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Goosebumps

Louis: 'Goosebumps' was the series he mistakenly read to his children before bedtime one night. All is well in the house (and he checked all locks -- once, twice, even three times before falling asleep) up until one in the morning when little feet scamper across the room and catapult right inbetween your joined bodies. "Dad," your little boy whispers, clawing at his father's arm until Louis wakes up with foggy eyes, "I'm scared." He's not one of the dads to teach their children how to be strong or how to deal with the monsters under their beds by themselves. He welcomes the emotion of fear and tucks his young one beneath his arm, running his fingers through his short but shaggy hair until he starts to fall asleep. "Nothing to be scared of," he confirms softly, one hand over yours and the other carding through your son's hair, "It's just a book. Daddy's got you." Everyone falls asleep, safe and sound.

Niall: Hatred was the word to be described between the two of you. It isn't until a school field trip that he genuinely makes an effort to be kind. During a tour of the camp site, he caught your eye from across the way, and with an incredulous eye roll directed towards you, he noticed you didn't have a jacket. "You're such an idiot," he spat at you minutes later when he stayed behind to wait for you at the end of the group, watching everyone else go ahead, "Take this." He tossed you his hoodie and didn't give you another glance before stomping along the pathway behind the rest of the class. You studied the fabric in your hand; it was warm, thick, smelling slightly of pine cones and mens' cologne. Your heart does this weird thing beneath your chest, constricting your lungs. You stare at his back as he walks away and though you can't see his face, you get the odd feeling that he's smiling as you slip on his clothing.

Liam: Walking along the pier, hand-in-hand, it isn't long until the wind incorporated with the water creates a breeze that carries a blossom of shudders down the entire length of your body. Goosebumps scatter along every crevice of your body, bringing his attention onto your cold hand engulfed in his. "I feel like I'm watching The Notebook," he mutters with a laugh as he shrugs out of his leather jacket and starts to drape it over your shoulders, "This is so very cliche." His words die out in the back of his throat as he looks down at you in his oversized jacket (far too large for you, when it's just the right proportion for him). "And you're so very cute...," he mumbles softly, unaware that your goosebumps have tripled since his affectionate words. Moments later, he snaps out of it, offering you his hand again and bumping your hip lightly with his. "Come on. I'll buy you a hot chocolate. That should warm you up."

Zayn: Nerves clawed their way into your stomach and threatened to empty every content out. Goosebumps prickled at your skin and shivers ran down your spine, nausea crawling up and your confidence slowly decimating. He finds your hiding spot quicker than anyone else would ever be able to, and he crouches down next to you with his hand resting comfortingly against the small of your back. "Hey," he whispered, "Hey, look at me. What is there to worry about?" You feel the sickness rising in your stomach again, your face blanching. "Everything," you whispered, your breath hitching in your throat, "I have everything to worry about -- it's too much stress -- I'm too nervous -- " Without a word, he gathers you into his arms and squeezes the negativity out of you, brushing your hair back for every goosebump that appears on your skin. "You can do this," he murmurs, "I can't do this for you, but I'll always be here."

Harry: "You have goosebumps," he murmurs in your ear as he glides his hands down your back, causing you to bite down harder on the pillow as you laid on your stomach, exposed and all for him. "Why is that, do you think?" Another flutter of bumps raise the hairs on your arms and the back of your thighs as he traces the lining on your hipbones and turns the direction of his hand so it's underneath your body, pressed against your nervous stomach. "Do I do things to you?" It's another unanswered, rhetorical question, so he nips at the sensitive skin of your ear and tugs down until you elicit a gasp. "Are you wet?" he whispers, resting his hand against the redness of your ass until he's pushing you all the way down, farther into the mattress and firmly enough so you're immobilized there. "How wet are you for me? How much do you want me to fuck you?" He lifts your head up, twists his fingers in your hair. "You can speak."