#Specifically the part where it describes him as having a “perfectly round shiny head”?

[chairarts]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH I'm supposed to be working on NecroFantasia but i'm too distracted. Wanderers banner needs to get here already so I can stop anticipating it. Anyway here's a warmup an attempt at a semi realistic style Wanderer, game style and modern twist.

[matildashoney]

Lipstick Stains

Loving You’s The Antidote Extra

MOODBOARD // PREVIEW(S) // TAG LIST // TAGS

WARNING: THIS IS FILTH ABOUT THE BEAUTY PAPER MAGAZINE. 5.4K OF SMUT. LITERALLY NOTHING BUT SEX AND HARRY’S LIPSTICK.

Harry isn’t blind. He can see that your thighs are pressing tighter together, and your fingers are pinching your lip harder than you originally intended. He can see your eyes flicking from his bare chest to his thighs to the daintily coated lips that were painted in your lipstick that he swiped from the bathroom counter that morning and insisted that he used because it was his favourite shade. Harry smirks, his eyes intently on you as he poses with the photographer’s directions.

Harry knew that you couldn’t stay long. He admired the dedication to your art, you inspired him with how much you love what you do, but there was a selfish part of him that admired your dedication to him possibly a bit more. How selfish is it to love that your lover loves you? He could say very, but he wouldn’t pay much mind to it, especially not when you loved it just as much. Harry loves you, but not the love that you could describe so easily. He loves you like, loves you more than there are stars in the sky and words in the dictionary type of love. That’s where the selfishness comes in a bit. He wanted you all to himself all the time, loving you always.

That could be why Harry couldn’t wipe the smirk away from his lips as you stared at him in the outfit, jaw agape, eyes wide from the corner of the room.

“Don’t worry you’ll get a picture, lovie. Don’t have to bother taking one,” Harry Lambert giggles, knocking his elbow against yours and walking towards the array of costumes and makeup laid out against a counter in the corner of the room. Harry’s whole name is printed on a stray sheet of paper, taped to a director’s chair, presumably for when the crew would be touching up his makeup and getting him ready for the next set.

“Hi,” Harry smirks, squeezing your hand on your thigh as you stare at him. He could feel your eyes piercing holes in his skin, specifically where his tattoos are poking through the tiny holes in the fishnets on his thighs. “God, love, you don’t have to stare.”

“You look,” you say quietly, your eyes dragging along his naked torso and the fishnets clinging to his muscular thighs, the tone and definition that their shape gives making your pelvis tighten and your stomach coil warmly.

“Go on,” Harry encourages, gently parting your legs and slotting his hips between your knees, his hands holding your thighs tightly. “Can smell you from here, doll. Might as well drag me to the toilet and fuck me in there with how much you want it.”

“Harry,” you warn, your thumb pressed against his lips to quiet him, the way his lips kiss your fingertip making your legs heat around his hips, “quiet.”

Harry leans his cheek against yours, his lips brushing your ear, his words making the air knock from inside your lungs. “Can feel how wet you are, baby.” His words are a bare drawl, the seductive whisper making your thighs clench around him, the breathy chuckle released from his throat making you want to attach yourself to his lips until they are swollen and bruised. “Have to take pictures of m’thighs. Can’t bruise them with how tight you’re squeezing.”

“Harry, baby, please.” That phrase alone would usually be enough to have Harry leave you alone. His hormones would become almost too much, his belly tightening, and his cock hardening between his thighs, having to take a breath, walk away for a minute to gain his composure and then come back and continue with you. Harry wouldn’t do that today.

“Can do that later,” Harry smirks, kissing your cheek sweetly, the innocence plastered on his features starkly different compared to the words littered from his tongue. “Can’t wait to have this makeup all over you.”

“Harry,” you stern, your fingertips squeezing his on your thigh, his smile enough to tell you that he is fully aware of what he is doing to you, “cut it out.”

“I’m wearin’ your lipstick, by the way,” Harry notes, ignoring your sternness and reaching around you and grabbing your lipstick from the counter, the smell of his sweat and distant cologne making your skin hot. “Took it this morning before you woke up.”

“You’re ignoring me.” Harry simply smiles, shaking his head as if he has no idea what you’re talking about. He is infuriating, but the way every inch of him is begging to be devoured by you is making your brain malfunction in your thoughts. Change the subject, your brain screams, begging for any relief from the filthy ideas that flowed through every thought. “Might have to get a different shade,” you tease, your fingertips teasing the waistband of the fishnets, his lips pursing together as your hand circles around the front, reaching into the stockings and tugging at the hem of the briefs bunched underneath. “Might want to pull these down a little, too, or you’ll give everyone a show of what’s mine.”

“Getting selfish, now, are we, m’love? Not very like you.”

“That’s when you were my boyfriend,” you justify, your chin leaning against his chest, his fingertips running through your hair as his stare meets yours. “You’re my fiancé, now, which means my rights to being selfish upped a bit.”

“Upped a bit, hm? How much?”

“Upped enough,” you smirk, tilting your head slightly and reaching for his lips. He leans down, his lips moulding against yours innocently and lovingly, the hint of lust tasted beneath the touch. Harry pecks your lips once, twice, three times more before pulling away, squeezing your hips and kissing your hair before nodding towards where the photographer is calling for him. “Don’t take the makeup off before you come home.”

“Oh,” Harry hums with a smile, squinting at you suggestively as he begins to walk towards the selection of suits and costumes for the next shoot. His fishnets and briefs were the only clothing on his figure, and as much as you loved the bareness of him, the throbbing issue between his thighs wouldn’t appreciate the openness to everyone around him. That was for your eyes only. “Few more hours.”

“Good,” you nod, beginning to gather your breath and your thoughts. “Have to go home and get work done, but you’ll have me waiting for you when you get home.”

Harry stutters on his breath as your fingertip drags down his chest, his tongue poking between his lips as you gently nudge him from between your legs, tightening your thighs together, your body tense as you stand on your feet, telling him everything you are thinking without saying a word. “That a promise, then?”

