this one's sort of weak

4

The “my little random moments of pleasure” series -
Gun cleaning should not look so pretty N°1 - SN:12x18

nekoma ANBU

BUT I’M WEAK

AND WHAT’S WRONG WITH THAT?

BOY OH BOY I LOVE IT WHEN I FALL FOR THATTT

I begin this letter by, ironically, apologizing.  I am not the best writer, nor the best historian. I will do my best to convey the most accurate account possible, but know that I am, of course, biased and grieved. It has obviously deeply affected my state of mind, and every day I can barely bring myself out of the downward spiral of endless thought. Forgive me.

A lot of people might tell you that it was entertaining at first, amusing even. When it happened everyone didn’t really know how to react – but eventually we all figured out how.  Our melting pot of emotional reaction rapidly churned into a thick, hot rage that no one dared try to simmer.  We were united, all of us, for the first time in history.  But it was a slow start.

It was early September when it got there, right above one of the Galapagos Islands. A group of Spanish scientists were the lucky few to get the first look.  It was small, dark, swirling, and sporadic.  The media liked to say it was about a tenth the size of Rhode Island, which was not a very helpful benchmark for anyone not familiar with Rhode Island. It floated, or rather simply existed, 1.44 miles in the sky, and occasionally dropped down a few yards, much to everyone’s horror.  The color of it was like staring into a black sun; mosaic waves of darkness swirled around and sparked. It smelled strongly of ammonia and sulfur according to anyone who went close, and one scientist liked to say it felt like staring death in the face.

I can’t begin to describe to you all that happened in the first few days.  Scientists from every corner of the globe, every backwoods nation and fringe group, demanded access to the newest Ecuadorian landmark, whose government was not too willing to comply.  At first, select small teams were permitted admission, closely monitored by the Ecuadorians.  But when a U.S. carrier strike group shows up at your door, all international law and decorum goes out the window.

They figured out pretty fast what it was, a wormhole of some sort.  A very, very weak one. Helicopters and planes could fly within a couple hundred yards from it and only barely feel a pull.  That pull increased almost exponentially as anything went closer to it, as several birds were the unknowing producers of that knowledge. Electronic systems worked fine, and other than the small gravitational interruption, nothing was horribly wrong with the gigantic black blob in the sky.  Yet.

About a month or so after it had gotten there, when the media was just beginning to start covering anything else, a black cube the size of a truck spurted out from the center of the hole with incredible force, slowed down to terminal velocity, and then sunk into the South Pacific. Of course this was all captured on film; by now thousands of cameras and satellites were aimed at it, and a city of yachters had gathered beneath, despite the smell.  The whole world was shocked that the silent, putrid, black sun had actually done something other than suck up the occasional bird.  I was horrified. I thought we were going to be invaded.  That cube was not natural.  It wasn’t a meteorite or a speck of dust or anything you’d expect to be on the other end of the line. It implied, practically proved, that something intelligent was over there.  

People thought the box might be to communicate, that perhaps it was a sort of radio or beacon.  We soon found out what it was.  Before we even had time to get divers down there, it burst. Most of the blast was held in by the ocean’s depths but still a colossal geyser of water sprang up, almost touching the blob itself.  The explosion seemed nuclear, but we were assured it wasn’t.  Some sort of conventional explosives, several times stronger than any nuke we owned, had created the largest crater on Earth’s floor in the span of a second.  The waves flushed rapidly in every direction, toppling the yacht city and swamping the coasts of the islands. Hundreds died instantly.  

The fallout spawned itself in the form of rage and panic.  Were we being invaded?  What next horror would fall through the sky? How can we stop this thing, how can we turn it off?  The second question was soon answered, as a day later thousands more boxes fell through, each in succession, each various sizes.  A quarantine zone was declared, as everyone expected the worst.  But these cubes never exploded like their precursor.  They sank to the bottom, fell on top of each other, and slowly but surely piled up towards the surface.  

Weeks later, when the dilapidated pyramid of boxes had begun to pierce the waterline, whoever was in charge had concluded that the threat was low enough to send someone in to investigate.  The team that went in noted that the cubes were coarse to the touch despite the sea water, the edges were perfectly formed and sharp, and there were no markings to give any hint to their purpose.  Taking a box back with them to the continent, the collective effort to open it began. As time ticked down, pressure mounted.  Debate raged over whether it was wise to even open it at all. Pandora, Pandora, Pandora, rose the cries from the streets. But it wasn’t the people’s call to make.  The boxes were soon opened, the answer revealed, and the questions began.  

