Ashton: “X’s on the back of your hands, wash them in the bathroom to drink like the bands”
You waltz into the bathroom, nonchalance radiating in all of your actions. In all reality, you are a nervous mess inside. Checking to make sure the washroom is clear, you quickly scrub the backs of your hands, wiping away any trace of the X’s written in black permanent marker the bouncer had drawn there. Who cares if you are underage? What harm will one drink do? The bartender doesn’t even question your order once he sees the backs of your hands are clear. As you wait, you lean against the bar. “Aren’t you a little young to be drinking?” you hear a deep voice ask from your right. You peer over at the tall lad: he has two drumsticks clutched in one hand, a drink in the other. Raising an eyebrow, you retort, “Aren’t you?” He smirks, holding up his drumsticks. “Perks of being in the band, love.” The bartender hands you your drink, and you swallow some, feeling the fire roll down your throat. As you are fishing money out of your clutch, the young man places a hand over yours, halting your actions. He hands the bartender a few bills. “This one’s on me,” he says, winking.
Luke: “She wants to touch me, whoa, she wants to love me, whoa”
He is a cocky bastard. You watch the blond from across the room, observing how he interacts with women. The overconfident look never leaves his face, displaying just how much he knows he’s hot and how every girl wants him, even some boys. You simultaneously love and hate it. Confidence is always hot on a man, but too much can be a major turn off for you. He must feel your eye burning a hole in his back because he turns and meets your gaze. Dammit, he has ice blue eyes: your weakness. The tall lad swaggers over, sidling up next to you. “Hey, beautiful,” he mutters in a husky voice you bet has most women draping themselves over him. But you aren’t like most women. If he’s so used to girls touching and loving him on sight, you are going to give him a challenge. You don’t reply, watching out of the corner of your eye as he starts to crumble. “What’s your name, love?” he asks, trying once again to get your attention. You turn to him as if you’ve just noticed his presence. “You’re going to have to try harder to get some of this,” you whisper mere centimetres from his lips before strutting off. He trails after you like a lost puppy.
Calum: “Bruises cover your arms”
Pulling the sleeves of your shirt down lower, you try to ignore the heat flaring in your face as you dance with your friends. They all laugh and smile, enjoying the night in their tank tops and dresses. You hate that you have to wear long sleeves, but there’s no way you’re going to show off your blue and purple spots. Later, as you decide to take a break from dancing before you faint, you find yourself sitting at a small table with a glass of water sweating in front of you. Without even thinking about it, you push up your sleeves, unable to take the heat anymore. Cool fingers ghost over your arms, shocking you. Instantly, you go to push the sleeves down once more, but the fingers stop you. You turn your watering eyes up to meet dark brown ones. “I’m Calum,” the guy says, sitting down in the empty chair next to you, bringing it closer to yours. “Let me help you,” is all he says. The rest of the night is spent with him listening to you. Eventually, he tells his friends to leave without him, you doing the same to yours. When you finally leave, you have his number and a promise that he will help you any way possible.
Michael: “Talk with your hips”
Calloused hands find your waist, pulling you close to their owner. Your rhythm is thrown off from the unexpected touch. You tilt your neck so you can see the culprit holding you hostage against him. A shock of white blond hair all but glows in the darkness of the club, a smirk playing on full lips. “Um, hi,” you dorkily say, at a loss for words; this isn’t a normal occurrence for you. Seconds later, lips are at your ear, whispering huskily, “Just talk with your hips.” You blink. But you begin to sway to the pulsing beat again, slowly gaining your rhythm back as the shock dies down. The blond matches your moves, his hips following yours. His hands traverse your body, sliding up and down your curves in slow, appreciating movements. The pair of you moves to the music, you forgetting the fact that you’ve only just met this young man. As you gain confidence, you lean your head back on his chest, trailing a hand down his frame. “I’m (Y/N),” you tell him, spinning in his hold to face him. He smiles, leaning close to your ear again. “Call me Mike,” he says.
