One Direction | Preferences

Too Hot

Too Hot

Niall: He suggests the game when he’s a little drunk and you’re a little infatuated, because he’s all grabby hands and cloudy eyes when he’s wasted, pulling you down to straddle him on the couch, smoothing his hands over your bare thighs – your skirt having pulled up even further - before pulling you down to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Let’s play too hot, baby,” he says, words slurring a bit on the way out of his mouth, and you laugh, shaking your head. “You wouldn’t last ten seconds.” He groans, forehead furrowing, “Please? I wanna play.” You tuck your hair onto one shoulder out of the way, gleaming. “Okay, fine, ready?” He laughs, head all fuzzy, and waits happily as you dip down, lips parted. He doesn’t even make it five seconds.

Harry: He’s trapped you against a wall, your legs wrapped around his waist, marvelling a little at the fact that he’s supporting you, and he’s grinning that wolfish smile at you, all pink lips and sparkling eyes, his hair curling from the humidity in the house, so many crammed in for the party. But here, in your secluded bedroom (you’re not even sure who’s it is) his first request is to play Too Hot. You’re a little flustered, because you can feel his stomach pressed to yours and his fingers are resting warmly on your hip, so you agree without really thinking, and soon you’re tucking your hands behind your back and he’s insisting on bending the rules just a little so he can keep holding you up, and then his mouth is on yours, tasting like lime and all teeth nipping at your lips, tongue pressing in. You’re hands are in his hair within thirty seconds, but he doesn’t seem to mind, his hand was up your shirt within twenty.

Liam: He’s grinning as he leans in, all warm breath that smells like mint and you lose all thoughts for a second as soon his mouth connects with yours, but you’re soon furrowing your brow, curling your hands into fists on your lap because you will not lose this. He’s already won five games of Fifa today, this you will win. He sighs quietly, tongue flicking over your lower lip before tilting his head further, deepening your kiss. You chant over and over in your head ‘don’t move, don’t move, don’t move’ because god, his teeth brush over your lip, sending a shiver down your spine, and it’s hard. But just as your leaning towards going fuck it, Liam’s groaning in defeat, pushing you back down on the couch as his hands fly over your body, in your hair, onto your hips, smoothing down your back, trying to get everywhere at once to make up for lost time.

Louis: He’s all bravado before you start, licking his lips and gleaming before crossing his arms and leaning down to slot his mouth against yours, fitting into place perfectly, knowing just the things to send tingles through your arms. But you’re all quiet determination, nipping gently at his lip and smiling against his mouth when his huffs out a surprised moan, breath stuttering in his chest as your tongue sweeps over his. “Ah, fuck this,” he grumbles, and his hand finds the back of your neck, drawing you closer to him. “I win!” You gloat, although you don’t pull too far back, much too distracted by the fact that his fingers are tucked into the waist band of your jeans, leaning right back in because, does it really matter? You just want to keep kissing him until you run out of air.

Zayn: He tastes like smoke and the outside balcony is cold, and you can practically feel his warmth, sitting on your hands as you kiss, fingers aching to reach up and lace through his hair or rest against his jaw. His stubble is brushing your cheek, and he lets out a breathy sound when he pulls back for a second, trailing lips over your skin before coming back to your mouth, tucking your lip between his. “Zayn, I don’t like this,” you breathe, and before you know it, he’s grabbing you off your chair, pulling you onto his lap, hand tucking inside your jacket to smooth against your sides, the other cradling the back of your head to deepen the kiss. “You’re right, that sucks, I like this much better.”