“More than a promise,” you smirk, your eyes fluttering closed as his lips attach to yours delicately, a whimper leaving your mouth inconspicuously as he slowly draws himself away. His stomach is taut beneath your fingertips, the muscles tense and tight to try and avoid melting into you. “Have to go or you might wind up getting dragged into that bathroom.”

“Might want to go home before you make your pants all wet,” Harry chuckles, kissing your temple gently, his arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders as you nudge your fingers into his hip, warning him to be careful of his words. “Make sure you leave them off.”

“Harry,” you murmur into his chest, your voice barely audible to his ears, his lips curved into a widest smirk as he kisses your hair, “you have to be a bit more specific.” Harry’s arms held you tightly against his chest, his hands embracing the warmth on your skin that surely radiated between your thighs.

That’s where Harry wanted to be.

“All of it.”

Harry holds your cheeks softly, kissing your lips deeply, his lipstick – your colour – staining your skin. He mumbles a rounded time that he would be home, the quiet three words of love that you adore hearing, kissing your temple swiftly before walking towards where Harry Lambert stood with his arms crossed and a fingertip poking at his lips, carefully deciding on the outfit for the next cut.

“Love you,” Harry shouts, his olive eyes darkened with lust and a smile painted on his lips to mask the desire. He winks, nodding his head as you blush and begin walking towards the exit with a security guard.

“Love you, too,” you retort, your tone squeaky and unsteady as you try to gather your emotions, the blue suit adorning his figure one of your favourites that have ever been on him. Harry can look perfect in anything. He is well aware of the effect that he has on you. “Text me when you’re on your way home.”

“You got it, baby.”

“Not another kiss,” Harry Lambert sterns to Harry, shaking his head and holding out the loafers that he would pair with the trousers. Harry faux frowns, smirking as the stylist flattens the creases in the suit and perfects every detail. “Can’t mess up your makeup, Harry.”

Harry couldn’t have looked more perfect, with every detail, and you wanted nothing more than to take him home with you. His voice echoed through the studio as you walked away, his favourite colours and authors spewed from his perfectly painted lips, a mutter of his favourite florals mentioned in the midst.

Harry’s favourite flowers are daisies. That you knew. There was a part of you, though, that thought about the night his face was tucked heavenly between your thighs, his lips devouring you, his words barely audible beneath your moans, You’re my favourite flower. His face, glistening and swollen with kisses and shiny with sweat, moved from his favourite spot, Got the prettiest flower and smell the sweetest.

His subtlty is rarely noted in private, opting to tell you what he means, exactly when he means it. His mouth has gotten filthier over the years, particularly when a diamond ring made the transition from a hidden drawer to your finger. His words circled your brain, making it nearly impossible for you to drive home without squeezing your thighs together for pressure. Can feel how wet you are, baby, echoes in your mind, the way you could feel the heat in your thighs as you struggled to make your way home.

Getting inside and situated seemingly took forever, your cat traipsing behind you as her paws lightly bounce against the wooden flooring, the cool air flowing through the open windows, your hands moving around the kitchen to prepare dinner and have the evening prepared for when he came home in a few short hours. His silk robe is tucked tightly on your figure, tied at the waist and protecting your body from the chill that breezed through your home, your toes occasionally covered by tiny paws and orange fur.

Harry will not leave your brain. His stature, his clothing, his body. His features, his makeup, his lips. All of Harry is imprinted in your mind, making your stomach twinge with desire and your core hot against your skin. All that you could want right now is Harry fully in you and on you, smothering you with his body and taking you to where only he knows.

His cock could be felt in you, your memory replaying the sensations that you make you orgasm every time, the way he fills you so fully, so deeply, making your thighs shake. He is everything that you could have wanted, that you could have needed. He is everything.

Hearing Jenny’s ringtone brings your attention to reality, your fingertips flicking off the burner and covering the meal for Harry’s arrival home, your eyes scanning over her message to respond and convey the thoughts in your brain. All of your thoughts are wrapped around Harry, his thighs, the fishnets, the perfectly painted pink lips that you wanted on yours, and the way he could make you feel.

On the couch, Tigger is settled by your feet, turned over and purring lightly in her snooze, unbothered by the dinging by your phone and the flipping of the novel’s pages. Jenny’s response takes much too long, your mind giving up the wait and opening your phone to check the message. Her responses to messages like that usually came within minutes and waiting nearly twenty for a reasonable response was making you impatient.

Harry’s text is what comes as a surprise, a smirk can be heard in his message.

Hope you listened to what I said earlier. Be home soon. Love you. x

Harry is well aware that all you are going to think about until he is home is him. He intends to have it that way.

Nearly an hour passes trying to distract yourself.

Having no concentration or ability to comprehend the words you’re reading, you give up, setting the novel on the end table and making your way into your bedroom, turning on the lights and padding into the bathroom to get ready for bed for the night. Turning the water on in the sink, the sputters of the faucet make your skin prickle with bumps, your arms holding the robe tighter to your chest for warmth.

Making your fingers bare, you set your rings in the delicate bowl on the counter, your engagement ring glimmering beneath the lights on the mirror. Harry’s entrance downstairs makes your ears perk, his voice making your heart beat faster, your knees locking in their position as you stare into the mirror, bringing your hair away from your face, your hairbrush combing through it gently, doing everything to stall and wait for Harry to make his way into the bedroom.

“Daddy is about to do some very suggestive things to Mummy, you have to stay out here,” Harry hums, gently setting Tigger outside the bedroom and closing the door. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, his lips curved into a bright smile, the lipstick staining his plump flesh, his eyeshadow smudged beneath his eyelashes. Harry looks delicious. “Hello, m’love.”

“Hi.” Harry walks to you, tucking his arms around your waist, his lips attaching to the nape of your neck, suckling on the sweet spot that makes a home there. His lips are warm against your cool skin, his hands moving from your hips to the shoulder of the silk, gently sliding it down your chest and exposing your shoulder and collarbone to his mouth.

