One Direction preference

113. Kissing You Where It Hurts

Harry - and he was delicate about it. So delicate like fingertips ghosting your skin, hovering to where it almost wasn’t real, an illusion that still pricked every little hair up, rose goosebumps from below the surface of your skin. He lay you down in bed, shifting the covers with one arm and you could wriggle further down yourself, but he didn’t let you do much, hoisting you down to laying, buried in the covers where he had you, and each fingertip left a trail over your skin, like a dozen paths he was following to get to something over you, where his lips made it. He rolled your shift upwards and kissed a line around the bruise you’d given yourself, puckering his mouth around it at first before he covered the yellow and purple with warm breath, delicate the way he kissed softly, brushing his bottom lip over like paint to make it okay.

Liam - and he was careful about it. He didn’t want to make it worse somehow, when he set you down on the toilet seat, holding your frame in his hands to keep you from falling, smiling down but his eyes worried over the cut on your knee, where he let his fingertips brush at first, before he leant over, searching the sink cupboard for the gauze. He pressed it gently and blew cool air enough to make you shiver but you didn’t. He kissed the refined edges of the material when he taped the edges, kissing a line around it like he were sealing it that way. He kissed in spots he’d already kissed around the area, holding your leg in one hand, other leg in the other hand. He looked up, kneeling in front of the way you were sitting, sighing through the same lips he used to kiss. 

Louis - and he was apologetic about it. Because, even if you’d never say it out loud, it was his fault your hips were bruised, the way he’d needed you so much last night, needed your taste, to growl down into you and push his way through you all the way to the other side. He lay down with you and held his body up, hovering over you before he wriggled down for his lips to meet your middle. He looked down, casting long lashes down to see the small marks his hands had made, faint but they looked deeper the more he looked at them, before he covered them with his lips, kissing softly, drawing it all back up and kissing again. He pressed his lips to the darkest mark, on your right hip, and simply held them there, not quite a kiss but you could feel it, warm where you could feel the tiny exhale every few seconds, comforting where you knew it was him.

Zayn - and he was sweet about it. Sweet in the way you smiled because of it, because you had no other choice but to laugh at his effort, his hands fumbling around your ankle and how swollen it was, pressing the pads of his thumbs to either side, testing how hard he could push before it hurt you to feel it. He tilted his head to one side and asked every time if it hurt or if he could keep going, to see how bad it was. He caught your wince every time, and that’s when he decided to use his lips over his fingers, kissing softly and pressing as gently as he could, smiling up at you every time that you said it was okay, even if you were lying and he knew it, you’d go through it to feel his lips graze your skin again. 

Niall - and he was romantic about it. Kisses a little too feverish considering it was only a leg cramp, but you didn’t mind, the way he travelled up and down your leg, kissing in spots that seemed random before you realised he had a pattern, hearing a soft hum escape, the lyrics to a song you’d heard before when he kissed each time, placing the lines down along your skin. The soft vibrations you felt were so close, almost too close but it was all you wanted, stubble he barely had grazing your skin and his lips softening with each tender touch. He blinked, looking up at you from under his lashes, before he smirked, to ask if he was making you feel better but he knew he was, lips pressing again.