1d post

Whatever You Want

A fluffy birthday AU for Liam today, including both Ziam and puppies :)

When Liam had first learned that Zayn was an EMT, the thought that’d popped into his head was how sexy that was. How caring he must be. And how sexy that was. Had he said that already?

It was only after the two of them started dating that he realized what a pain in the ass it was. Evenings were usually empty, and it wasn’t just evenings but sometimes full nights. 

But, he always told himself, those evenings off were always the best nights of his week. 

He’d been telling himself this for months now, chanted it like a mantra whenever the house felt too empty for just his own breath and voice.

But he admits it. He didn’t want to have to say the words again on his birthday, for God’s sake.

“It’s fine,” he’d said, trying to giving an understanding smile but knowing full well it probably looked more forced and sad than anything else. Zayn gave all the excuses in the world, about how no one else could take the shift, about all the people he’d save, about how much he loved Liam.

And maybe then, just then, Liam should’ve been suspicious.

Or at the very least, he should’ve been suspicious when Niall was driving around Wolverhampton for more than twenty minutes trying to find some dead poet’s house–some poet that Liam had never heard of. And, by the way, did Niall even like poetry?

He’d known the lads for more than enough years to be able to put two and two together. More than six years, to be precise. He’d had over 72 months to figure out these assholes, but had he even gotten close? No.

But half an hour later, they pull up to Niall’s house, able to at last watch all of the Batman movies in a row–which Liam has a feeling they’re only doing because Niall feels bad that Zayn’s cancelled on him, but he isn’t about to miss out on this once in a lifetime opportunity.  

He pulls open the door with a grin, ready to watch Christian Bale kick some ass while they chomp on popcorn and Skittles. But he stops, taking a step back at the crowd in front of him that jumps up from behind furniture that Liam didn’t even know Niall had. “Surprise!” They all call out in unison.

“I–” Is all Liam can get out, biting his lip as he steps through the doorway. “Does this mean we can’t watch Batman?” He asks then, still dumbfounded by the scene in front of him, and–apparently–not able to think about anything else except his favorite superhero.

Keep reading

Viewfinder *Part 1*

It was hot. So hot, in fact, that every time I lifted Norm, I could feel him slowly sliding in my palm, made easy by my sweaty skin and the ever present force of gravity.

Which, naturally, was pretty concerning.

As it goes, I had always been a bit (a lot) of a klutz, so this made for a rather worrying situation. While in no way, shape, or form could I stop filming, I also couldn’t afford to lose Norm to the hard, unforgiving, dirt ground below.

Norm began to slip once again as I documented the laughter of a group of people a few meters away from me. I really needed to invest in a camera strap.

“Can’t you stop filming, for like, five minutes, Nit?”

I sighed. This was one of those times when I wished people could just read my mind - it would save everyone so much trouble, and it would save me aggravation and time. (I usually got too distracted to explain what was going on up in my head, anyway.)

With an unamused expression, I toward the owner of the irritated voice, where she sat leant up against her boyfriend, and asked, “How many times have we been over this? Asking me every time I have Norm out if I have to have Norm out doesn’t ever make the answer any different, Stells.”

Stella immediately began to roll her eyes and I grinned, lifting Norm up in front of my eye. “Don’t act like you don’t enjoy being filmed on almost a daily basis, Miss Aspiring Actress. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Lucas, Stella’s boyfriend, snorted at this, only furthering to deepen the scowl on Stella’s face as she shot back, “No one likes it on the daily, Nit.”

A hand suddenly reached out in front of the lens, and before I could react, it was pushing Norm away from my face.

Immediately, the camera was slipping from my hands, and I cried out in distress, eyes bugging out of my head. I must have looked absolutely mad, resembling something like a frenzied animal as I lunged forward and fumbled for Norm with no great amount of gracefulness.

And in my panic to keep Norm from hitting the packed dirt below, I tripped over a bottle that had been sticking up from the ground. Naturally.

I fell forward with a strangled yelp, finally getting a hold on Norm before coming in abrupt contact with the ground, chin slamming into a patch of grass and dust somehow weaseling its way through my lips and into my mouth.


I coughed, turned over onto my back, and then continued to cough, because it seemed as though dirt had coated the entirety of my phalanx. I didn’t think I was going to make it.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Nitty! Are you okay?!”

Through my coughing fit, I gave Stella my best upside-down glare.