Harry nudges you around in his hold, the appearance of his smeared lipstick across your skin enough to make his cock pulsate between his thighs. He loves seeing his mark on your skin. Call him selfish for it, but there is nothing like seeing your love absolutely ruined by you. His lips path along your neck, gently suckling on the skin and leaving a stain in every kiss. His smirk widens across his features as your hands grab his cheeks, moving his mouth to yours and bruising his lips in a kiss. “Look at that,” Harry hums delectably, his fingertips tracing your naked shoulder and the curve of your breast from the exposed skin of his robe. “My stubborn girl listened to me. Guessing you don’t have any panties on either.”

“Maybe,” you say, choking on a moan as your breath melts against his, “Can I take your makeup off? Let me do it.”

“Whatever you want, angel,” Harry smiles, tugging lightly on the bow, his body settled on the covered toilet, frowning when your hands grab the ribbon and tie the bow tighter before having it fall apart. “Have some fun with it, doll. Take it off.” Harry’s hands set on your bare thighs, his thumbs drawing along the florals and the constellations mindlessly as you take the rounds and delicately rub them across his skin.

“You’re staring.”

“And? I like staring,” Harry hums with a smile, evidently thinking about something much more intense than simply staring as you gently take the painted beauty away from his skin.

“You should stop,” you warn, doubly warning at his fingertips inching dangerously close to the heat gathered between your thighs, a thick dampness collected at your core from his voice and touch.

“What d’you reckon I do, then? Want me to keep m’eyes closed?” Harry asks with faux innocence, his hand tight on your thigh as his fingertips move closer to where he wants. He has been daydreaming of tasting you all day, especially once you left and he knew how much you wanted him. “Can think of a few things to do with m’eyes closed.”

“Harry,” you stern, your fingertips gripping tightly onto his shoulder as his fingertips graze across your heat, the slickness collected on the skin of your thighs making him on want to get on his knees, right then. “Harry, I reckon you –”

“How good do you think this lipstick will look smeared across your skin right,” he smiles devilishly, his fingertips gently dipping between your folds and collecting the juice that wet your skin, his fingers laid heavenly on his tongue tasting you, sucking you on his skin before continuing, “there.”

“Could depend on if you’re making that a promise or a threat,” you breathe, your fingertips tossing the cotton rounds onto the counter and taking a look at his beautiful and sexy yet destroyed appearance. Tugging lightly at the curls at the nape of his neck, a wide smirk pulls at the corners of his lips as you murmur, “This must be what I look like after you fuck me, huh.”

“Like what?”

“Mascara all smeared, lipstick everywhere, eyes kinda glossy. That’s what I must look like after you give it to me good.”

“Have to assume that would be true, angel,” Harry breathes, his eyes coloured with lust, his fingertips on his thighs beginning to inch their way back to your heat. “Have a feeling you’ll look like this in a few hours.”

“Quite sure of yourself there,” you stutter, trying desperately to collect your thoughts and your voice as his fingertips inch closer to where you need him. “Harry.”

“How long do you think it’ll last if I leave my lipstick all along here?” Harry hums, his hand moving away from your thigh, gently untying the knot on your – his – robe and letting the silk fall apart, his mouth sponging kisses amongst your stomach and attention closely on your hips, the paint staining your skin, his fingertips teasing at your heat as your hands grasp onto his shoulders. “Couldn’t even bother to wear underwear? It’s like you knew what was gon’a happen.”

“Harry,” you moan, your head knocking against your neck, as his fingers gently coax and thrust into your core, perfectly pulsing at the sponginess of your warmth how he knows you love, your fingertips scratching at his scalp as your hips nearly straddle his thigh, your knees on either side and spread for him to have. “Harry, baby.”

“That’s right,” Harry smirks, suckling a mark into your belly, his fingertips gently drawing patterns into you as your thighs shiver. “Know just how you like it. Know that you like when I tell you how much I love how you taste, how you feel, how you make my cock warm. Know all that, don’t I? I do.”

Harry’s fingers are coaxing in and out, your walls squeezing his fingertips as he sponges across your walls, every thrust nearing the sweetest spot that will make you come undone over his hands, his mouth watering at the idea of tasting you so sweetly, patiently waiting all day for his favourite treat.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” you whisper, your core squeezing around him as your stomach clenches, your orgasm rolling through your body, your vision white, your hands shaking as your climax over his fingertips.

“Mhm,” Harry hums happily, his fingers laying on his tongue as he tasted every ounce of you on his skin, his eyes fluttering closed as he soaks in the sweet. “Know you’re not even close to being done with how much you wanted it today, but that was a treat for me and my hard work.”

“That was a treat for you,” you repeat in astonishment, the filthiness of his words making your cheeks blush. He could be your lover for all of your life, and you would never be accustomed to hearing him speak so openly about wanting you that way.

“Always is,” Harry reminds, gently massaging the muscle in your thigh that is tensed, your knees tight around his leg, “You’re like the best treat there is, that’s why I can’t wait to get my mouth on you all the time.” His mouth continues to lightly lay kisses on your belly, humming in contentment as your fingers scratch through his scalp, gently massaging his skin as his arms wrap around your waist. Harry moves back, admiring the stained marks of his lips on your skin, his makeup melted onto you from the balm and the interruption in taking it away. “Oh no, it looks like I got some of that expensive balm on you. Guess we have to take a shower and clean you up.”

Harry takes your silent nod as an agreement, gently moving you away and walking around the toilet to turn the water on, the sputtering against the tile echoing around the room. His fingertips move at the buttons on his waist, unzipping his trousers and slinging them over the tub to be set in the laundry bin. His hand reaches for yours, tugging you into his chest and crashing his lips onto yours. His flesh is soft, swollen from the kisses and bitten lips and rubbing the lipstick. His fingertips delicately pull the silk robe away from your body, laying it somewhere behind you, his mouth only away from yours to toss his printed shirt onto the tile. His movements are soft in contrast to the roughness of the kiss, the neediness and lust and desire felt through every languid taste of his tongue and moan echoed between your locked lips.

“Your choice if you want me to fuck you in here or on the bed,” Harry murmurs against your lips, his hands squeezing your hips, carefully taking a step towards the streaming glass. “Want you to know though, that if it were up to me, m’choice would be to stay in here.”

