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HARRY STYLES FIC RECS .ᐟ

— FLUFF

— SMUT

— ANGST & MORE

— SERIES

— AU’S

•18+ Adults Only

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nickistuffs

Dadda's Day

Pairing: Gardener Harry x Teacher reader (curvy or plus size whatever you feel they should look like. This is my preference 😌)

Summary: Harry the gardener, his teacher wife, and their spirited daughter Clover discover that the sweetest moments of life grow slowly, like blossoms under the sun.

Word Count: 4.2K

Warnings: None. Fluff

✨masterlist✨ read the rest of my fanfics here

It was early in the morning Harry's spot in the bed was empty, missing the warm body next to her. Y/n knew full well that Harry had a myriad of chores and exercises he wanted to do first thing in the morning, so he had his full attention on his little family afterwards.

The sleep was knocked out of you when the bedroom door suddenly opened. Your sleepy little girl walked in like she owned the place and tugged on the side of your blanket. "Mumma?" A big yawn followed, indicating that she had just woken up and had to find you. "Good morning, my cloverbug," you greeted her softly,

"Mumma help me," she fisted the blanket to lift herself up. Helping her as she tried to climb into your bed, a little frustrated. When she landed in the middle, her hair was going in all directions, pink nose and cheeks from the cold draft in the room. A replica of her Dadda sleeping in. She immediately cuddled up to you, closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep.

#harry styles #fic recs

i’m back on tumblr after a long break and ur page is giving me joy

thank you so much!!! 🥹

this is what i want to see after a long day

HIIII can you help me find this one shot that I've read months ago?

harry records a video of himself jerking off (it was meant for y/n) while he was away idk maybe touring or something else. *Nothing specific mention about the video tho. And he showed it to y/n when he's back or he sent it to her IDK. but this was SO GOOD i can't get it out of my head

thank youuuuu xx

i’ve been trying to find it for 30 min and still cannot find it 🥲

anyone know this? thank you!

escapismatbest

hiiii can you make a dadrry one shot with this part of the new video we got where he’s playing the piano to his twin toddlers 🥺 thank youuu

It took almost two months to get this out, I'm so sorry @mmithsfreak 😭 hope you like it!

Music Time with Daddy

Warnings: None, just fluff.

Word count: 600ish

A/N: Not proofread

Masterlist I Join My Taglist

It was a sunny afternoon. Harry's wife had gone out to get some groceries after putting their lovely little two year olds to an afternoon nap. Harry was in the home studio, working on a new song for a couple of days now, saying that inspiration had struck him.

#harry styles #fic recs

•18+ Adults Only

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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

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ijustmissyouraccenths

Exhibit B: Two Coffees

The world is trying to figure out who Harry Styles is dating, and you’re in a hotel room next to him reading the theories out loud.

There is something about hotel rooms that makes everything feel slightly unreal, like you are in between versions of your life for a little while.

Nothing is yours, but for a night or two you get to pretend it is. The big bed, the heavy curtains, the tiny bottles in the bathroom that you always end up taking even though you never use them, the room service menu sitting on the desk like you are the kind of person who casually orders twenty four dollar grilled cheese sandwiches on a random Tuesday.

You are sitting on the edge of the bed in one of those oversized white hotel robes, flipping through the room service menu like the prices might go down if you look at them enough times.

Behind you, Harry is stretched across the bed like this is the most normal place in the world for him to be, one arm behind his head, flipping through something on his phone, completely relaxed, like hotel rooms are just another version of a living room to him and not this strange, temporary little world.

“This grilled cheese is twenty four dollars,” you say, staring down at the menu. “Twenty four. For bread and cheese. That feels illegal.”

“It’s a fancy grilled cheese,” he says, not even looking up.

“No grilled cheese should be fancy,” you say. “Grilled cheese is supposed to be humbling.”

That makes him laugh, quiet and easy, and when you glance back at him he’s already looking at you like he knew you were going to say something like that.

“Just order,” he says. “You’ve read that menu like six times.”

“It’s expensive,” you say again, but you reach for the phone anyway. “I’m getting us fries.”

“Obviously,” he says. “Get dessert too.”

“We don’t need dessert.”

“We absolutely need dessert.”

You end up ordering a burger, fries, pasta for him, and two desserts, and you try to sound calm and normal on the phone like this is a reasonable amount of food for two people and not something that would feed a small family.

Now, about twenty minutes later, you are sitting cross legged on the bed, still in the robe, scrolling on your phone and trying not to think about how hungry you are, while Harry flips through hotel TV channels like he’s going to find something life changing on cable.