Did I look okay, covered in a layer of dust, scratched all over and hacking a lung up? She stared down at me in absolute horror - about as useful as a fucking bump on a log - and all the while Lucas laughed his arse off.

“Are y-you alright, N-Nitty?” Lucas stuttered through his laughter, squeezing his eyes shut at the end of his question in unreserved glee. I continued to glare. How was I supposed to take his concern seriously when he couldn’t even keep his eyes open?

To my disbelief, neither of them bothered to help me up, and I had to sit up and slowly pick myself up through my violent coughing. My eyes were watering, so I basically became blind in the process as well. It was all going quite swimmingly.

“You two,” I wheezed, pointing between them. “Are positively useless. I am taking my business elsewhere.”

With as much dignity as I could muster, I pivoted on my heel and stormed off in the other direction, ignoring Stella’s cries of apology and Lucas’ nearly manic laughter.


They’d be sorry when I was gone, having no one to film their constant love fest. As it turns out, those two thrived off of an audience. They should’ve thought twice before attempting to off the one person who always gave them one. (In reality, I had stopped filming the Lucas and Stella Love Fest about three months ago - I had enough footage to last a lifetime, and if they didn’t end up together and I couldn’t put it all into one sickeningly sweet wedding video, then I expected full reimbursement of my time and memory space.)

I had hoped to get through this year’s Leeds Festival with minor injuries to myself and my possessions (which was always a challenge - last year I twisted my ankle out of place. Luckily, Norm had made it out of the whole ordeal unscathed). Easier said than done. There were a couple close calls already, but it was the last day of the festival, and things were looking pretty good. It seemed like I would be entering my last year of uni without any broken bones or torn ligaments. Totally and completely injury free.

(Naturally, I spoke too soon.)

I was refocusing the lens on a swinging pair of hands, when something solid and hard knocked into the back of my shoulder.

The sun was hot, my hands were sweaty, and in conclusion: Norm went flying.

Only a gasp escaped my mouth as I watched Norm’s graceful arc through the air.

It was like watching a car crash in slow motion - terrible yet hypnotizing. The camera was too far out of my reach and was falling too quickly to repeat my rescue leap from earlier - I could only watch in helpless horror as Norm crashed to the ground, breaking into pieces.

“My camera!” I gasped again, breathy and choked as I leapt toward the pile of Norm’s remains.

It only took seconds of observing the broken camera to conclude that it was unfixable. Tears immediately filled my eyes as I carefully gathered the pieces into my hands.

( Also, yeah, I’m a crier - but in my defense, this was Norm. My trusty sidekick. My partner in crime. My best friend. Also something I spent a fortune on, and couldn’t do what I loved without. So in conclusion: a pretty valid reason for tears.)

“Shit,” came a low voice behind me.

You don’t say?

Scowling through my tears, I spun around to face the ever-so-eloquent perpetrator.

“Shit, don’t cry. Shit.”

Don’t cry? Oh, does this trouble you? Does it force every other expletive other than “shit” from your vocabulary? Are my tears an inconvenience to you? Ever so sorry sir, please, let me try to accommodate you.

Unbelievably, the guy actually repeated, “Shit.”

An absolute wizard with words.

Not wanting him to see the tears in my eyes actually tip over, I willed my grief to transform into anger. With no great amount of ease, I forced my tear ducts into submission, blinking away the water distorting my vision so I could properly see the face of the dickbrain who had murdered Norm.

As it turned out, the dickbrain was Harry Styles.

Even in my distress, I could honestly admit that I was starstruck. My face relaxed into a slack, awed expression on its own account. The dark curls on his head and green eyes were unmistakeable - this was certainly the internationally famous, pop star extraordinaire himself.

But Norm’s deceased body still laid broken in my arms, and it was enough to snap me out of it.

My lips twisted back down into a frown. “I’m not crying, you tosser,” I spat, deciding to defend my dignity first and foremost. Then came Norm’s. “And is that all you can say? Norm is dead.”

I held out the broken pieces as evidence, trying not to to observe the crack that split down the middle of the lens. It was too painful.

Harry didn’t seem entirely concerned with the corpse, however, brow creased in confusion and gaze studying me bemusedly, “Norm?”

“My camera!” I shrieked, shoving what was left of Norm into his face. “You destroyed it! It’s broken - ruined, terminated, dead!” (No, I most certainly wasn’t being dramatic, thank you very much.)