“Get in the shower,” you sigh, breathing out a loud breath and shaking your head, your hand held tightly in his as you make your way under the water, the steam shading the glass. “You, Harry Styles, are a pain in my ass.”

“Am I? Haven’t tried that one with you,” Harry smirks, his fingertips trailing across your naked body, your curves perfectly fit in his hands, his lips marking your neck and jaw with his colour.

“Off limits,” you warn against his mouth, your eyes narrowing at him as his stare reaches yours, his fingers nudged into your bum, your chest flushed against him under the warm water.

“That’s fine,” Harry hums, his mouth hot against yours. “Get everything else. ‘m more than happy.” Harry could feel his cock hardening between his thighs, uncomfortably moving against his skin, his belly aching to be warm inside of you. “Gon’a let me have you, baby? Need it so bad.”

“Can feel it,” you whisper, your fingers brushing through his hair and blocking the stray strands from falling in his eyes. “Got your lipstick all over me,” you murmur against his cheek, your lips dangerously close to his, “Now, I want something else all over me.”

“Want to act all innocent in front of everyone but as soon as we come home, you’re all over me, wanting me. If only everyone knew how you actually are, hm? Probably wouldn’t even believe me.” Harry’s voice is rasped and thick with lust, his body manoeuvring around the tight space and turning you in his arms, his chest against your back, his teeth nipping at the nape of your neck as he leaves a chaste kiss. “Bet you came home early because your thighs were starting to tense up like they do when you really want me. Is that it, baby? You want me.”

“Want you,” you smirk, rolling your head back against his shoulder, kissing from the cut of his jaw to the corner of his lips, your nails scratching along his arms as his hands trace along your skin, squeezing your thighs playfully. “Need you.”

Harry sucks in a breath, his hands releasing his grip on your thighs, his palm splayed flat against your spine and pushing you lightly to lean over the marble seat. “You wanted to complain about how much I was spending to get a seat in the shower and now look at you, holding onto it for dear life, ready for me to spank you. Don’t think I ever want to hear a complaint out of your pretty mouth again.” His hand rubs your bum soothingly, his fingers bare of his rings, his palm smacking against your skin wetly, the burning sensation making your body vibrate. “Good, you’re so good.”

His eyes are wide as you turn around, your body pressed against the tiled walls, the steam surrounding you and the man hovering over your lips. His mouth is warm, tasting every inch that he can. His lips are bruised with the roughness of your kisses, the way his flesh is swollen with the remnants of your favourite lipstick. He nudges your thigh with his knee, your toes on the marbled seat, your knee locked, his hand roughly pumping his cock to ready himself for you. “Good t’know this seat was the best purchase of m’life.”

“Think it might be second best,” you breathe, your teeth grazing his earlobe as his chuckle sweats against your skin, nudging his nose into your neck and teasing his cock at your heat, giggling breathlessly as bumps prickle at your skin, a sucked in breath echoing in his ear. “My ring better be the best.”

“Gon’a make you m’wife,” Harry smirks, slowly pushing his cock in your core, your warmth swallowing him, his stomach taut and his muscles tense as he stills, your teeth biting into his shoulder, adjusting to his girth, the burning stretch making you moan in his ear. Harry swears that an orgasm could come simply from that moan, the whimper he knows so well, the sound he loves. He takes your thigh and holds you tight around his waist, your knee locked between his, surely going to give as once he begins to knock himself against you. “Got that pretty ring on your finger that cost an arm and a leg, that you fought me about it, bu’ it means that ‘m the one that can fuck you and love you every day for the rest of m’life. Best fuckin’ purchase.”

Harry thrusts heavenly against you, his fingers grasping your waist, his lips bruising your neck in messy kisses. His cock fills you deeply, your walls tight against him, squeezing him, drawing his moans into your skin and his hands to falter in shakiness. He swivels his pelvis, one thrust making your arms squeeze around his shoulders and your jaw to open, pleasured whimpers drawn into his memory, his thumb making his way from your hip to your clit, tracing patterns over the sensitive nerves settled between your thighs, his hand forcing your thigh to say tucked around his waist. His cock throbs inside your heat, his tip sponging against the sweetest spot, your eyes shut as white blurs your vision.

“Feel you around me,” Harry grunts, relentlessly smashing his hips against yours, his thumb on the nerves between your thighs. “Have to cum, baby. Need you to.”

“Harry,” you moan, your fingertips tightening around his curls, his mouth against yours, kissing you roughly, one thrust moving you to orgasm, your moans and whimpers echoing in his ears. Harry stills beneath you, the warmth of your release bringing him to his climax, his orgasm milked into you and rolling down your thighs. “You still have makeup on.”

“Looks like you didn’t do your job very well, then,” Harry winks, kissing your cheek lightly, his thumbs massaging your tense muscles, his cock continuing to warm inside of you. His eyes travel along your skin, his belly warming at the mixture of love bites and lipstick stains scattered across your skin. “All of m’makeup didn’t come off you either, pet. Guess you’re just as dirty as me, now. Have to take a real shower, maybe.”

“Need you, again,” you whisper desperately, manoeuvring your body around his as his cock moves out of your heat. Quickly turning the water down, reaching for the towel outside the door, you tuck the cotton around your figure, nodding your head towards your bedroom door and taking his hand in yours.

“Again, hm? Is that right?” Harry swiftly yanks the towel from around your torso, throwing the material behind him and wrapping his arm around your waist, your back against his chest. “This makeup really did something to you, doll, didn’t it? Made you feel things.”

“Harry, I am not in the mood to be teased,” you stern, halting your movements and turning to stare into his eyes, his smirk turning the corners of his mouth in a way that you could kiss. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Not sure what you mean. ‘m simply admiring m’missus who wants me to fuck her until she can’t walk straight, all because I wore her lipstick.”

“More than that, but whatever you want to believe.”

