John/Dave and One Direction.
What else can you ask for?
(forgive me. Really. just… I’ve had too much coffee and mainstream radio for my own good.)
You’re both just hanging out in your room, dorking around. You’re sitting on the bed immersed in an old game of Pokemon that you’d never finished and he’s laying on the floor surrounded in books, swinging his stocking feet through the air to an unmatchable rhythm.
Honestly, you’d given up your game a while ago just to stare at his ass as his leg muscles flex ever so slightly. Thank god for thin pajama pants because you got to see everything going on there. That ass was totally yours.
“Oh my god, I love this song!” John squeals, breaking your hard stare at the place where his shirt is riding up. He scrambles from his spot on the floor to turn up the stereo. You’d compiled a list of ironic mainstream music that really no one should like. Every song was horrible in it’s own miserable way. You could seriously shit out better music.
And you only liked to listen to this playlist for completely ironic purposes.
John however, is bubbling with excitement as he goes through the trouble to press the back button and start the song over because he’d missed a few seconds. The stupid guitar starts playing and there is John, swivling his hips as he turns the tune up even louder.
“Jegus fucking Christ.” you groan, digging your fingertips into your temples.
“You’re insecure. Don’t know what for. You’re turning heads when you walk through the do-o-or.” he’s pointing at you and singing out of tune and dancing his way over.
Oh fuck no. This can’t be happening. How high was he? Seriously. This is ridiculous. “John, stop it.” you warn, glaring at him through the tint of your shades.
“Don’t need make-up, to cover up. Bein’ the way that ya are is e-nou-ou-ough!” he’s coming straight at you.