You are halfway through a Tumblr post when there is a knock at the door.

You look up immediately. “That has to be food.”

Harry doesn’t move at all. He’s still stretched across the bed, the TV remote balanced on his stomach.

“Well,” he says, “go on then.”

You look at him. “You go on then.”

He finally turns his head and looks at you. “Why would I go get the food when you are already closer to the door.”

“Because it’s your hotel room,” you say.

“And it’s your fries,” he says.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

There’s another knock, softer this time, and he sighs dramatically and swings his legs off the bed, standing up.

That’s when you look down and realize he is still just in a t shirt and his boxers.

You point at him immediately. “Absolutely not.”

He looks down at himself, then back at you. “What.”

“You are not answering the door like that.”

“They’re nice boxers,” he says.

“I don’t care if they are luxury designer boxers,” you say. “Put pants on. I have to see this woman again when we order breakfast and I don’t want her to remember us as the room where the man answered the door half naked.”

He starts laughing as he reaches for the sweatpants at the end of the bed, pulling them on slowly on purpose, like he knows you’re hungry and is doing this to be annoying.

“You’re very concerned with what room service thinks of us,” he says.

“I am,” you say. “This is a long term relationship I’m building with the hotel staff.”

He snorts at that and gestures toward the door. “Alright, go on then. Save your reputation.”

You open the door and the woman with the room service cart smiles politely.

“Good evening,” she says.

“Hi,” you say, smiling. “Thank you so much.”

She wheels the cart inside and the second the smell of fries hits you, you completely forget how to act like a normal person.

“That smells so good,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Harry, now in sweatpants, appears beside you and leans slightly toward the cart.

“Yeah, we ordered… a lot,” he says.

You glance at him. “You told me to.”

“I’m not complaining,” he says quickly. “I fully support this decision.”

The woman lifts the metal lids one by one while Harry signs the receipt, and you thank her again as she leaves the room.

As soon as the door clicks shut, you and Harry just stand there looking at the cart for a second.

Then you look at each other.

“Bed?” you say.

“Bed,” he agrees.

And the two of you start carrying plates over to the bed like this is the most normal dinner table in the world.

By the time all the plates are on the bed, it looks less like a dinner and more like you are preparing to hibernate for the winter.

There are fries, a burger, his pasta, two little desserts in glass cups, and a basket of bread that neither of you remembers ordering but are both very happy is there.

Harry sits cross legged across from you, already halfway through the pasta like he has not eaten in three days, while you immediately go for the fries because that has been the main goal since this food entered the room.

For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room are the quiet clink of forks and the TV playing something neither of you are actually watching.

You pick up your phone with your free hand, more out of habit than anything, and open Tumblr, scrolling lazily while you eat.

You are not really paying attention at first. Just pictures, text posts, people arguing about something, a video of a cat, more posts, more scrolling.

And then you see his face.

You stop.

It is a photo of him leaving some restaurant a few nights ago, baseball cap, jacket, head down, the usual. You recognize the night immediately because you had been there. You had been sitting across from him at that exact table about thirty minutes before that photo was taken.

Your thumb slows on the screen.

Under the photo is a long post.

You start reading.

About halfway through, you start smiling.

By the end of it, you are trying not to laugh.

Across from you, Harry looks up from his plate.

“What,” he says. “What is that face.”

You shake your head, still looking at your phone.

“Okay,” you say, already laughing a little. “I need to read you this.”

His eyes light up immediately and he sets his fork down like this has just become the most interesting part of his night.

“Oh no,” he says. “Is it about me.”

“It is about you,” you say. “And apparently… your secret girlfriend.”

He leans back against the headboard, very pleased with this already.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s hear it. What are they saying?”

You clear your throat dramatically and hold your phone up like you are about to give a formal presentation.

“This is titled,” you say, trying not to laugh, ‘Why I am 99.9% sure Harry Styles is soft launching a relationship right now.’”

He actually claps once, delighted.

“A title,” he says. “I love when they commit to it.”

You start reading.

“Exhibit A,” you say. “Photo dump from September. Slide three shows a dinner table with two glasses of wine and two plates. Harry is not known to eat two meals at once. Therefore, he was not alone.”

Harry nods slowly, very serious.

“Strong opening argument,” he says. “Can’t argue with that.”

You kick his foot lightly under the blankets.

“Be serious,” you say.

“I am being serious,” he says. “This is well researched.”

You keep reading, trying not to laugh through it.

“Exhibit B. Harry photographed leaving a bakery holding two coffees, the second coffee was for someone.”

At this, he groans and drops his head back against the headboard.

“They noticed the coffees,” he says. “I thought I was subtle with the coffees.”