Harry’s lips assault yours with a smile, the kiss etched in his satisfaction. He squeezes your hips, encouraging you to move into your bedroom, your wet hair damp and messily splayed against your forehead. His cock twitches between his thighs, the way your nails scratch along his skin making his mind run wild. His eyes stare at you as you settle onto your mattress, your body tucked beneath the duvet that you impulsively bought online and insisted that you needed, the lowly dimmed lights radiating your beauty. Harry admired you this way, the way you were so perfectly you, perfectly his.

His mouth quirks into a smile as you spread your legs for him, his body settled between your thighs. He grabs your wrists, holding them tightly above your head, his lips hovering over yours as he murmurs, “M’perfect girl, I’m going to ruin you.”

“Asking you nicely to,” you smile innocently, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks, knowing perfectly well what you are doing to him. His mouth attaches to yours, kissing you deeply and taking your breath away. His hips grind against yours, a moan echoed on your swollen flesh as your heels nudge into his bum, his cock dangerously close to your core.

Quick vibrations interrupt.

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry groans, releasing your wrists and moving away, slipping onto the ground and walking towards the dresser near the door, a murmured apology to you leaving his lips. “’ello.”

Harry Lambert’s voice echoes through the speaker, talking about the magazine shoot for the day and the way the photographs of the outfits and the makeup began looking upon his departure. One question is murmured, Harry’s smirk and upper body turning to stare at you as he nods, a wink making your skin flush.

“Oh, yeah, ‘m sure she liked it,” Harry chuckles, pinching his lip, taking a deep breath to continue. “Might even be one that we hang around the house.” He pauses, waiting for Harry Lambert to continue and end their conversation sooner than his stylist might have hoped. “Have to ask her for y’a. ‘m going to have dinner with her, actually. I’ll talk to you, tomorrow.”

Harry ends the call swiftly, turning his phone upside down on the counter. His eyebrows are furrowed together in confusion as you pout, his feet carrying him towards you and his body moving over yours, tugging the duvet over his torso, his chest flush against yours, his nose tucking against your shoulder as he lays tiny kisses along your skin. “Tell me why you’re pouting.”

“Want you to fuck me.”

“I’ll fuck you as much as you want, my love,” Harry smirks, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Have my lipstick stains all over your skin. Make you know you’re mine.”

[starwitness42]

Holding the Stick (5/?)

Alec Lightwood has dreamed of hoisting Lord Stanley since he was eight. It's in his blood. He's spent the last five years trying to make that dream a reality, only managing to fall short each time.

Until a scandal leads to a multi-team trade that sends Magnus Bane his way. One of the top performing wingers in the league. An up and coming star.

And the most handsome man Alec has ever met.

He's doomed.

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four

“Are you okay?”

Alec turns his head from where he’s spent the last five minutes staring out the window of the car, sliding his eyes in the direction of the voice belonging to the person whose hand is currently resting on his thigh.

“Huh?”

Lydia laughs gently at him and smiles, giving his thigh a squeeze.

“I asked if you were okay. We are, at some point, going to have to get out of the car. Unless you just want to spend the night in here. Do they let limos through drive thrus? Because we could always hit up Taco Bell. I know how much you love a good Mexican pizza.”

It’s true. Alec does love a good Mexican pizza. But he knows Lydia is just humoring him and so he smiles back at her, squeezes the hand still attached to his thigh, and says a quiet, “I’m ready,” that’s at least seventy-five percent lie.

Okay, maybe ninety percent.

His parents had insisted on the limo despite the fact that they know it makes him uncomfortable to be let out of a stretch at the curb like some sort of freaking celebrity. But outside of actual hockey competition, this is the biggest night of the organization’s year: The thousand dollars a plate, Blackhawks Charity Extravaganza. And so there’s no way Robert and Maryse Lightwood are letting either of their grown children arrive in their own vehicles, not even Izzy’s Porsche.

His mud-stained, seven-year-old SUV that used to be black but has now been sun-bleached to the sort of gray you see in zombie movies? That he gets. But the Porsche?

Lydia links arms with him as soon as he’s done helping her out, and it’s comforting, having her here. She’s been one of his best friends ever since the day two and a half years ago when they agreed to be each other’s beards. A partnership they’d concocted to both hide the fact that he’s gay and that she’s currently dating his bisexual sister.

Although their parents aren’t necessarily homophobic in the strictest sense of the term, they are professionally disapproving of any lifestyle other than straight, white, polite. And given how deeply they own almost every aspect of his and his sister’s existence, they’ve always just found it easier to hide the truth from them instead of dealing with the consequences of honesty. Which is why his arrangement with Lydia has been one of the best things in both his and Izzy’s life.

Alec gets to keep his parents off his back, and Izzy gets to stick it to them by secretly having her girlfriend at family functions. It’s a win-win.

Lydia looks beautiful tonight in this sleeveless, pearl colored number with, like, beads and stuff everywhere. A dress that matches the jacket Izzy made him wear because she said she couldn’t stand the thought of him going to one more of these things in his normal black on black on bland fare.

He feels like an idiot in the off white jacket with something called brocade that she picked out specifically because of how well it matched Lydia’s dress. Like he’s going to look like a freaking waiter or something. But Izzy had threatened to burn everything in his closet if he tried to wear his old black one and so he’d caved like he always does with her.

It’s too visible. He feels too visible, like he can’t just blend into the background in this. And these kinds of functions are usually bad enough as is. But now that he has to walk around in a jacket that practically screams I am interesting, come talk to me, he sort of wants to run back to the limo and take Lydia up on her not-real Taco Bell offer.

Maybe if he spills hot sauce on the jacket, Izzy will let him take it off.

He always hopes that he’ll feel better once he’s inside, like just crossing the threshold will magically make the nerves disappear. But just like the other four times he’s been forced to come to this function, stepping through the door does nothing but make him feel even more like he’s going to puke. And who needs hot sauce when he can just vomit all over himself, right?

They make the obligatory rounds first, kissing his father’s Stanley Cup ring and telling his mother how beautiful she looks before making small talk with the other bigwigs whose names Alec can never remember. Which is another reason why Lydia is one of the greatest people in existence. Because not only does she know who these people are, but she can actually engage them in conversation that sounds vastly more human than the grunting he’s usually capable of. And so he’s almost sort of close to calm when his eyes trail towards the door and all semblance of balance slips from within him like a flash flood.

