One Direction and 5SOS preference book 2.0

Slow dancing

Harry: Sometimes Harry can’t sleep. Maybe it’s the jet lag, maybe it’s the thoughts running through his head, maybe he’s actually an insomniac, but whatever the reason, sleep eludes him. He’s prone to taking wandering strolls or sitting in the kitchen scribbling in his journal. But not tonight. “Get up!” Harry whisper shouts at you, and you’re jolted awake by the pile of clothing that lands on your face. “Wha’ the hell, Harry?” He’s racing around the bedroom trying to tug on boots and a beanie at the same time before chucking another jacket at you. “Let’s go, sleepyhead.” And by this point in your relationship, you really don’t question it because…well, Harry does random stuff like this sometimes. So after you’re dressed in eight layers with one of his scarves wrapped around your neck, he’s tugging you into the middle of the empty street. “What are we doing, Ha—” “Shh.” He places a gloved hand over your mouth as he fiddles with something on his phone. And then all of a sudden, a grainy version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love with You” is filling the air around you. Harry smiles softly at you and tugs you into his chest. His breath is warm against your cheek as he hums along to Elvis and spins you in a slow circle. He’s got one hand at the small of your back, fingers splayed around your hip, and your heart’s fluttering weakly because, Jesus, Harry can turn on the charm sometimes and it tends to take your breath away.

Liam: You’re slowing dancing in a burning room. He knows it. You know it. The boys know it. Everyone knows it. The only question is when the fire will turn to smoldering embers, and the two of you will be left standing in the wreckage. And the real problem is that you have no idea what’s wrong, no idea where it all sort of fell apart. One day you’re laughing in the park, smashing ice cream into his nose, and the next you’re standing in the doorway of your bedroom shouting at him. He’s been sleeping on the couch more than he’s been sleeping next to you. And you know he can hear your sniffles when he shuffles to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Life’s just business as usual—silent dinners, coming home drunk at 3am, screaming matches in front of the boys, sitting as far away as possible from each other. It doesn’t make sense. You were the couple. You were supposed to stay together. You were the ones who were supposed to make it. Now you’re crumbling under the pressure of everything Liam brings with him. (continued)

Louis: You shove your half-eaten alfredo around your plate, feeling a little queasy as you look at the stunning boy sitting across from you. He’s been nothing but a gentleman all evening—picking you up with a rose held nervously in front of him and then taking you to dinner at a nice restaurant on the marina. There’s a light breeze on the patio, and of course Louis got up and draped his blazer over your shoulders. As first dates go, this ranks high on the list. You’re sitting here chatting and laughing with one of most genuine people (and, okay, richest and most famous) in the world. Eventually the chocolate cake gets eaten and the last of the wine gets drunk. The music starts, and Louis pushes his chair back and is standing next to you. “May I have this dance, m’lady?” “Of course.” With a smile, he takes your hand and leads you onto the makeshift dance floor next to the water. Otis Redding starts singing and Louis pulls you close, and you can’t help but sink further into him because for some reason this just feels right. You’ve got your arms wrapped around his neck and his hands are clasped behind your back, one thumb rubbing against your spine. “I’m having a good time with you.” “Me too,” you whisper into his chest.

Niall: “C’mon, let’s go dance.” “You serious?” you ask. Niall isn’t usually one for dancing, especially slow dancing, in public. Sometimes if you’re feeling silly, he’ll spin you around the kitchen in your bare feet and messy apron while he plants sloppy kisses on your cheek. But he’s never been one for actually dancing at after parties. The next song begins, and you smile because it’s one of Niall’s favorites. He’ll hum the lyrics against your skin while you’re brushing your hair and wrap his hands around your waist so that his fingers spread across your stomach. His hands are a little stiff now under all this attention because as soon as he stands up a thousand eyes are watching you. Hell, they’re probably taking pictures and videos too, and in a few hours, your flushed face and terrible dancing is going to be all over the internet. But for some reason, you don’t care. You could not give less of a fuck. Because Niall ditched his jacket a long time ago, and you can feel the smooth planes of his shoulders under your fingers. Because when he softly sings along, the words brush across your hair. He smells a bit like champagne, and maybe you’re both a little drunk and swaying slightly. But who cares? You’re young and together and happy. So for now you dance and fall a little deeper in love.

Zayn: Your hands are clammy and shaking a little, and you try to rub them discreetly against your dress. But Zayn notices. (He always notices.) “It’s alright, babe. The worst is over. Now it’s just a party.” He grabs your left hand (the one that’s been shaking the most) and runs his lips over the two bands now adorning your ring finger. “Ready?” You nod, taking a shuddering breath before grabbing the lapels of his tuxedo and pulling him down so you can kiss him hard. “Ready.” He chuckles and swipes at the lipstick smudging the corner of your mouth. The two of you take a deep breath and push open the doors to the reception hall. Applause echoes through the room along with a couple hoots and whistles (probably from the lads). The band stops playing, and the lead singer clears his throat. “If you all could clear the dance floor, the bride and groom are going to have their first dance.” The few couples that had been on the dancing together earlier now depart and give the two of you warm smiles. And then all of a sudden, before you have time to really process what’s happening, Zayn’s got one arm around your waist and the other holding your hand and At Last begins crooning out of the speakers. You almost collapse into him as the pressure of everything that’s been building for this day finally dissipates with one note. All that matters is that you can feel Zayn and smell him and hear your new name being murmured from his lips. “I love you Mrs. Malik.” (Oh God, there’s butterflies in your stomach and maybe in your toes too.) You don’t try to hide your beaming and just tuck into his chest with a content sigh and sway along with him.