Garbage. Millions of boxes of garbage had been streaming from the black mass.  Information trickled in, but people begged for more. It was alien, from a civilized culture.  Bipeds, more advanced than us, larger, omnivores. It was amazing what we could tell from their trash.  It was an instant view into some other part of our universe.  When more boxes were opened we continued to learn.  But there were no photos, no paintings, no art or culture of any kind.  The clothing, or at least what we assumed to be clothing, was uniform and exact. Everything was bland, simple, and spartan.  Soon, discoveries became rarer and rarer, as the items became just copies of the ones found prior.  Finally, nothing new was opened; just a hundred or so items of compressed waste had formed their gift to us.

The pile on the other hand, had become a problem.  It, combined with the blast, had devastated most of the area’s ecology.  The boxes had also slowly bled a red slime, likely a coating of some sort, which had dyed the ocean for miles. All fish in the area were floating to the surface, dead and cancerous. The birds stopped flying anywhere near.  The tortoises crouched down in their shells and gave in.  The Galapagos were dead.

It didn’t stop. The dye and waste had slowly began to affect every drop of water on Earth. There was no one who did not feel its terror. It was biological, ecological, and psychological warfare.  It was an unending barrage of terror.  It was death.

So I hope this letter reaches you, whoever you are, and I hope you learn how to comprehend it. You have destroyed our planet. You have defied our attempts at reconciliation and communication, and you have been a brutal, silent antagonist for too long. It is time for you to understand. My letter to you is just one part of the millions to be sent through the rabbit hole tomorrow.  Know that it is just a fraction of what you have sent us.

Under Pressure

“Luna, you have to choose.”

Luna clenched her fist to her chest. She was confronted with the impossible. Thing was, this was something she couldn’t simply make her mind on. But Noctis, he didn’t want to listen to her excuses anymore, so he kept pushing her, his eyes tracking her every movement, boring into her for an answer.

She turned her head away, avoiding his gaze, “Why… why can’t I have both!?”

Noctis shook his head, “You know damn well this can’t keep going. Two cannot win this fight.” He approached her slowly, cornering her against the bed. “If you don’t make a choice, then I will.”

Taking her chin between his fingers, Noctis turned her head towards him. “Look at me Luna, and tell me. Which one will it be?”

Hands fretting, Luna’s eyes wavered from side to side, before defeatedly meeting the intense blue of his eyes. They held stares for what felt like an eternity, her lips quivering, until she couldn’t stand it anymore.

Luna bursted into a fit of laughter, holding her husband’s face between her hands “I can’t- can’t take you seriously, looking like that!”

Noctis pouted, letting go of her chin to rub the smooth, hairless right half of his face.

“I can’t believe you only shaved half of your face! You look so silly.”

“Well, I’ve asked you over and over if I should keep the beard or shave it completely, but what do you say each time?” Luna’s eyelashes fluttered innocently, “That you look handsome either way?” Noctis head turned to the ceiling, grunting in mock frustration as she laughed again.

“You know what? You deserve some punishment.” And then he lunged at her in the bed, rubbing the unshaved half of his face against what he knew was the sensitive skin of her neck. For a full minute, the room was filled with shrieking and flailing, before both adults sobered up enough to speak again.

“Oh Noctis,” Luna said with a breathy laugh, “It defeats the point if you only shave one half. What if I told you I liked you better with your beard?”

“Then you would have to live with a less good looking version of myself for a while.” he said, smile smug.

Chuckling, Luna shaked her head at him “That’s impossible,” her hands cradled his face once more, thumbs running softly over his cheeks, feeling both the clean and hairy skin, “There is no bad version of you.”

Noctis hummed under her soft caresses with closed eyes, “That’s debatable,” and stood up, heading into the bathroom to retake his morning routine. Smirking at his admittedly dumb-looking reflection, Noctis reached again for his razor and shaving foam.

“One of these days you will have to choose…”

Luna’s voice rang back at him from the bedroom, “We will see how that goes.”


One of the many Noctis x Luna drabbles I had in my to-do list, as well as a comedy practice of sorts, since I feel thats one of my weak points (I tend to be strightforward in my sentences, woops?). Next one should be more serious. I love dramatic and cheesy narratives too~

🌸 Through the Years 🌸

A Namjin story set in a royal AU 

In which Namjoon is the heir of the kingdom, and Jin a soldier. 

