my actual reaction to 98% of things in this fandom
#928: Late night scary movies.
Louis: The movie plays softly in the background -- blood and guts galore -- but his hands are up your shirt and you're breathing heavily into his mouth, winding your fingers tighter into the hair at the nape of his neck, whimpering softly every time he attacks your bottom lip with his teeth. His lips taste of the popcorn butter, his eyes heavy and outlined with blue. "Are you scared?" he asks softly with a grin, his fingers rubbing you over the fabric of your pajama shorts; both of you know he's not talking about the movie. "Scared of you?" You giggle and kiss him again, your tongue raking over his in a slow torturous motion. "Hardly. Scared of guys with knives? Maybe." The last bit is cut off by your moan. He's already trailing his tongue down your chin, past your navel, and to the soft inside of your thighs.
Niall: Your head is on his chest and he's stroking his rough fingertips through your hair, somewhat fixated on the movie (and trying not to flinch to maintain his manliness), the other part of him drifting off to how your hair smells and how he has to shift with you on his lap to keep himself in check. There's also a fairly small fraction of him that's trying not to smile whenever your mouth pops open or your eyes squeeze shut at the movie playing before the two of you; you're too damn cute and sometimes he's very, very, very bad at playing the innocent boyfriend. "I'm bored," he mouths against your neck, squeezing his arm around your waist and splaying his fingers across the top of your shorts, "I want to fuck you." That brings you out of your stupor; your breathing shallow, the movie forgotten.
Liam: The room is completely etched in darkness, apart from the television playing in front of the sofa. He has one arm around the back of the couch, his fingers brushing against your shoulder whenever you try to move farther back into the cushions, eyes wide at the murder before you. "I expected you, out of all people, wouldn't be scared of these things," he teases you with a smirk, though both of you know he's done this on purpose to get you to cuddle to him and test his power of protection. "You're a jerk," you softly say, teasing hidden beneath your voice. For a second, neither of you look at the T.V.; you're aware of how harshly he's breathing, his fingers trailing up your neck to bury themselves into your hair. He's staring at your mouth -- your lips that are illuminated by the only source of light.
Zayn: Laughter is shared at the unrealistic parts while silence is mutual during the scenes that make you bunch your fingers up into his shirt and curl closer into him. He doesn't say anything about it, but he's thinking it -- how he likes having you close, even when he's scared (just a tiny bit) himself. He likes having you where he can palm at your waist... where he can feel your hair tickling his jaw... where all you have to do is whisper to be heard, because you're right next to your ear. "You're really cute, did you know that?" he murmurs gently, tangling his fingers with yours, "Even during dumb scary movies." You raise your eyebrows at that, laughing a little before pressing a kiss to his shadowy jaw. "You're kind of cute when you try hiding that you're scared," you reply. He shuts you up with a kiss.
Harry: Both burly arms come around you, the fabric of an Ed Sheeran sweatshirt rubbing against the exposed parts of your skin. Neither of you are talking, but you're both breathing softly, relaxing into one another, melting. You're expectant of something to pop out and scare you, but you never flinch -- you are too completely safe and warm in his arms, your back to his chest. "Is it just me," he starts out softly, brushing his lips against the lobe of your ear, "Or are these movies just really dumb?" His breath is warm and it tickles the strands of your hairs away from your face, his mouth edging towards the softness of your jaw. "I don't think they're very scary," you whisper back, squeezing his hands around you, "Not with you here, at least." Both of you return to silence, but you feel his eyes on you.
#925: He finds you asleep on his side of the bed.
Louis: Well, actually, you're on both sides of the bed. You're sprawled out like a starfish, your face peaceful, but your fingers twitching like you're missing something there -- perhaps, him. With a smile on his face, he gets into bed and rests his head on your arm, tucking his face away into your neck. He's missed this; the feel of you next to him, the reassurance of having someone lying next to him in the late hours of the night when anything could go wrong. Things aren't so bad when he's next to you. Things are nice, and they're warm, and they leave a smile on his face that is obvious even in the darkened room. He likes how you take up the bed, and how you swim in your sleep sometimes, and even mumble under your breath and wake him up in the middle of the night. He wouldn't have it any other way. "Love you," he mutters, his long eyelashes fanning your skin. Sleep comes easily this way.
Niall: Even after your fight, when you're mad at him, you can't stay away. It's like a pull -- an invisible string that ties your pinkies together, an electric force that binds you close. Even after hours when he's been out with the guys, the taste of beer still on the roof of his mouth, he won't push you away. He'll drunkenly discard his jeans to the floor, sure, and maybe stub his toe in the process and blindly curse into the darkened room, but he won't wake you up or finish the fight that was momentarily ended with a door slamming and tears falling; he'll move in behind you, shush you softly when you start to move and blink your bleary eyes open. "Sleep," he'll mumble simply, like the night never happened, trying to get comfortable on the side of the bed that he's usually not accustomed to. "'love you. Sleep." Burying his nose into the back of your neck, he'll fall asleep like that, the alcohol wearing off.
Liam: He should really wake you up and find out why you're there in the first place, but his mind has stalled and his fingers hesitate upon your shoulder. Closer up now, he can see the moisture clogged on your lashes and the way you hold your hands protectively to your chest, curled into yourself, like you're trying to block out the rest of the world -- that world that might get to you. He sits on the edge of the bed and tucks the blankets closer around you, smoothing his hand over the back of your head. The exhaustion of the day wears off eventually, and when you awake later that night, his cheek is resting upon your head and he's breathing deeply, lost in sleep and dreams. "Liam?" "Mmm," he mumbles with his eyelids fluttering, his fingers closing around your waist, "Wanted to make sure you were okay."
Zayn: Usually, he'll throw a fit -- for no one but him is supposed to lie on his side of the bed, hogging the covers and pillows that he has claimed his own. He takes his sleep (and his own bed) seriously. But seeing you there, your fingers grappling the pillow while your chest gently heaves up and down with every breath, he can't find the motivation to move you, or even give a shit; because in the morning, he knows, your scent will mix in with his and it'll stay there for a few weeks until he finds the time to wash the sheets. It'll be like you're laying there with him for the next few days, even though the bed will only serve him, and the twist of your lips in your sleep and the scent of your hair will forever be etched inside his mind, clouding his dreams with only you, and nothing else. So he brushes your hair to your shoulder and climbs in behind you, placing his hand at your hip, breathing you in.
Harry: Wrapped up in sheets that smell of him, curled in a sweatshirt of his own, your hair fanning behind you on his pillow that had a hint of his shampoo clinging to it; he was frozen in his spot with his duffle bag halfway to the ground, his eyes fixated on you in the dimly lit room. It was like you were expecting him, waiting for him, your body rolled in a ball in hopes that he would come home late in the night and smooth you back out with his warm palms. He drops the bag to the floor and toes off his shoes, his heavy limbs clumsy and languid with sleep. He flickers the light off and makes his way to the vacant side of the bed, discarding his clothes in the process until his bare skin is pressing into yours, his willowy arms snaking around you. "Hey, beautiful." His nose nudges yours and he smiles against your cheek, his lips feathering light kisses. "Thanks for keeping my spot warm."
(Source: wreckingmalik, via stonnedhemmingsx)