The pop star only blinked at me, eyes slowly lowering to look at the camera remains. He reached up to scratch the back of his neck and began to shift his weight, only to seemingly misjudge his step and stumble backwards. I took a moment to skim my eyes over his face - all splotchy red cheeks and glossy eyes.

He was drunk.


I groaned, already realizing that this conversation would be going no where. If the bloke couldn’t even shift his feet without nearly falling over, it was doubtful he could be of any help with Norm. Accepting this wretched turn of events, I turned away from Harry Styles and began to stalk off, lip wobbling with an oncoming bought of fresh tears.

It was only seconds (a few seconds too long if you ask me) before I heard a slurred, “Wait! Er–” behind me.

I sucked back any moisture leaking out of my face, spinning around on my heel and attempting to look as angry as possible while still holding the pitiful remains of my camera I so affectionately called Norm. (Not an easy task.)

“What?” I spat.

“I’m sorry,” he said (finally) at a ridiculously slow pace. I leaned forward in anticipation to hear him finish the last of the apology. His brow was crumpled in what seemed to be a mix of concern and confusion. I watched him blink a few times before he reached into his back pocket, “let me pay you for it.”

While I was sure Harry Styles, internationally famous boy bander with millions of albums sold world wide was entirely capable of reimbursing me, I felt like being difficult.

Shaking my head, I jutted my chin out defiantly. “That doesn’t make up for it. I lost all my footage on here - all of it! Priceless footage!” I scoffed, scrunching my face up into an undoubtably ugly scowl. “Absolutely unbelievable, you know? Are you really so pissed-off-your-face drunk that you can’t see innocent bystanders with their cameras? It’s the middle of the day!”

“I said I was sorry!” Harry Styles cut in, much more irritated than before, which only served to irritate me further - I was the one holding my dead child in my arms, was I not?

However, I could see that after my last outburst, he wasn’t feeling so bad anymore. It was obvious in the set of his raised shoulders and tensed jaw that the only reason he was continuing to pick through his wallet was due to a sense of moral obligation. And most likely the possibility that just about anyone could be filming our little exchange and could use it for a future a tabloid story, putting his reputation as ‘charming heartthrob’ at risk (at least that’s what I figured).

“How much was it?” Harry Styles grumbled at me, and I watched in amazement as a couple notes with the number 100 on them flashed out of his wallet.

“Six-hundred thirty-four pounds.” (Yes, I had it memorized. You don’t just drop £634 on your first professional camera and forget the price.)

Harry jerked forward, as if someone had slapped him on the back. Eyes huge and nearly popping out of his head, I could see that the current situation was beginning to sober him up.

“Six-hundred thirty-four pounds?” He stated incredulously.

Unimpressed, I nodded. This was Harry Styles - I’m sure he spent that amount on a pair of socks. This should seem like a meager fine to him, should it not? Pocket change.

“Did I stutter?” I asked patiently.

With a growl, Harry Styles slapped his wallet shut, “I don’t have six-hundred thirty-four pounds on me,” he explained, aggressively shoving his money into his back pocket. “Unbelievable,” he mumbled, and then, much louder, “Chirst, why didn’t you have a camera strap or something?!”

It was my turn to stare at him incredulously. “Excuse me?” I began. “How is this my fault? It never came with a strap, you git, I got it used from a friend!”

“And they made you pay six-hundred thirty-four pounds for it?!”

I groaned, resisting the urge to drop the pieces of Norm in order to slap my hands over my eyes. This was not happening. I was not arguing with a drunk member of One Direction in nearly ninety degree weather. This was a dream.

“Why are you acting like this is such a big deal, I’m sure you spent that much on that stupid floral shirt you’re wearing!” I finally shot back at him, words like venom. I paused and took a deep, calming breath, holding up a piece of Norm to silence Harry before he could respond again. “You know what, forget it. I don’t need help from an asshat like you.”

Before I could turn away, Harry Styles was speaking to me in a positively bewildered tone, “Do you know who I am?”

And that was probably the final straw.

Arranging my features into a mask of calm, I offered him my best feigned smile. “Yes, surprisingly, I don’t live under a rock - you’re Harry Styles. And I’m Nit Wise. And you, sir, just destroyed. My. Camera!”

“Fine!” Harry cried in annoyance, reaching back into his pocket again and producing a mobile this time. “Fine, for God’s sake, here!” He held out his phone and I paused, mid-rant, to blink down at it like it had just sprouted a head.