Originally posted by jjeonguk


Extract

“I won’t allow it,” Kim Namjoon stated in a matter-of-factly tone.

“If you do that, I won’t speak to you ever again. You’ll be stuck here alone, until the end of time.”

“I do have other friends, you know.”

“True, but I’m your favorite,” Seokjin replied, gesturing to himself with a smirk. “You couldn’t stand not seeing me for more than a few weeks. Admit it.”

The prince only grunted, not bothering to argue. “I’ll stop you, somehow.”

Seokjin’s smile faded. “Look, I’ve already made my decision. I’ll join the army, starting at the bottom, and I’ll climb the ladders if I’m competent enough. That is all.”

“That’s so senseless and impractical!” Namjoon exclaimed, his exasperation creeping into his voice. “You could be major right away! Or at least lieutenant or captain! Starting out as a private, with your social status, is utterly ridiculous.”

“I don’t want my blood to have anything to do with my success. I want to be recognized for my own strength.”

“That’s a nice idea,“ he admitted. "But being a private sucks. It’s degrading. You’re almost a toy to your superiors! The army needs to sort out the strong minds from the weak ones, of course, but we both already know that you are not weak. I’m sure even Father would agree on that. You don’t have to go through that hell, Seokjin. You shouldn’t have to.”

“Yet I will. Look, I want to prove myself to my family. I want to be more than a little, noble boy.”


Read here 🌸

anonymous asked:

Male!EM x Fem!LK

“I’m just saying, the dude should be the stronger one in the relationship!”

“Uh-huh,” says Elsword, who tuned Aisha out a while ago.  Aisha makes an angry noise. 

“Listen to me!  Are you listening?  Could you, like, pretend to be less strong when we’re out on a date?  It’s sort of weird being the weak one!”

“You’re the tall one,” Elsword points out, flicking hair out of her face and staring fondly at Aisha.  “Isn’t that enough for you?”

Aisha crosses his arms and huffs.  “You don’t get it.  If you were the dude-”

“Aisha.”

He turns towards her, then squeaks when he’s swept off his feet, easily being held bridal-style by a smirking Elsword.

“P-put me down!  Idiot!” He flails.  Elsword holds him easily.

“Nope~” she chirps,and strides on, looking all so innocent in the face of Aisha’s struggles.

6

“The idea of falling prostrate before anyone or anything is, frankly, downright revolting. That sort of humility makes one weak, and while Oswald considers himself many things - admitting, even, to a few faults – the one thing he refuses to be is weak. But there’s a part of him, small and persistent, that wonders, Am I being punished?”

The Bird and the Worm Chapter Two: Take Me to Church

By: @okimi79 and @riddlelvr

So I normally am not the biggest fan of AUs. I don’t dislike them or anything like that, they are just not on the top of the list of my preferred stories to read. But… I have a weakness for this one sort of AU. And as I explained this weakness I accidently began to plan a story. Which will be my longest story yet because the plot just won’t end. I am finally 4/5 done with the plot, just need to get a hold of the conclusion.

But I have spent so long working with this universe (and thanks to all you lovely guys who let me rant and helped me with the roles) that I could not get the scenes out of my head.

It’s been almost a year since I’ve worked with my coal pencils but I am very happy with how this turned out. After the episode today I just could not focus on writing so this was a nice little escape. Now I just need to finish some of my other projects so I can begin writing. Let this be a little teaser for now.

I was raised on Singing in the Rain. I was raised on bright colors, tap dancing, and iconic musical numbers. I was raised on the movie musical. And, despite all odds, that’s who I was - a musical.

Neither of my parents were musicals. My father was film noir. Everything turned to black and grey when he entered a room. He seemed made up of shadows; visible and oppressive, and yet intangible. I rarely tried, but I got the feeling if I had reached out to touch him, my hand would only pass through empty air. He was good to me, I suppose. And good to my mother. The endings were always happy. Like a grizzled P.I. he stood for what was Right, what was Just. There just always seemed to be a lot of darkness on the way there.

My mother was science fiction. There was nothing believable about her. She was an alien sent from some other world to live in our house with us in order that we might marvel at whatever unknowable quality it was that made her seem so strong. She presented us with peace offerings - trips to nice restaurants, vacations wherever we wanted to go - to distract from the fact that she was never there. She was a paragon of strength, or so it seemed to me when I was young. I think now that there was a sort of hidden weakness to her, but an alien one, one that I can’t understand.