“You were not subtle with the coffees,” you say. “You were holding them like a man in a commercial.”

“I thought I looked casual,” he says. “Like I just really needed two.”

“You don’t even drink lattes,” you say. “That was my coffee.”

He points at you from across the bed.

“Exactly,” he says. “Evidence. You exist. The coffees were real.”

You scroll further, both of you leaning a little closer now, like you are reading something you are not supposed to see.

“Oh my god,” you say. “Okay, this one thinks I’m your assistant.”

He immediately starts laughing.

“You would be a terrible assistant,” he says.

You gasp. “I would be an amazing assistant.”

“You lose your phone six times a day,” he says. “You asked me where your sunglasses were while they were on your head.”

“That happened one time,” you say.

“That happened yesterday,” he says.

You try to look offended but you are laughing too hard to really commit to it.

You scroll again.

“Okay wait,” you say. “This one thinks I’m a celebrity and we’re hiding it so the internet doesn’t break.”

He considers that for a second.

“I kind of like that one,” he says. “Very dramatic. Very mysterious.”

“Should I tell them I’m actually extremely famous and just really good at hiding it,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Secret global superstar. Only I know. Very exclusive.”

You shake your head, still smiling, and toss your phone down on the bed between you for a second while you reach for your drink.

This whole thing feels so ridiculous and so strange that sometimes you forget that it is actually your life they are all talking about.

You pick your phone back up and scroll again.

Then you stop.

“Oh,” you say, quieter this time. “Okay this one is… a little too accurate.”

He looks at you immediately.

“What does it say?”

You read it again, just to make sure.

“They think you met her through a mutual friend at a private party, that she’s not famous, and that she travels with you sometimes but not all the time because she still has her own job,” you say slowly.

He makes a small face, like he is impressed.

“Alright,” he says. “That’s… a bit close.”

You look up from your phone at him.

“Does that freak you out?” you ask.

He shakes his head a little. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Not the guessing,” he says. “The guessing is whatever. They’re bored. I get it.”

You pick at a fry, thinking about that.

“It’s just weird reading about yourself like you’re a character,” you say. “They’re like, she’s tall, she’s British, she’s a model, she’s an architect. I’m none of those things. I’m literally just sitting here eating fries.”

He smiles a little at that, but it’s a softer smile.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I don’t say anything.”

You look up at him. “What do you mean.”

“Like,” he says, trying to explain it without making it a whole big thing, “right now it’s just people guessing. It’s like a game to them. But the second I actually say who you are, it stops being a game.”

You don’t say anything, so he keeps going, a little quieter now.

“They’ll find your Instagram. They’ll find where you work. They’ll message your friends. People get weird when they think they know you.”

You hadn’t really thought about it like that, not fully. Not past the funny posts and the timelines and the coffee cup analysis.

“I’m not trying to hide you,” he says. “I just don’t want strangers to feel like they get access to you because of me.”

That sits there for a second. Not heavy. Just honest.

You nod a little. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to make sure you actually understand what he means.

“I just like that this is normal,” he says, gesturing a little around the room. “You, me, room service, you stealing all the fries.”

“I did not steal all the fries,” you say.

He looks at the plate. “There are three left.”

“I was leaving those for you,” you say.

“How generous,” he says.

You push the plate toward him anyway and he eats one, still watching you.

On the bed between you, your phone is still open to Tumblr, to people trying to build a whole person out of blurry photos and reflections and guesses.

“They’re all trying to figure out if I have a girlfriend,” he says.

You look at him. “Yeah.”

He shrugs a little. “And I’m just sitting here having dinner with you. Feels a bit ridiculous when you think about it.”

You smile a little at that.

“It is a little ridiculous,” you say.

He nods. “But I like it like this. For now.”

You don’t answer right away, you just reach for your drink and take a sip, then glance back at your phone.

“Someone on here thinks I’m a Norwegian architect, by the way,” you say.

He laughs. “That’s my favorite one so far.”

“Yeah,” you say. “My secret life. Norwegian architect by day, eating your fries by night.”

He grins at that, and the conversation drifts back into something lighter again, the two of you leaning over your phone, reading more theories, making fun of some of them, impressed by others, sitting in a hotel bed while the internet tries to solve a mystery that, to you, just feels like a very normal night.

A few weeks later, you are in another hotel room.

Different city, different view out the window, different room service menu on the desk, but otherwise it all feels strangely the same. The same big bed, the same too bright bathroom light, the same heavy curtains that never quite close all the way.

You’re sitting at the little desk this time instead of the bed, half doing something on your laptop, half listening to Harry talk from somewhere behind you while he gets ready to film something on his phone.

