5 Seconds of Summer Preferences

The beach

Credit (lashtonomfg)
Calum: It would be an understatement to say that you were making a nuisance of yourselves in the knee-deep break zone, collecting seaweed and flinging it at each other like naughty children having a good time. Even the sun, which had been burning down mercilessly throughout the whole five hours you'd been in the water, is dimming, probably getting tired of both yours and Calum's insistence to muck around with each other and disrupt the other beach goers. However, the main victims of your seaweed wars are middle aged mothers and fathers keeping eyes on their young toddlers, splashing about in the shallows. The only thing keeping them from giving you two a piece of their mind is the absolutely gorgeous giggles and smiles directed at you two from their kids, as you both blunder past laughing and shouting your heads off. Calum's gotten you a beauty, sneaking up behind you as you are bent over searching for a clump of the salty plant, yanking on your bikini bottoms and stuffing it down and slapping your ass afterwards. "Calum! This is officially war!" you scream as he tumbles into a small wave from laughing until his balance had failed him. So you approach two small boys, probably brothers that have been watching on entertained and you challenge them to find as much seaweed as they can and ambush Calum. Once they have their weapons, you, with your two 4 foot minions in tow, run at Calum from three different directions and smother him with the slime, in which he crumples into the break and screams for mercy through his hiccoughing laughter. By the time that the sun has set and the lifeguard flags are long gone, you and Cal stumble from the shallows, both light headed from laughter, when he grabs you and looks at you softly. Against your forehead he presses his, and once your eyes are closed he slips a bit of seaweed into your mouth, and he's won (much to your disgust.)
Luke: He's not particularly interested in going into the water, after reading the lifeguard report board and discovering the abundance of blue bottles present on that day. So he, and consequently you, settle for building sandcastles on the beach. At first you're a bit reluctant, ("What'll people think, a 6" teenage boy and his girlfriend building stuff out of sand like 5 year olds?" "Who gives a fuck what anyone else thinks?") but you're soon drawn into his infectious giggles and childlike concentration like a rip dragging you out in the ocean. You find yourself sitting down next to him, and he smirks like he knows he's convinced you, he's finally won something over you. So you pout and extend your foot to stomp on his creation still undergoing development, and the way he gasps and looks across at you simultaneously guilts and humors you. "Alright," he begins., sounding melodramatic. "I challenge you to a sandcastle building contest." He crosses his arms and pokes his nose into the air, eyeing you down, awaiting your reaction. All you do is scoff, "You're on, Hemmings." Already he's underway, scooping enormous amounts of sand with his pale arms and squinting in determination against the sun. It distracts you momentarily, and you have to admit that you're kind of attracted to the way he's taking this so seriously, he's so passionate about this tiny thing. But for the amount of soul you don't apply to this challenge, he compensates for, which you can see in his elaborately built sand palace, decked with walls, four towers and a shell on top of each that he skittered down to the water's edge to collect. By the time that he's done, you've finished half of yours, and it looks pretty shit, you admit to yourself. He looks over at you as you purposefully make a big deal of putting a small shell on top of your dilapidated sand-pile (because it's really not much more than that) and he nearly dies laughing. You flush and defensively threaten, "Pipe down, I'm not afraid to ruin that castle too," in which he immediately clamps his mouth shut and protectively wraps his body around his creation. "You wouldn't dare," he tries to say with a straight face, but all he has to do is look down again and he's too far gone for even your childish wails and threats to contain. "Sorry baby," he chokes. "Do you want to help me finish mine?"
Michael: Michael's not really one for the sand scene, so for your "beach date", he's more comfortable up on the playground, where he can go on the swings and terrorize small children when their parents aren't looking. And it's definitely not mean, pushing in front of 5 year olds on the slide and taking extra long on the monkey bars, because the playground is public, right? It's the one place Michael feels physically superior, and there is literally nothing that can stop him from relishing in that for as long as he can possibly manage. You and him put together have probably made two kids cry already, and put a whole other bunch on the verge of a tantrum because "You've been on the swing for ages!" "No I haven't kid, you're deluded." And you think it's pretty cute the way that he grins and swings his legs out so clumsily, because for God's sake, where do limbs that long even fit, anyway? You're behind him, pushing him higher and higher, jumping as he swings back every time to reach and he's yelling out, "Higher! Higher!" and you're breathing hard and trying not to double over from laughing. It's then that Michael decides to show off in front of you, and on the forward swing, he tenses and leaps from the seat, soaring metres through the air, nearly wiping out a seven year old girl and her smaller brother on the way down. The landing isn't as graceful as he'd planned, but the only way that he hurts himself is by laughing too hard. And you're nearly on the ground as well, because you've never seen anything as utterly ridiculous as him. After Michael's stomach muscles are not contracting and spasming from his fits of laughter, he's decided that he is exhausted, and you two lie down on the grass overlooking the ocean, his head snuggled under the crook of your arm, your heart beat in time with his breathing.
Ashton: Everything is going pretty well out on the water; the sun's shining, the waves aren't dumpers but they're big enough to get in a good surf, what could not be perfect? Ashton's taken you down to the headland for a casual surfing date, and you agreed because damn does he look good without a shirt on. Whilst you're on your board, floating and kicking water at the giggling loser opposite you on his respective board, something very thin brushes against your leg, so faintly that you don't even notice until a few moments later, and it has started stinging with intense vigour. And Ashton, being Ashton, knows something is up straight away and paddles over with a concerned expression clouding his usual happy-go-lucky face. "Bub, you all good?" Without responding, you pull your leg up onto your board to reveal two thin strips of irritated and slightly raised skin on your shin, the place where the bluebottle has contacted your skin. Trying to tune out the throbbing ache, you motion to it and faintly nod that you are fine. Ashton scoffs, "No way, you need to get it treated," and he starts paddling in, holding on to your own board. He seems a bit hesitant when you protest and tell him that you can paddle perfectly fine, but he backs off anyway. Once you're onto the beach and have a bottle of warm water on the sting, Ashton is able to relax slightly, because at least he knows that your pain is at a minimum. And the way that he rubs your hand with his thumb with such concern in his eyes eases the pain even more, because how can anything hurt you whilst you are in love him? "Looks like we aren't going out on the boards again today, babe," he tells you under his breath. "Let's go get hot chips instead," you offer, and his eyes meet yours, and all the heat from the welt on your leg has immediately flushed your cheeks. "I like that idea," he whispers into your hair, afterward pressing a kiss onto the crown of your head. "Let's go," he says excitedly, lifting you bridal style, much to your surprise, laughter and incessant protests of "put me down, Irwin!"