5 Seconds of Summer Preferences

Swearing

Author's Note: 

Guys! I haven't added anything in, like, months. I feel so bad about that, honestly. To the...very few readers I have, I am truly sorry. 

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MICHAEL:

"Bitch," you say, smirking with narrowed eyes at Michael.

"Asshole," he grins back.

"Douche bag," you retort, raising your eyebrows. Just as Michael goes to reply, Ashton cuts in, phone in hand.

"Guys!!" he yells at the camera, "They're having another insult contest! There's lots of creative swearing!"

"Quiet!" Michael yells, "It's my turn; dickhead."

"Dickwad," you fire back without thought, emphasizing the end of the word.

"Motherfucker."

"Fucktard."

"Oh, good one," you hear Calum mumble, his phone also pointing at the two of you.

"Shithead," Michael says, trying not to laugh.

"Douche-nugget," you say, a common insult between your brothers and you when you were younger, and all three boys erupt with laughter.

Once it's quieted down, you hear Ashton scream happily, "(Y/N) wins!!"

CALUM:

"Those shits won't do their part. How dare they?" you rant, stomping your way into Calum's and your flat.

"Babe?" you hear Calum call, but you pay no attention to him, dropping your bag and coat onto the table before stomping into the kitchen.

"Motherfuckers don't think they have to do their work," you continue to rage to yourself, "It is not  my fucking job to get those dumb asses a good grade."

"Whoa," you hear Calum chuckle as he walks into the kitchen, "I was going to ask how your day went, but it sounds like it didn't go well."

"It was fucking awful," you snap in an irritated tone, turning around to open the fridge, starring at its contents in disappointment.

"I can tell by the language," Calum says, leaning against the counter next to you and crossing his arms. You turn, and, by his expression, it's obvious that your swearing is amusing him.

"Shut up," you snap before slamming the fridge shut and walking out of the kitchen empty-handed. You plop down onto the couch, arms crossed, and Calum follows suit.

"Was it something I said?" Calum puts in a semi-joking tone, sitting down next to you.

"You're being an asshole," you huff, his expression lightening your mood slightly, "Most boyfriends would comfort me, but NO...you make fun of me."

"Aw," he laughs, pulling you into his side for a hug, "I'm sorry, baby; you're just so cute when you're mad."

ASHTON:

"Dammit," you hear Ashton say from the other room, his drumming stopping, as you sit in your seat on the couch.

As the sound of his drums fills your flat once again, you make your way to the room that the noise is coming from. Ashton bangs away at his drums, taking no notice to your presence in the doorway.

"Fuck," he says louder than last time, stopping again, Soon enough, he's going again, only to cut off and let out a string of cuss words just like he did only moments ago.

You let out a small laugh, and he looks up at you, obviously frustrated.

"What's wrong?" you ask, walking over to stand behind him.

"I can't get this fucking song right," he tells you angrily, his exasperated gaze meeting yours, "I've been practicing for three damn hours, and I still can't get it."

"You'll get it," you assure him, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind, allowing you to rest your head on top of his, "You always do."

"Obviously not," he grumbles before putting down his drumsticks in an angry, yet careful manner, "I give the fuck up."

"Bad attitude," you laugh, "Come on, why don't you take a break?"

He only sighs before nodding and following you out of the room.

LUKE:

(Author's Note: Yet again: hockey. Sorry guys, I just ran out of ideas.)

"Fuck!" you yell, anger growing as you miss the corner pocket of the net, again. It was a beautiful day outside, so you decided to go outside and work on your aim on your home net. Needless to say, it wasn't going too hot.

"He," Luke calls just as he steps outside, but you only huff in reply. He takes a seat on the grass next to your sheet of synthetic ice, watching you, "What's wrong?"

You ignore his question, taking another shot. It goes in, but once more misses the pocket, "God dammit!"

"Whoa there, hockey girl,"  Luke starts, now sounding serious, "Language."

"English," you reply sarcastically, earning you a look. Even though himself and the boys always do it, Luke doesn't like it when you swear. You take another shot.

"You know what I mean," he rolls his eyes, "Pretty girls don't swear."

"Good thing I'm only average, then," you respond monotonously, not looking up as you continue to shoot at the net.

"Well, I think you're pretty, and my opinion is really the only one matters," Luke states matter-of-factly, "So stop with the cussing."

"I'll try," you drawl sarcastically. You shoot for another 15 minutes, Luke watching, until you successfully land a puck in the top left corner pocket.

"Fuck yeah!!" you cheer, proud of yourself, making Luke flinch at your word choice.

"Hockey players," he mutters, making you grin.