“I have to post this tonight,” he says. “Management keeps texting me like I’m going to forget.”

“You would forget,” you say, not looking up from your screen.

“I would not forget,” he says.

“You forgot your passport in New York,” you say “and it was a very important time to forget your passport.”

He walks past you and lightly nudges your chair with his knee as he goes by, which is his version of admitting you’re right without actually saying it.

You can see him in the mirror across the room now, standing near the window with his phone, checking the lighting, turning slightly to one side, then the other. He does it automatically, like muscle memory at this point.

“Do I look tired,” he asks, looking at himself on the screen.

“You always look a little tired,” you say.

“Helpful,” he says.

“You look fine,” you add. “You look like you. My sweet angel.”

He glances at you through the mirror at that and smiles a little, then hits record and starts talking to the camera, something short and casual about whatever he’s promoting this time.

You turn back to your laptop, not really paying attention anymore, just listening to the sound of his voice in the background, familiar enough now that it just blends into everything else.

When he finishes, he taps at his phone for a few seconds, then tosses himself down on the bed behind you.

“Posted,” he says.

“Congratulations,” you say. “Very proud.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Huge moment for me.”

A few minutes pass before your phone buzzes on the desk next to your laptop.

Then it buzzes again.

And again.

You frown and pick it up, expecting a group chat or your mom or something completely normal.

Instead, it’s a text from your friend.

Are you with him right now?

You stare at the message for a second, confused, then another text comes in.

Check his story ;)

You slowly open Instagram, your stomach doing that weird little flip it does sometimes when his world and your world overlap a little too suddenly.

You tap on his profile picture and watch the story.

It’s just him, sitting by a hotel window, talking about something, same as always.

You’re about to exit out of it when you notice it.

On the desk, just barely in frame, out of focus but still very recognizable to you, is your hand, moving across the desk to grab your drink.

You pause the video.

Zoom in.

There is no way that is not your hand. You’re the only other person in the room with him.

You slowly turn your chair around to look at him.

He’s lying on the bed, hands behind his head, watching you like he already knows what you’re about to say.

“You can see my hand,” you say.

He smiles, slow and unapologetic.

“Yeah. Oops,” he says.

“You did that on purpose.”

He shrugs a little. “Maybe.”

You turn your phone around and hold it up. “People are going to see that.”

“They already have,” he says. “Give it ten minutes, it’ll be on Twitter with a red circle around it.”

You stare at him. “You’re insane.”

He just looks very pleased with himself.

“It’s subtle,” he says. “Blurry hand. Could be anyone.”

“It is very clearly attached to me,” you say.

He sits up a little and reaches for your phone, pulling it closer so he can look at the story again.

“That,” he says, pointing at the screen, “is what you call a soft launch.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling.

“You’re unbelievable,” you say.

He hands your phone back to you and flops back onto the pillows.

“Soft launch,” he says again, like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

And somewhere, you’re absolutely sure, someone is already opening Tumblr and starting a new post.

#harry styles #fic recs

ijustmissyouraccenths

Extra Thick Icing

It is Harry’s birthday, and Y/N is doing everything she can to keep the surprise she planned from slipping out before the big moment.

📝 word count: 5.4k

⚠️ content warning: none. super wholesome.

Harry has always been unfairly good at making ordinary days feel important.

Not in the over the top, cameras and candles everywhere kind of way. It is quieter than that. More dangerous, almost, because it sneaks up on her. Notes tucked into her bag that she does not find until hours later. Her favorite snack appearing on the counter after she casually mentioned craving it once. Playlists sent at the exact moment she needs them, no explanation attached.

#harry styles #fic recs

ijustmissyouraccenths

Put a Bell on Your Bicycle

After a stranger on a London side street yells at Harry to put a bell on his bicycle, it becomes the inside joke that follows them all the way to Amsterdam — sixty thousand people laughing, and only you knowing why.

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: Harry almost being hit on a bike, cursing

You were tired. Your feet hurt from the shops on Oxford Street, and Harry kept insisting you look at one more store, one more thing, like he hadn't just spent forty minutes in a bookshop while you sat on a bench waiting. The afternoon had turned golden and lazy, the sort of day that made you want to be home on a couch instead of still wandering around London.

"We could get the tube," you said, not for the first time.

"It's packed on Fridays."

"It's not that bad."

"Could be worse," Harry said, and then he was pulling out his phone. "Let me see if there are any lime bikes around here."

You looked at him. "You want to bike home?"

