Harry - and he’s still a ball of sweat, curls stuck to his forehead damply, but he’s hitched his body up on the pillows, and you’re nuzzled into his chest, one strong arm around you, brushing fingertips up and down your bare back lazily. His eyes are closed, and he’s almost humming, this soft tune you’re trying to place but you can’t. So he smiles down, eyes peering open in time for his lips to press warmly over your forehead, “Firefly by Ed Sheeran, babe,” he murmurs, voice still this broken rasp from coming too hard, “always hum it when you’re on my mind, especially after tonight…”
Liam - and he’s spooning you, holding you from behind and he has his arms around you, skin all warm and flushed, burrows of red under the surface, inhaling the scent of your knotted hair. The tip of his nose brushes by you, grazing down the coil of your ear, making you giggle, hunching more so he’s spooning you around more, “I like your skin, babe,” he murmurs by your ear, “so soft… I’ve never felt someone with skin as soft as yours…” and he manages his lips over to your cheek, to kiss there once before laying back, still exhausted.
Louis - and he’s lain flat, arms spread out of him, still panting and it takes him a while to catch his breath, so you nuzzle up, wrapping one leg over his thighs and one arm over his stomach, holding until he leans down to grab your fingers and entwine them with his. “You’ll be the death of me, babe,” he groans out, swallowing, voice still cracked in half like his orgasm, “you’re wild…” and he hugs you, threading your fingers and easing them up, out from under the blankets to catch some of the cool breeze from an open window, “but I love it…”
Zayn - and he’s hugging you, crouched body to face you the same way yours is, knees touching and his arms extended to you, holding you, in sweat and exhausted breath that you can’t catch. His hair is still a mess above his head, this crazy jump of tufts, “tonight was kind of perfect, babe…” and he means it, the same way he always does when he says it, almost every time when he can remember, forehead to forehead and sweat still clung to skin like film, “you’re kind of perfect, (Y/N)…” and he finds your lips, kissing them sweetly.
Niall - and he has his arms draped around you lazily, pale chest still heaving and there’s a little light in the room from a creamy moon dipped low in the sky, curtains tugged open to let it all in. His lips keep hurrying across your hairline, “I don’t think I’m gonna be able to walk in the morning, babe,” and he chortles the line, groggy voice chuckling, still a little hoarse because he’s so vocal, he’s always vocal, and it makes you laugh later on, “so you might have to carry me, babe, hope you can handle it…” and he winks at you, skinny arms still holding you weakly.