And despite that, we, as a family, watched musicals together. On the rare occasion that mom would come home from work before my bed time, the three of us would make dinner together before settling on the couch - mom on the left and dad on the right, with me in the middle. We’d rummage through the box of DVDs until we decided on something - Bye Bye Birdie or Kiss Me Kate or My Fair Lady, but most often Singing in the Rain. And nobody was film noir or science fiction, nobody was bored or too busy. As Don Lockwood made his way down that red carpet, all of that faded away.

anonymous asked:

do you write ziall? if so, maybe 15 + 17? thank you!

things you said with too many miles between us / things you said that i wish you hadn’t

also for @jessimond who prompted something like this as well.

Niall’s kept himself busy for most of the weekend, between lads and snapchat and all, that he hasn’t had much time to think about it. He’s aware of it, of course he’s aware of it, he can’t even glance in the direction of twitter without seeing thousands of posts of congratulations, even days after.

There’s something strange about being congratulated for having a piece of him forcibly ripped away before he was ready for it and limping along without. But he knows it’s more a testament to what they’ve done since, and a testament to the fans themselves, for not having left the four of them. It’s no short feat, Niall knows that, and he’s grateful.

Still he doesn’t celebrate. Somehow it feels wrong.

His phone buzzes on the bed beside him with a text message, like he feels the pull of Niall’s thoughts and appears to answer for them.

Liam sent him Zayn’s new number and Niall didn’t have any plans to use it. He saved it anyway, to prepare himself or to warn himself or to protect himself.

Hey niall, says the first text, followed by it’s zayn

He feels the weight of Zayn like a phantom limb, heavy and tangible but absent. It’s been a year and the pain isn’t fresh anymore, just dull, not even constant. It doesn’t flair at the sight of Zayn’s name, but Niall’s aware of its presence.

It’s been long enough.

He answers, a simple hey to match Zayn’s, wary of what comes next. It’s just small talk, good for a Sunday night, suffocating and relieving all at once, like they’re both in agreement that they have to ease their way into this. Even after all this, they can read each other and they’re taking care. Somehow it feels easy, but it had always been easy between them.

Zayn finally works his way to his point. Niall thinks he always knew this was where they were headed, but it still catches his breath, twists his stomach.

did you listen to the album

The pain flairs like it hasn’t in a long, long time and Niall’s fingers move faster than his brain, shooting off a snap response before he thinks better of it.

Have you listened to ours?

He wishes Zayn hadn’t gotten an iPhone, so he couldn’t see the little bubble that pops up, then disappears, then pops up again, then disappears. Then it stays dormant.

Niall figures the answer is still no, and he figures he’s embarrassed Zayn. He’s picked at a scab Zayn’s trying to heal over. He deserves better than that. They both do.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I first sent this to some1 who doesn't like kidfic, so now I'm here. I had a dream about the party coming upon a dying tal-vashoth woman who'd just had a baby and everyone being like "Well, Dorian and Bull can raise it," and Bull is like "????!" but DORIAN is "Yes, give me the baby. Who's my little star, it's you! Biggest baby Pavus in generations, aren't you? Why are you looking at me like that, Bull, make yourself useful and wind this fabric around so my hands are free and the baby is secure."

HELLO ANON YOU HAVE COME TO THE RIGHT PLACE, i should just change my blog title to “kidfic <3″ because i think i could probably read and/or write kidfic every day for the rest of my life and be content with my lot in life. this is who i am. it’s who i want to be.

i tend to write bull as liking kids more than dorian but i’m starting to love the opposite (ty for starting me down this road, chaoslindsay), and boy howdy let me tell you i absolutely love this idea. (WHAT A GOOD DREAM BTW.) here are some thoughts i had because i have a lot of feelings okay:

A qunari child would be so outside of Dorian’s childhood expectations for himself, and the demands placed on him by his parents and society, that it’d be easy for him to look at the child and not think immediately of a future where this child would be groomed and molded into the perfect heir, as they tried to do with him. So it’d help to eliminate some of his own unreasonable compunctions, and he’d just be frigging delighted 24/7 with this tiny creature who fits in his arms. A qunari that fits in his arms, who’d have ever thought, whose horns haven’t even started growing in.