Magnus looks stunning. There is no word in the English language better capable of describing the way he looks tonight, given that Alec is literally stunned into both silence and paralysis when he sees him walk in.

If Alec thought his outfit screamed interest, it’s nothing compared to what Magnus is wearing tonight: Black tuxedo pants, a black, bond-collared shirt with shiny silver buttons done all the way up his neck, topped off with this deep burgundy velour jacket that perfectly compliments the shock of magenta in his hair. His eyeliner so thick that Alec can see it from fifty feet out, and he’s too freaking stunned by it all that it takes him a good minute to realize that Magnus is not alone.

There’s a woman with him, beautiful, actually. She’s dark skinned, covered from neck to foot in blue silk that perfectly matches the deep blue of her eyes. And it’s weird, the way his emotions are seesawing here, high as a freaking kite upon seeing Magnus, and buried six feet under upon seeing his date.

Date.

Magnus brought a date.

And yeah, technically Alec did too. And also technically there’s nothing between them… nothing that should make dates feel weird and sad and stupid. But Alec’s heart is racing right now, and he sort of feels like he can’t breathe, and so he’s just about to head off in search of a paper bag when Lydia rests her hand in the crook of his elbow and drags him back down to earth.

“Everything all right up there?” she asks softly enough so as not to be heard by anyone else but him.

He just pinches his lips and nods, though, because Magnus is making his way over to them and so spoken words are going to have to be back-burnered for the time being.

“You must be Magnus,” Lydia says once it evidently becomes obvious to her that no one else is going to open up the conversation. “I’m Lydia.”

“It’s good to meet you, Lydia,” Magnus replies as he takes Lydia’s outstretched hand in his own. “This is Catarina.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Catarina,” Lydia says, and Alec is dizzy. It’s dizzy in here. He’s dizzy in it. In here. But he’s also being introduced right now by a soft elbow into his side and Lydia speaking the words, “And this is Alec,” and so he’s pretty sure he has to act like a person right now.

“I’m Alec,” he says, which was already established. But at least he got his name right and so he’s going to take that as a win as beautiful, blue Catarina reaches out to shake his hand.

He wants to go home. Wants to make a pit stop at Taco Bell, buy six Mexican pizzas and sit on his couch in his underwear watching ESPN so badly right now. But he knows if he bolts his parents will disown him, maybe ship him off to Columbus or something, and so he tries to swallow down the lump in the back of his throat and stays put.

The girls are talking a second later, their voices a soft hum in the back of his distracted brain. And he’s just thinking about how nice it is to eat Mexican food in nothing but your underwear because then if you spill on yourself, at least you’re not staining your clothes, when Magnus leans up and says directly into his ear, “Nice tux.”

That’s it. That’s what does it. Magnus is far too attractive for Alec to be this sober.

They split back off into their original pairs a few polite minutes later, but the damage has already been done. Alec’s brain might as well be a giant bag of cats right now, but like, shaken up so that the cats are extra special pissed. And so the first waiter he sees carrying one of those trays of free drinks they have at shindigs like this is suddenly his new best friend.

He grabs two glasses and tries not to feel bad about the look on Lydia’s face when she realizes one of them is not for her.

Alec doesn’t drink much, and he almost never drinks during the season for about a dozen or so very logical, practical reasons. But it’s the kind of thing he simply can’t help as he watches Magnus lead his date around the party, his hand practically glued to the small of her back.

A part of him wonders if he should try and figure out when this happened. When his stupid bag of cats brain went from Magnus is really great at hockey gee isn’t he swell to holy shit Magnus is really fucking attractive fucking hell. But he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to go far beyond the night one week ago today that Magnus and he shared a hotel room while Magnus slept in his clothes. And all of a sudden he really, really hates the juvenile dipshits he calls teammates.

If only they hadn’t soaked Magnus’ sheets.

He’s watching Magnus and Catarina dance sometime later. He’s not entirely sure where Lydia went, but the nice champagne waiters are sure easy to find. Which is why he’s downing his fourth glass – flute? – and which is also why he’s feeling more than a little lightheaded as Magnus and his date move around the dance floor like professionals because of course. But so Alec is dealing with all of that when his sister comes up to talk to him like she’s got the same damn ESP Jace has.

Extra Sensory PissoffAlec-tion.

“He’s a good dancer,” she says to break the ice as she nudges Alec over to clear some leaning space for herself against the pillar he called dibs on twenty minutes ago.

“Don’t,” he warns.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t be… you,” he replies as he drains the last drop from his flute-glass and sets it on the floor by his feet.

“I really have no idea what you’re implying, Alec. All I said was that he’s a good dancer.”

“Yeah, and one who already has a partner.”

He hates the way he sounds when he says that, how his voice is just… like... miserable. Dark and low and sad and where are those damn waiters when you need them?

Izzy laughs, which never ceases to dampen his mood.

“She’s his agent, you idiot.”

He most definitely does not care about that fact, but he still looks down at Izzy and asks, “How do you know?”

“Because I spent an hour getting chewed out by her after that press conference. You know, the one the good dancer did for you.”

“Shut up.”

“We both know that’s not happening. I think you should ask him out.”

The groan that escapes from Alec’s lips sounds like something out of a science fiction movie. Like the alien from the black lagoon or something.

“What?” she asks, all feigned innocence and tiny person obnoxiousness.

“What, Izzy? What? Even if he was interested, which, let’s be honest,” he pauses there to raise his hands and look down at himself, “is a pretty big if, then what?”

“What do you mean a pretty big if?” she asks, completely bypassing the point of his… point.

“I’m an asshole, Iz. People aren’t generally attracted to assholes, and the ones who are often have something wrong with them that I don’t have the time or energy to deal with.”

“You’re not an asshole,” she says all genuine and stuff, her hand rising to rest on his arm. But all he does is shrug her off because that so totally was not where he was going with this.

“I’m not fishing for compliments, I’m just trying to make a point.”

“Well I’m sorry, but when my dear, sweet older brother tries to make a point by spewing the horseshit our asshole parents have beaten into us over the years, I tend to get a little testy.”