What was going on here? Was Harry Styles offering me his phone? Perhaps to allow me some fun with prank calling celebrities? I bet that would be rather entertaining, and there was no telling how many different famous people were saved into that precious contact list…

No! Stay focused, Nit! For Norm!

“What am I supposed to do with that?” I asked snappily.

“Put your number in it,” he explained with a laborious sigh, like he would rather be doing anything at all besides participating in this conversation. “I’ll call you tomorrow, and I will personally come with you to pick out another camera, all expenses paid. Does that sound alright with you?”

His patronizing tone and the arrogance of the whole offer (oh, spend time personally looking at cameras with you, Harry Styles? Dreams really do come true! Someone pinch me!) wasn’t lost on me - however, I couldn’t seem to formulate any type of response other than to blankly take the mobile from his slender fingers and type in my number.

Asshat or not, when celebrity demands you to log your number into their phone, you tend not to argue.

When I finished, I was still at a lost for words, which was as surprising as it was irritating. I felt like I had given in somehow, even though Harry Styles was the one who was apparently going out of his way to make up for the damage he’d done.

“Alright,” he sighed deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring rather unattractively. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll call you - you have my word.”

He lifted one hand up, as if it made it all the more convincing, before finally turning away from me and walking off, instantly disappearing among the teeming masses of people.

And like the genius I was, I stayed frozen in place, shocked and about as useful as Norm had become.

Not to mention most likely screwed out of ever getting reimbursed for his death.

It was easy to conclude that the chances of Harry Styles calling me tomorrow to “personally pick out another camera, all expenses paid” were slim to none. He had walked away without a single glance back, my number programmed into his phone among what was probably countless celebrities, never to be touched.

Suddenly, I was not in the mood to stay at the festival and enjoy the sun, or the music, or the drinks. With a sniffle, I dug out my phone and sent a text to Stella, informing her that I would be going home due to stomach pains.

In reality, I took the train home due to an abundance of tears that were nearly impossible to hold back. It wasn’t until I was safe in my shitty flat and tucked between my thin sheets did I finally let them slip down the side of my face.

Norm was gone forever - the cost to repair him would be more than he was worth, and I couldn’t afford it anyway. The idea of buying a new camera was absolutely out of the question; I didn’t have the money, and there was no way I was calling my mum to ask for some. Harry Styles would almost certainly not be calling me tomorrow, and I didn’t have any friends with used, professional cameras at their disposal that they were willing to give me a deal on. Classes started in a week, and as an aspiring film major, I was entirely without a camera to film with.

To put it simply, I was fucked.


Hey lovelies!!!! Here’s a new series for you guys! Zayn is still present in this story. Request part 2!!! xx

1D Hiatus: Day 260

* It’s Liam’s 23rd birthday!

* #HappyBirthdayLiam trends on Twitter

* Niall posts a picture with Liam on Instagram and wishes him happy birthday 

* Pictures and videos of Louis in Ibiza yesterday come out

* Louis, One Direction’s official Twitter account, Helene Horlyck, Sandy Beales, Liam’s sister Ruth Gibbins tweet Liam happy birthday

* Niall is back in LA

* Liam thanks for all the birthday wishes via Twitter

* The Sun publishes an article about Louis “hitting out at a fan while clubbing in Ibiza”

It’s Aug 29th, 2016.


I don’t hate Naughty Boy, but I dislike him. Even if he has done things that happen to hurt us doesn’t mean we should be as low as he is. I’m disgusted with our fandom rn. I kept ignoring the fat-shaming on him, but it’s too much now.

When people were fat-shaming Liam the fans very maturely explained why no one should fat-shame him or anyone, but now we spend time fat-shaming Naughty boy.

No wonder Zayn hasn’t said anything to us. I wouldn’t be happy if people were calling my best friend fat.

straight smut
  • she bit her lip and looked down at the floor
  • took off her oversized cozy sweater and messy bun
  • put down her cup of tea she cautiously was sipping on
  • he hugs her from behind w/ boner
  • calls her “baby” 700 times
  • their tongues fought 4 dominance. he wins
  • he pinned her down on the matress. oh my she said
  • his hands roamed her curves
  • “ur so beautiful” as he entered her
  • throbbing member
  • their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces
  • “"his musky smell”“
  • no mention of protection of any kind
  • girl comes wildly from having 1 lame boy finger in vagina

LOOK AT THE FETUSES! Guys this was before Liam and Danielle were together!!!