And Dorian – who hasn’t maliciously thought of Bull as a beast in years, who hasn’t said the words even jokingly in months – still finds himself struck with what he was taught about the Qunari, what he still thinks when a new Vashoth joins the Inquisition. And now, every time the child opens his wide dark eyes and blinks lazily up at Dorian, every time he seems surprised by his own hands waving in front of his face, every time he laughs and squawks and hiccups after he’s done crying… Dorian thinks he can do better, for this child. He will. 

He rocks the child in his arms late at night and whispers against the tight curls springing out of the sweet crown of his head, coaxes him to sleep for papa, darling, that’s a good boy.

..

Vivienne is not particularly fond of the mess and chaos that accompanies a child, but she finds Dorian the information he needs, reaches out to her contacts in Rivain for anything on the rearing of qunari children. Sera and Varric are delighted by the child, Sera playing peekaboo with him for what seems to Dorian hours, Varric self-editing his own novels into naptime fare, until the babe yawns and slips under. It takes some time for Dorian to accept what he can’t help but think is charity – until Vivienne tells him one evening over a glass of excellent wine that friendship is not charity, Dorian. Do not think yourself above or undeserving one of the chief tenets of a relationship. And oh, it is a help, because Bull is…

Bull is supportive, and does as Dorian asks him to do. But Bull seems to be all thumbs when it comes to the child. He holds him in stiff arms, glancing down at him with brief looks, never lingering, like he’s checking that the child is still there but doesn’t want to dwell on it either.

..

Every time Bull looks at the kid, he thinks of the potential children he has who are still under the Qun, who maybe inherited his penchant for caring too much, for going too far, and what happened to them when he went Tal-Vashoth. There’ll be records, people tasked with watching them, if that first pregnancy took then that kid should be old enough to have been in their role for a while. What’d he bring down onto them? His tama didn’t deserve it, she did her best with him; but what about the kids who got whatever desirable traits the tamassrans wanted to breed for – and then the shitty stuff too? It’s not their fault, but it’s on their heads now, whatever insubordination they were born with.

It’s… unsettling then, to be handed this kid with the expectation that he’s not gonna fuck him up.

..

“What’s his name?” Bull asks quietly, arms still stiff but hand gentle under the child’s head.

Dorian breathes out loudly, half tired laugh, and crosses his arms – and then promptly uncrosses them, concerned the pose makes him look as frustrated as he feels. “Every name I know is Tevinter. I’m not sure that’s appropriate.” Which is true, but also a ploy to force Bull to make some sort of decision – Dorian’s been combating the fear that Bull’s not wanted this since they first agreed to take care of the child, that Bull said yes because it was the right thing to do, because Dorian wanted it, because Bull still stumbles over wanting things for himself…

“Kid needs a name,” Bull says, and he caresses the kid’s temple, the little bump that’ll one day sprout into a horn. “Okay if we call him Felix?”

Dorian can’t speak past the lump in his throat. He tries, an unflattering creak making its way out his mouth, and then he’s nodding, unable to look away from the tenderness in Bull’s touch.

sidohfic  asked:

hmm....spanking? boys in maid uniforms? :D

Spanking:

no | rather not | I dunno | I guess | sure | yes | FUCK yes | oh god you don’t even know

It’s hit or miss with me with~ heh. Hit. Anyway, I have to be in the mood, and my dom has to know how to actually dom.

Boys in maid uniforms:

no | rather not | I dunno | I guess | sure | yes | FUCK yes | oh god you don’t even know

GOD ONE OF MY WEAKNESSES. Boys in maid uniforms or any sort of crossdressing is 100% my thing and I’m SO HERE for it.

“Immediately as an actor I wanted to understand who [Sherlock] was, what his parents were,” [Cumberbatch] adds. “These were questions I asked … I wanted to understand. [Moffat] was just talking about, ‘Can’t this guy just be good at what he does and he’s your age and he looks like you and he’s doing his thing?’ And I went, 'No, no Steven, there’s a process I’ve got to go through. I’ve got to understand how I became this person.’ ”

He didn’t necessarily expect those answers to be revealed to viewers, Cumberbatch points out now. “I can’t just sort of float onto set with a whole bunch of mannerisms and hope it sort of comes off,” he says. “You have to ground it in some sort of reality, otherwise you get found out as things sort of evolve.”

One other thing Cumberbatch insisted on was creating a weakness for Sherlock — his inability to connect with people — another idea Moffatt resisted.

