot and look closely at the tea leaves that had dwindled down since the trees in these parts were dying to the fast winter that was approaching. It was quite silly worrying about Guts who was running out in this cold, he was a machine. A weapon that wont stop to anything in its path yet the nights of worrying about the sores he had on his feet, the splinters he had from trees he gathered back to home will always stick close to you.

"I have thick skin, don't worry too much."

That soft smirk he had when he wipes tears away from your eyes as the blood just won't stop flowing. Every scar that was stitched was remembered, it came from many brave battles that may have been a breeze for him but an impending ache to you.

Should you rush out the door after him, the wailing of your baby could be heard miles away. A fierce cry coming out from such a small body. All the pain of child birth would come rushing back into you, legs trembling when the throb shoots up your nerves. Oh and Erica who was so observant even if she held the tiny bundle of joy in one arm while stopping you with the other with a pout on her face.

"You don't need to go out for the tea leaves, Rickert keeps them in the second drawer near the dried fish."

You can't help but smile, such a sweet girl. Stepping away from the door, you trust Guts to return. He always does be it battles or training, clenching the necklace you wore, you've convinced yourself.

He will come back.

-------

The storm had particularly been rough tonight though it didn't wake you up but the anxiety had consumed you on why the baby had been silent. The bile in your throat rises up, whipping your head to the baby's cradle. praying that there was nothing wrong when you saw him.

Guts looked down at his baby, the part of his armour on his chest removed where he laid his child against. His hair was wet but he made sure to tilt back so the droplets don't touch what he was holding. His breathing was slow, the sound of the night drowning out in his ears when he focused on the breathing of the baby in his arms. The little bundle of joy nuzzles into his chest, soiled tank top warm enough for the trembling body of his little girl.

You didn't want to see his reaction, scared he will have the same look of horror from the first time he'd seen the baby. Fist clenching the sheets to try to hurriedly wipe the tears from your cheeks, you twitch when he turns towards you.

He holds up the little girl, a look of pure awe and serenity that made your shoulders droop from the tension.

"She has your eyes.."

He cradles him, running a hand through the short patch of hair on his head.

"She also has my hair.."

Coming from Guts was a smile that looked painful to muster but this baby was the best thing that could happen eversince everything. His finger toys with the spikiness of his child's head and you can't help but run to him. The sharp edges of his armour, the ones on his arms that wrap around you slightly pokes you but you couldn't care less.

His reaction was enough, calloused hand wrapping around yours as his eyes speak more to the fear in yours.

This was his baby, his soon to be pride and joy whom he'll fight for.

With you by his side.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

While he focused on his training, he easily brings back kills to feed you as you light up fire for the pot

He spoon feeds the grilled meat in your mouth while he takes the baby in his other hand. Even if you protest that you should hold the baby, he declines that offer

You were a hardworking parent without him and he wants to give his part too if possible, give himself whole for you

Everything was warm enough for you. He pulls that romantic stuff of blowing your hot food for you and you'd slap him playfully when his spit dribbles on to it

When it comes to sleep, he made sure to let you sleep. Ever since he came back, he looked at his baby with a look of longing. like he had lost so much time because of battles, missing the period where you had given birth to a new life.

He traced his fingers against the skin of the girl, she was quite plump. Guts was grateful that you had reside with Rickert and Erica, you look pale, the challenges of childbirth evident on your body but both of his dears healthy and untouched by any danger he had feared of

Small arms wrap around his hand, the swordsman knew he was a walking heater and caressed the little one's face. His palm on her cheek as she gurgles

This is one of the cases where Guts will give you never ending heart attacks when the sun had illuminated the room and his thick body resting down on the baby

You'd pound on his back to wake up, he was a beefcake so your punches barely register not until the baby started crying

"You idiot, you fell asleep on the baby!"

Rickert entered the room to see what the commotion is, he could only chuckle softly but before he asked the couple to tone it down, Erica pulled him out the door with all her might. Rickert nearly stumbled back against the short girl.

Erica shushed him excessively, clutching tea leaves in her hand.

"Shh! Don't bother them."

She huffs, letting go off Rickert's scarf and walked away to start a fire, blowing it a bit before wiping her cheek. That soft look in her eyes wary.

"I haven't seen Mx Y/n this loud before.. not since Guts came back."

Rickert understood the implication, his tense shoulders drooping as he listens to the rattle in the room. Y/n had been restless since the months Guts had been gone from war. Even if Erica had talked with them daily, there's so much a parent could worry about. He clenched his hand, it made sense. Sooner or later, Guts have to leave even if it looked like he won't.

That sword man's always had many things plaguing his mind but for now, he'll stay with his spouse and hold his partner close to his heart.

Griffith

Those sharp eyes look down at his child, sweat running down his face with a tissue lodged in his nose. He held a sword in his hand, one that was in his favourite colours and chattered in excitement on how he won his third fight with the older fighters.

Griffith's eyes slowly trail to the noise of your steps, you looked at your son with endearment but a hint of worry. He was barely bruised and his cuts were covered by bandaids, those eyes of his though were filled with the same fire just like his father's. You adjusted your son's collar to which his eyes follow, whining when you'd pull the ribbons too tight.

"Cmon, dont you want that puff pastry I baked this morning? If you get your teeth knocked out, you can't chew it!"

The little boy lights up to the sound of having a treat after a day of training, he really wanted to bite into something that was as rewarding as his parent's creation. He then runs home, slipping through your fingers to get that bite of pastry. You sigh, holding onto the boy's sword that dropped out of enthuasiasm. When you look back up, Griffith was staring straight at you, a look that sent a chill down your spine before he pulls away.

Unlike Guts, Griffith had already made his plans for his child.

He'll be strong, he'll fight like him but not become just like him

He let his son indulge in human activities like playing about, tasting all kinds of foods, giving him clothes warm and luxurious clothes. Things he weren't able to experience when he was a child

Scratching after scraps of food, the clothes on his back wet from grime and rain and his only childhood friend a sword amongst a pile of dead bodies wasn't something he wanted his child to ever go through

Even if he watches his son play in the garden, he doesn't feel like anything. He would be another weapon whom he can send off into war but he made it count for his creation, the spitting image of him should reign amongst everybody and step on the tombs of his once companions

He does engage in idle talk with his son, maintaining a connection with his creation in order to bring him over on his beliefs. He does find the benefit in attaching himself onto the little one's mind. It was obvious that his normal was completely different from his son, his stories full of sparks of colours while Griffith's was only red

Griffith's fingers occasionally comb through his son's, just what is mentioned prior is that he was a spitting image. It almost seemed like his genes had been more on the dominant side but what was different was the shape of his eyes and nothing more

Griffith smelled the fresh smell of baked goods being made, you had made a new batch instead of reheating the ones in the morning and heads inside. His home was lavish but due to your wishes on wanting to bake alone, the ones under him followed

He follows you and sits down, his hand caressing your face.

"Thank you for this, my love."

He kisses your hand before his son passed his father a piece of puff pastry, putting it on his plate. The dining table was quiet with the clinking of forks and knifes and soft laughter from both of his beloved. He didn't have to eat it, he didn't have to do all of this. He could even succeed without his family.

But maybe, this was a sense of normalcy he always wanted to feel when life was nearly stripped away from him.