Alec rolls his eyes.

“My point, Izzy, is that even if he were interested, then what?”

“Alec, if you don’t know the then what, I think we have bigger things to worry about here.”

“Funny. What I mean is, why the hell would I make a pass at a teammate? In the middle of a potential Cup run? What am I, an idiot?”

She blinks up at him like she thinks she already knows the answer to that question better than he does.

“How does that play out, huh? We’re what? Fuck buddies? And then what? One person wants more and the other doesn’t? Or worse, both people want more and then… then secret dating? Putting mental energy into figuring out how to work that crap out while the media is already circling him like buzzards?”

He pauses again, this time to catch his breath.

“I’m pretty sure you know what would happen if mom and dad found out about either one of us,” he says, waving his arm a bit wildly between him and his sister. “But so we want it. Sure. We try it. Try to hide it. But that takes energy, Iz. Energy that should be focused on one thing. And what is that one thing?”

“Hockey?” she asks as she crosses her arms over her chest and glares up at him.

“Yes. Hockey. Our job. Playing hockey for the team we are both on. The team that I’m the captain of, which means it’s my responsibility to maintain the order. The balance. The chemistry. And although I do not as of yet have any personal experience with this, I’m pretty sure that two players in the same locker room fucking each other is not the best thing for team-wide bonding.”  

“Jeez, Alec, fine. I wasn’t saying you should marry the guy or anything, I was just suggesting drinks.”

He makes this pfft sound at her and grabs another glass of champagne from the waiter passing through his peripheral.

“Yeah, well, I don’t have time for drinks. I have a team to take care of.”

He storms off at that, confident that he won the argument. But for some reason it doesn’t make him feel any better. In fact, it makes him feel worse as he finishes off his third (fourth? fifth?) glass of champagne and heads out to the balcony to get some air.

As is wont to happen when he is mostly drunk and breathing semi-fresh, kind of smoggy air, Alec has an idea. And after another two glasses of champagne, he actually has the courage to put that idea into motion.

It starts with the bed sheets. With the night that ruined his tenuous grip on sanity combined with the fact that he never actually made it up to Magnus for doing that stupid press conference for him. And so Alec has an idea.

The first step is to figure out who did it. And he has a pretty good guess, but he still wants to be one hundred percent sure and so he goes to Simon. Because given how much he and Raphael are attached at the hip, if anyone other than his surly I’ll never tell you, copper defenseman knows who was allowed into Magnus’ room to play the prank, it’s Simon.

It would almost be surprising how easy it is to get the information out of him if not for the fact that he already knew, years ago, that Simon was a complete pushover. So all it takes is one thinly veiled threat about taking Simon’s lucky jockstrap and selling it on Ebay to get him to crack open like a piñata.

He knew it was Jace. From minute freaking one he knew it was Jace. But now he has confirmation.

Step two is to acquire assistance, and given that all of this is being done for Magnus, he figures he’d be the best partner to have in this little caper.

He’s dateless at the moment. And Alec wonders vaguely about fancy party black holes that swallow dates, about Lydia and Catarina, trapped in some alternate dimension maybe, as he walks up to where Magnus is currently discussing something no doubt boring as hell with Raphael and Raj.

He wraps one hand lightly around Magnus’ elbow and leans down possibly closer than he needs to. But he really wants to make sure he’s not overheard for the sake of their secret crime caper as he says, directly into Magnus’ ear, “Can I borrow you for a sec?”

He almost, almost says sex instead of sec. And there’s no almost about the assumption that if he’d actually done that, he would’ve ended up running from the room cackling like the Joker.

Magnus looks up at him and nods, just that, a simple nod. And then Alec is tugging him out of the room by his elbow because he forgot that politeness dictates you let adults walk on their own.

“Is everything all right?” Magnus asks once they’re safely out on the balcony.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that? I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. I’m terrific. And I’ve got a present for you.”

Alec cannot actually describe the look on Magnus’ face. It’s like when you used to have to use crappy internet, and your video would freeze halfway between a shot, with like one half of the person’s face frozen in one expression and the other half frozen in another.

“What kind of present?”

Alec does not have time to dwell on how… like… smooth Magnus’ voice sounds as the weight of the very empty, very secluded balcony he just lured Magnus to starts to suck in around them.

“Vengeance.”

He meant it to sound cool, like the closing line of some cliffhanger scene in a TV show. But the way Magnus is scrunching his eyes at him leads Alec to believe that he missed the mark.

“For the prank,” he elaborates. “You know, the soaked bed sheets?”

“Ah,” Magnus says, only it’s more like ahhhhhhhh. And Alec must look really crestfallen that Magnus didn’t jump with glee at his gift because a second later Magnus is actually reaching a hand out to him and resting it on his arm as he says, “That is very thoughtful of you, Alec. What did you have in mind?”

He looks down at where Magnus’ hand is still wrapped over off white brocade, his black fingernails stark in contrast. And his mouth feels sort of sticky, like he could really use another drink as the words, “Do you trust me?” slip raw from between his lips.

When he slides his eyes back up again, Magnus is just staring at him, something almost dark pooling in the brown of his eyes as he nods his head. And the smile that works its way across Alec’s lips is one he only breaks out on very special occasions.

It’s crooked, devious, and it perfectly matches his tone when he says, “Good. Follow my lead.”

Step three is the most difficult one of the bunch, as it involves somehow getting Jace’s phone away from him without his knowledge. And Alec only needs about sixty seconds with it, but for someone who might as well have his phone permanently fused to his hand like Jace, sixty seconds is going to be difficult.

They wait until he’s alone, dicking around on it like usual, probably posting asinine crap on Twitter. And then it’s Magnus’ turn to be the distraction. Which is something he’s been excelling at all night if Alec is any judge of the situation.

He’s got two glasses of whiskey in his hands, Jace’s favorite, as he saunters over to where Jace is standing. And they needed to make sure he was by a table, conveniently at his side, because when Magnus asks Jace to hold both glasses, they need Jace to put his phone on the table and not in his pocket.