“And [Moffat] said, 'But can’t he just be really good? Can’t he just be good at it? Why does he have to have flaw or an Achilles heel?’” the actor says. “Because I said, you know, 'Where’s his weakness?’ Because no human being doesn’t [have one]. And however much [Sherlock] tries to convince himself he’s not human, he is.”

— 

Benedict Cumberbatch NPR Interview (x)

I was exactly 0% surprised to hear that this is how Moffat approaches characterization.

#25 - He’s sick

#25 – He’s sick

Harry: You’re slowly awoken from your deep slumber as you can feel Harry detach his warm body from yours. You pout slightly, your eyes still closed as you’re still half asleep. Peaking one eye open you can see Harry sitting off the edge of the bed, a box of tissues next to him on the bed side table. “You alright Haz?” You say, your tired voice just barely above a whisper. You wait for your boyfriends reply, but all you are answered with is a set of sneezes. One, then another, and another, and another. At this point you are next to him, your small hand placed gingerly on his tense shoulder. “Ugh.” Harry moaned, turning slightly to face you. The sight in front of you nearly broke your heart. Harry’s normally tanned face was as pale as could be, with his cheeks and the tip of his nose tinted a bright red. In a flash, you’re out the door and into the kitchen, rummaging through the medicine cabinet for something to help your sick boyfriend. Returning as quickly as possible, you hand Harry a small cup of cold medicine and he takes it cautiously. “Is this the yuck kind?” He asks, his voice raspy. You watch as your grown boyfriend eyes the small cup of cough syrup as if it’s some hazardous chemical. “It will make you feel better.” You ignore his question and push the medicine back to him. Harry pouts once more, and you can’t help but chuckle quietly. The look on his face as he downs the minimal amount of medicine is priceless, but you offer him a cup of water anyways. After helping Harry back into bed, you get settled yourself, putting yourself right back into the position you were in before you were awoken. Harry pulls away just a bit, looking at you carefully. “I don’t want to get you sick babe.” He says, but you ignore his protests and wrap his arm around your waist anyways. Harry smiles, now that you can’t see him, thankful you still wanted to snuggle. “Love you.” He whispers, his voice raspy with exhaustion and illness. “Love you too Haz.”

Louis: “Ughhhh.” Louis groaned for what you were sure to be the hundredth time that night. You let one eye open just slightly, unable to take in the bright light that had just been flicked on. Now you let out a groan. “Babe?” You could faintly hear Louis’ raspy voice from underneath your pillow which you were using to shield your eyes from the blinding light. “Babe?” He asks again, this time a touch of desperation in his voice. This makes you sit up immediately, your eyes blinking wildly to adjust properly. Still in a daze, you take in your boyfriends disheveled appearance; his pale face, flushed cheeks and dull eyes. “You alrigh’?” You ask, sleep still evident in your voice. “Feel a bit sick.” He replied with a sniffle, and your mood changes in an instant. You help Lou back to bed, shushing his protests when you slipped out the door and to the kitchen to make him some tea. Rummaging through the medicine cupboard, you finally find some cough syrup. Taking the bottle of medi and Louis’ hot cup of tea, you make your way back to the bedroom. Louis smiles thankfully at you when you give him his steaming mug. “Thanks baby.” He leans in for a kiss, which you were going to dodge because hey, you didn’t want to get sick, but before he could try for one he lets out a squeaky sneeze. You laugh, not being able to help yourself, and Lou sends you a glare. “I’ll go get you some tissues.” You bite your lips to stifle another giggle. When you return with a full box of tissues, your eyes go wide at the sight in front of you. “Louis! That’s what the measuring cup is for!” You scold, watching as he pulls the cough syrup bottle from his lips. “I didn’t know how much I needed.” He shrugs, placing the cap back on the now near empty bottle. “So you read the bottle! You don’t scull the thing!” You shake your head, knowing he’s taken much more than his needed amount. “Oh well.” Louis sighs, placing his head back down onto the pillow, ready for some much needed sleep. “You’ll probably end up sleeping for the next three days straight.” You mumble, flicking the light off and getting back into bed next to him. “Oh well.” Louis smirks, pulling your body close to his.

