One Direction-Imagines

#19 Preference ( Harry, Liam, Louis)

Harry: “More, please!” you yell over the blaring music, wiggling the empty glass in your hands. You leaned over the counter, missing the appreciative look the bartender gave you. He smiles, showing you a nice set of teeth. You rest your chin on the counter, and look up at him through your lashes. “Whatever that was, I want more!” you say cutely, giving him a little pout. He chuckles, and takes out another glass, expertly mixing the drink that you’ve been drinking for the past few minutes. Or was it hours? You couldn’t really remember. He places the drink in front of you as you climb over a vacant seat, laughing when you almost tipped over. “Are you by yourself, babe?” he questions. You take a sip of the sweet drink and then shake your head. “No… I’m here with my friends!” you say, taking another big gulp. He chuckles, and wipes a nonexistent smudge on the counter.  “I’m getting off in about a half an hour… How about you and me go to this really great place I know?” he asks, and you look at him curiously. What kind of place would be open at two in the morning? However, before you could reply, you felt a large hand press against the middle of your back. You turn, and after recognizing it was Harry, gave the bartender a wide smile. “He’s one of my friends! I like calling him Hazza!” you say, wrapping your arm around his shoulder. The bartender gave Harry a curt nod. “So, like I was saying…” Harry slides his arms around you waist, and you remained oblivious to the possessive gesture. “Sorry mate, she’s spoken for.” He says, giving the bartender a wink. “Isn’t that right, [Y/N]?” he turns to you, and your nose scrunches up in confusion. “Huh?” you mumble, but your bewilderment vanishes as he pulls you out of your seat. “Come on, [Y/N], everyone’s looking for you.” Harry says, making a move to hold your hand. You stare at his back as he lead you through the mass of people lining the club, and through your fuzzy mind you could help but think: What did he mean ‘spoken for’?

Liam: You stumble your way through the crowd and make your way towards the corner of the club, where you spot Liam sitting on one of the couches, casually sipping his drink. You slide in next to him, giggling as you place your legs across his lap. He chuckles and puts down his drink, watching you carefully. “Seems like someone’s had too much to drink.” He comments, tucking a piece of stray hair behind your ear. You watch as the muscles in his arms flexed with his actions, and your stomach did back flips. God, your boyfriend was so sexy. Perhaps it was the liquid courage coursing through your veins, but whatever it was, you leaned forward, lips pressing against the shell of his ear. “I. Want. You.” you say, with hooded eyes. You grab his arm, cushioning it against your chest. He lets out a loud exhale, nervously looking at the people that surrounded you. “[Y/N]…” he groans, your blunt nails raking up and down his bare arm. “Liam… Sexy time?” you purr seductively. Well, what you thought was seductive, at least. Liam turns to you, eyes wide. And then he laughs. Like, a full blown laugh, where he’s clutching his stomach for dear life and there were literally tears in his eyes. You felt blood rush to your cheeks. “Sexy…Sexy… Sexy time?!” Liam cackles, effectively ruining the mood. You cross your arms across your chest, pouting. This seemed to spur him on, his laughs getting even louder. “You – you’re so damn cute!” he cries through his laughs. “Are you done now?” you whine, embarrassed. You weren’t trying to be cute; you were trying to be sexy. After getting his wits together, Liam grins and gets up, his hand wrapping around your wrist. “Come on,” he urges, tugging you up to a standing position. You stood there, unmoving, and give him a blank stare. “Well? Let’s go home and have sexy time.” he teased, pulling you towards the exit.

Louis: The world was spinning. Actually spinning. You lean against the wall, scanning the club for your friends. You groan, seeing every single one of them practically humping the men they were dancing with. You close your eyes, and you instantly regretted it, nausea hitting you full force. Those bitches were so going to get it tomorrow, you vowed to yourself. You tried to pry yourself off the wall, but the countless shots and cocktails you’ve drank all night seemed to hit you all at once. You began to slide down to the ground, but a hand magically appeared out of nowhere and wrapped itself around your arm, helping you steady yourself. You stare at the said hand, your eyes moving up the strangers arm (mmm, muscles and tattoos, your favorite combination) to meet with concerned blue eyes. “You alright?” he says, and you weakly shake off his hand. “Go away.” you mutter. You might have been drunk, but you were not letting some guy take advantage of you. You look at him from the corner of your eyes, and groan when you realize that he wasn’t leaving. “Listen…” you couldn’t finish your sentence because suddenly, you threw up. On the strangers shoes. You didn’t even care… Well you couldn’t even care because you felt another wave of barf making its way up your throat. “Alright, let’s get you some water.” Mr. Stranger sighs. Before you knew it, he’s leading you to the bar. You didn’t even have the strength to fight him. He buys a bottle of water, and he’s urging you to drink it. You stare at the bottle of water like an idiot, and with another sigh, he’s unscrewing the cap, lifting the bottle to your lips. Through bleary eyes, you realize that Mr. Stanger was a looker (you nearly spit out the water at your realization). Great.  Just great. Then Mr. Handsome (you decided to upgrade his name) was leading you out of the club. As soon as you see bushes, you run to it, puking the rest of the contents in your stomach. You take a swig of the water bottle that Mr. Handsome offered you, and then you sit on the curb, head tucked between your legs. God, you were so embarrassed. You felt him sit next you. “My name’s Louis.” He says, breaking the silence. “[Y/N].” You mumble, wondering why in the hell he was still talking to you. “You owe me new shoes.” He says. You groan, and look up at him. “How much do they cost?” you say, eyeing the said shoes. Fuck, they look expensive. “Three-hundred and eighty pounds.” He says proudly, and your head whips up in shock. You try to convert it into dollars, but you gave up when your head began to throb. He chuckles, noticing your internal struggle. “But if you go on a date with me tomorrow, we can call it even.”