There’s no way Alec is fishing around in Jace’s pockets for anything. Ever.

The ploy works. So when Magnus does this little pivot move to pull Jace’s peripheral away from the phone, Alec swoops in and grabs it like a freaking ninja. And then, sixty seconds later, he swoops back in and replaces it while Magnus and Jace finish their whiskeys and Jace, as per usual, is none the wiser.

This is going so much better than he expected.

Step four is the fun part, the easy part. The part where Alec uses his phone to text Jace only thanks to the way he switched out Jace’s contacts, whatever Alec types is going to come up as if it is from Clary, Jace’s longtime girlfriend who seems to have also slipped into the date black hole.

But so the text will be from Alec, but Jace will think it’s from Clary. And it’s possible that Alec is too drunk to be doing something like this but he does it anyway because he and Magnus are having fun together, both laughing at the high of the prank. And Magnus is kind of draped over him right now, looking down at Alec’s hands, Alec’s phone. And so even though the smart part of his brain is sounding off all sorts of sirens and warning bells, Alec still types the text out exactly like he planned:

I’m sorry I couldn’t say this to your face, Jace. I’ve been trying to think of some way to tell you all night but I just couldn’t figure it out. I’m pregnant.

Alec hits send. And then they wait.

It doesn’t take long for Jace to freak out, and it doesn’t take long for him to find Clary either. And as the two of them argue safely out of earshot, Magnus has his arm wrapped so tightly around Alec’s it’s practically cutting off his circulation. They’re laughing again, though, laughing still, watching the show only about a minute into the program, there’s an unexpected twist when Clary decks Jace so hard he actually falls to the ground.

Oh.

Shit.

Jace is looking at his phone a second later, is pushing some buttons and then Alec’s phone is ringing and that’s his cue to get the fuck out of Dodge.

He grabs Magnus’ hand, his cheeks warm from the way he’s probably blushing like a moron as he says, “Come on,” and begins tugging him again. And then they’re running, laughing, trying to find a place to hide and really, Alec doesn’t know why he doesn’t drink more often because this is fun.

He is having so much fun.

He’s laughing so hard he’s almost hiccupping when they duck inside a closet and close the door so they’re enshrouded in near pitch black. But it’s like the second the door closes and the light disappears, reality comes crashing around his feet.

Magnus is really close. Like, really close, close enough to feel his breath on his skin, to smell the bitter pinch of whiskey mixed with something sweeter that actually manages to make Alec’s mouth water. And he’s holding Magnus’ elbows now, feeling the weight of Magnus’ palms pressed against his chest as Magnus leans against him for balance. And in all of that, Alec realizes that this was probably a very, very bad idea.

“Magnus, I,” he starts to say, but at that moment they hear screaming outside the door. Jace’s voice carrying to them through thin plywood and so Magnus’ hand is flat over Alec’s mouth inside of a second.

“Shhhh,” he says, the hush warm on Alec’s skin. And he can’t really make out Magnus’ face in the dark like this, but it’s almost like there’s a glint in his eyes, sharp and bright, and Alec feels sort of like he’s going to pass out.

He moves his lips against Magnus’ palm, which causes this odd, heated noise to escape Magnus as he twists his fingers in Alec’s stupid brocade jacket. And Alec can taste salt now, from the sweat on Magnus’ palm, and it strikes him that there’s a very good chance that he is actually, right here and now, kissing Magnus’ palm like a freaking moron.

Thankfully Magnus slides his hand down then, but he doesn’t go far with it, just low enough to trail his fingers along Alec’s bottom lip. And it takes every single ounce of self-control he has not to open his mouth and use his tongue to pull Magnus’ fingers in.

Even though it’s dark in here, he can feel Magnus staring up at him, can sense the tension in the way Magnus is shaking slightly up against him, his fingers still just moving slowly back and forth over Alec’s lip. And the only word Alec can seem to think right now is abort.

Abort, abort, abort.

But his eyes are starting to adjust to the light, and there are currently two Magnuses standing in front of him and he really wants to, like, kiss the shit out of both of them. And he’s maybe just drunk enough to do it as his hands tighten around Magnus’ elbows. Only the second he goes to open his mouth, the closet is flooded with light.

“Got you, asshole!” Jace yells. And then he’s grabbing Alec’s jacket, hauling him out of the closet and bending him over far enough to get him in a headlock. And Alec sort of wants to cry right now for a lot of reasons as Jace starts spinning him around the hallway like now that he’s got Alec he’s not entirely sure what to do with him.

He’s dizzy again. So very dizzy. And the nausea he’s been battling all night is working inside of him, pressing at his ribs. And so he says, “Jace, I think I’m gonna,” only he doesn’t even get out the word puke before he’s doing just that. All over Jace’s shoes.

It is in this exact moment that Alec remembers why he doesn’t drink.

“Dude, these shoes cost five hundred dollars!” Jace shrieks, his voice a dull echo in Alec’s currently throbbing head. And he needs to move. More than anything he needs to move right now, extricate himself from this situation A-freaking-SAP and so he does.

He runs.

Or, well, he stumbles. Running implies actual coordinated movement. But so he stumbles quickly, as quickly as he can, until he’s outside in the frigid air and then, and only then, does he breathe. But he doesn’t actually allow himself to think until he’s inside a cab, outside a cab, and inside his condo, his arms wrapped around his thankfully-clean-before-tonight toilet bowl as he finishes what he started all over Jace’s five hundred dollar shoes.

His phone keeps pinging from the pocket of the jacket he dropped on his couch as he made a mad dash for the bathroom. Because as much as he’d wanted to do it before, Izzy paid a lot for that stupid jacket and he really doesn’t want to get puke on it if he can help it. But he’s ignoring that, his phone, ping, ping, pinging away because there is not a single person he wants to see, hear, or text at this moment.

All he wants to do is shrink up into a little ball and disappear. Because even though he’s still pretty damn drunk, he can already tell how massively he fucked up tonight on at least five or six different levels. And sadly, the only way he can think to get out of the quicksand he just stepped into is to disappear.

Where the hell is David Blaine when you need him?