Liam: As another fit of coughs force your boyfriends chest to rumble against your back, your eyes peeled open slowly. Liam pulls from you as his coughing becomes worse, he slings his legs over the edge of his side of the bed, one hand in a fist to his mouth, trying to keep himself from being too noisy. Propping yourself up on your elbows, just one eye open, you watch your boyfriend carefully. “You ‘right babe?” You ask, attempting to crawl over to him. Liam’s coughing fit finally seizes and he puts up a hand to stop you from coming any closer. “I’m fine, go back to bed darling.” He says, his voice pitchy and undeniably raspy. You cringe, feeling a pang of worry in your heart. “You don’t sound fine.” Pushing his hand away, you move to sit next to him, nearly gasping as you take in his paled face and dull eyes. “Li, you’re sick babe.” You say, your eyes wide as you glide the back of your hand across his slightly warm forehead. Liam gently pushes your hand away, shaking his head. “I don’t get sick. C'mon love, you’ve got a big meeting tomorrow morning. You need sleep.” He comments as his eyes beg you, but another small cough follows his protest. You cock an eyebrow. Liam was such a manly man, he certainly struggled with showing any sort of weakness or imperfections. He was the one who had always protected you, and cared for you. And even though he was right, he hardly ever got sick, it was your turn now to care for him. Ignoring his protests, you force Liam back into bed, sneaking into the bathroom to retrieve a bottle of cough syrup. Liam gives you a half smile, feeling horrible for keeping you awake. “Let me take care of you.” You whisper, handing him the small cup of medi. Liam’s puppy dog eyes make contact with yours, locking in for another few seconds. Downing the grape flavored medicine, Liam scrunches up his nose in disgust. “What would I do with out you?” He mumbles, his voice tired and strained. You smile, pushing him back to lay his head down on his pillow. You pulled the sheets close to his body, letting your hand run down his warm cheek.

Niall: His body lay curled up on the couch, an extra heavy blanket tucked up to his chin. Chills ran down his spine, as tiny beads of sweat formed on his brow. “How ya feelin’ baby?” You ask, coming around into the lounge from the kitchen. Niall’s dull eyes watch you carefully, and he did his best to smile as if he was feeling okay, but you saw right through it. Letting out a long, sad sigh, you feel your ill boyfriend’s forehead, frowning as the backside of your hand came in contact with his burning skin. Niall let’s out a groan, feeling his stomach churn once more. You push the big red bucket closer to him, just in case, and stand up to fetch a wet cloth. As you run the cloth under the tap, making it as cool as possible, you hear Niall dry heave once more. You rush to his side, patting his back as he heaves for a second time. Pulling back, poor Niall lets out a groan as he flops back onto the lounge. You sigh, biting your lip as you watch him. He was hurting, and you felt so helpless, unable to make him feel any better at all. Placing the cool cloth to his forehead, Niall smiles faintly, feeling just slight relief. “You’re too good for me, (Y/N).” He sighs, his eyes just barley open. He let’s a trembling hand come up to cup your cheek, wiping away a stray tear. He blinks, concerned for you now even though he his body was fighting an internal battle. “Baby.” He sighs, trying his best to comfort you. You sniffle just a bit, feeling so ashamed. “I just wish I could make you feel better. I hate seeing you like this.” You let a few more tears fall but Niall is quick to wipe them away. He’s become slightly more alert now, a look of worry etched onto his face. “You’ve been amazing, (Y/N)… I told you, you’re too good for me.” Niall pulls your tear stained face into his own and gently rubs his nose to yours. You let out a small giggle, adoring the little things he does just to see you smile.

A/N: Sorry this one doesn’t include Zayn. Future preferences could possibly include him, but at this moment, this one was already done without his part being finished, and I feel like at the moment I’m too disconnected from Zayn to even think about including him. Hope this does’t upset anyone. xxx

There are two kinds of pity. One, the weak-minded, sentimental sort, is really just the heart’s impatience to rid itself as quickly as possible of the painful experience of being moved by another person’s suffering. It is not a case of real sympathy, of feeling with the sufferer, but a way of defending yourself against someone else’s pain. The other kind, the only one that counts, is unsentimental but creative. It knows it’s own mind, and is determined to stand by the sufferer, patiently suffering too, to the last of its strength and even beyond.
—  Stefan Zweig. ‘Beware of Pity’ p. 20
8

“in the world, there are such relationships. even without money or power, they keep loyalty and love each other. they respect each other, that sort of relationship. the one who loves more is the weak one. but a world where the strong one is the one who loves more surely exists somewhere.

i wish there would be more strong ones in the world. a world where the people who love more would win. i wish that world would come soon.“