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One direction and 5 Seconds of Summer preferences and images

Fiksi Penggemar

Look up with yo eyes... Most are from Tumblr, so credit goes to their makers. I do images, so feel free to request! If you want one just inbox me : ) I have two other preference books (2 and 2.0) check them out! C O M M E NT, V O T E, AND R E Q...

3 AM

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by niallhoranforever993

by niallhoranforever993

<li class="chat_line" style="outline: none 0px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); box-sizing: border-box; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 6px;">Louis: You wake up with a fuzzy mindset, the previous hours of drinking doing something hazardous to your memories that you so desperately wanted to keep a hold of in order to stay sane. It's not until you turn your back to the clock that reads three in the morning do you see (and feel) another body in the same bed as you, wrapped underneath the same quilt, smelling the same as the fabric on the pillow underneath your head. "Louis," you breathe out. You scramble up in bed. The commotion wakes him up and he too has the same reaction, staring at you with wide eyes until he blinks multiple times, like he's trying to remember if this is reality. Alcohol was the only thing to blame for your scandalous actions, but looking at him and his messed up hair and bleary eyes, you know it was your feelings that made you kiss him in the first place.</li>

<li class="chat_line" style="outline: none 0px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); box-sizing: border-box; list-style-type: none; padding: 6px 0px; background-color: #fdfdfd; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Niall: Sleep doesn't come easy for you at this time, your eyes too preoccupied to shut on their own accord. You watch as his calloused fingers rhythmically pluck away at the guitar strings, a pad of paper and pen next to his side; you could observe him write music every night and never need a moment of sleep ever again, content with simply just this. Every now and then, after one of his hands are free and he's using the other to write, he'll place his fingers into your hair and stroke back a piece that has been bothering him every since the last time (within the previous ten minutes) he played with your hair. "You can sleep if you're tired," he says softly, handing you a gentle smile, "I can go into the living room if it's keeping you up." Your hand wraps around his bicep before he can move. "No. I love watching you play."</li>

<li class="chat_line" style="outline: none 0px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); box-sizing: border-box; list-style-type: none; padding: 6px 0px;">Liam: Piled into the back of a taxicab together, it's a given that your thigh is going to brush against his more than once and send jolts through your body, down to the very soles of your shoes. Out of the corner of his eye, he's glancing at you nervously -- his palms sweaty as he rubs them against his thighs to help remove some of the tension he's received just by smelling your perfume. He's not sure what triggered it (the fact that his lips were on yours before the taxi driver even knew what was going on in the backseats); whether it be how you smelled or how your damn leg kept pressing up against his or how he'd been pining for you all night. Either way, his hand found itself on the front of your dress, pushing it up so it bunched around your hips. "Come home with me," he rasped out, "I want to fuck you, I need -- I have to, you taste so good."</li>

<li class="chat_line" style="outline: none 0px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); box-sizing: border-box; list-style-type: none; padding: 6px 0px; background-color: #fdfdfd; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Zayn: Lips ghost over your collarbone and neck with the lightest of pressure. Eyes glazed over and heat beating frantically beneath your chest, you push your hips up to meet his and smile with satisfaction when he accommodates the friction with his own. "I can't get enough of you," he murmurs, his fingers sprawled in the hair at the nape of your neck. Your mouths meet again only seconds later, his leg inbetween yours to keep them spread, all in his favor. His fingertips move south, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples and then head down to the button of your belly. "Zayn," you whisper in his ear, a broken whimper, "Please." Three a.m. turns into the morning with your messy hair fanning around his bare chest like a halo, his body wrapped around yours as his hands situate themselves on your bruised hips.</li>

<li class="chat_line" style="outline: none 0px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); box-sizing: border-box; list-style-type: none; padding: 6px 0px 0px;">Harry: Light spills from the computer screen, illuminating the room in a faded blue hue. Blunt fingernails tap mercilessly against the keyboard, sharp and angry breathing leaving the mouth every other moment. With one glance at the bright red numbers from the alarm clock, you know it's early -- far too early -- for him to be at it again. "Harry." And you touch his arm delicately with your fingers and soothingly stroke them down to his hand where you clasp it tightly over the mouse. "It's three a.m., Harry. Not now. You need to sleep." A muffled sob comes from his mouth and he pushes the laptop away from his knees, curls brushing his wet eyes. "I know. I'm trying," he whispers, and it's enough of a promise for you to cradle his head in your arms and pull him down to you, where he stays all night, eyes not once shutting until seven in the morning.</li>

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