"Yeah. Why not? It's nice out. Better than standing in the tube with fifty other people." He was already looking at his map, his thumb moving across the screen. "There's three blocks over. Come on."

"Harry, I'm wearing shop bags."

"So put them in the basket. They have baskets."

#harry styles #fic recs

zclhes

MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

Word count: ~ 5.6k

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

POV: Harry, third person / Reader, second person

Setting: 2026, Together, Together Tour

Warnings: none, a little angsty maybe, but Harry's got your back ;)

Summary: What starts as a sweet show-day moment turns serious when you step in to help fans with wrongly sold restricted-view seats and Harry has your back completely when Jeff crosses a line afterwards.

London, N3 — 17 June 2026

Harry leaves the house on foot. There is a car available, of course. There is almost always a car available, either waiting in the driveway or easily arranged with one phone call, but the weather is too nice for that and Harry has never been particularly good at choosing the most convenient option when walking is possible.

London is warm without being unbearable, the sky pale blue above Hampstead, the pavements dappled with sunlight where the trees lean over the road. Wembley night three is waiting for him later, along with rehearsals, meetings, outfit decisions, vocal warm-ups, a stadium full of people and the particular charge of playing at home, but for the moment he gets to be outside, moving at his own pace, phone in his pocket, sunglasses low on his nose.

zclhes

Continuation taglist: @duplishitty @isadavina @pusteblumenfan @emmdog2999 @satellitelh @likeimonnovocain @tbslonelyhes @osorto @harrys-only-angell @amc430 @multifandom-jumper @celebrinigf @c0mfortablesilences @lilyflower19 @armystay89 @s3cretjules

#harry styles #fic recs

ijustmissyouraccenths

That Gave Me the Ick

a/n: just a silly little blurb that was in my head.

You are not a dramatic person. You have never been a dramatic person. This is something you would stake real money on.

You are standing in the dried fruit aisle of a Whole Foods on a Saturday afternoon watching your boyfriend take a toothpick sample of a candied walnut from a little paper cup on a folding table, and you are falling apart.

He’d shown up at your door at eleven with a tote bag over one shoulder and that expression he gets when he’s pleased about something, the one that lives in his eyes a few seconds before it reaches his mouth. He wanted to cook tonight. Real cooking, not takeout, not toast. He had a list on his phone, organized by aisle, and you’d thought about teasing him for it and then decided against it because you found it too genuinely sweet.

So you’d come here. Together. Like two people who do this, who are the kind of people that go grocery shopping on a Saturday and argue about olive oil and hold hands in the produce section. He’d swung your hand a little while you walked, just slightly, like he wasn’t thinking about it. He’d put something in the cart you hadn’t asked for and when you looked at him he’d shrugged and said trust me, and you had, because four months in you’ve learned that trusting Harry on small things is almost never the wrong call.

You’d been happy. That’s the part that makes this hard. You had been standing somewhere between the tomatoes and the pasta feeling something you hadn’t let yourself look at directly yet, something you’d been keeping in your peripheral vision, and you’d thought: this. This is what people mean.

And then there was the sample table.

He spotted it the way he spots most things he wants, with the easy certainty of someone who has never once talked himself out of a small pleasure. He pulled you over by the hand, already reaching, already popping the walnut into his mouth before you’d even finished stopping.

You watched his face.

He chewed once. Twice.

And then he closed his eyes and said, with complete sincerity, with nothing held back:

“Mmm. Yummy.”

Not good. Not oh, that’s nice. Not even try this, which would have been fine, which would have been a completely normal thing for a person to say.

Yummy.

The sample lady smiled at him. He smiled back. He reached for another toothpick, utterly unbothered, and you stood there and felt something shift in your chest that you did not ask for and cannot explain.

Here is the thing about the ick. It isn’t about the thing. You know this. You are self-aware enough to understand that a grown man saying yummy in a grocery store is not, by any reasonable measure, a dealbreaker. You know that. You could make that argument to anyone.

And yet your body had already decided.

He turned to you, still chewing, and held out a toothpick with a walnut on the end, the way he offers you most things, easy and obvious, like of course you’d want it.

“Try it,” he said. “It’s so yummy.”

Twice.

“I’m okay,” you said.

He tilted his head. That look he gets, the one that means he’s reading you, finding things on your face you didn’t know you’d left there. Something about the attentiveness of it made the ick worse, actually. He was so present. So thoroughly, earnestly present in this Whole Foods, saying yummy about a walnut with his whole chest, and you are supposed to be falling in love with him.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fine. Let’s get the olive oil.”

He watched you a beat longer than was comfortable, then dropped his toothpick and fell into step beside you. He didn’t take your hand back and you told yourself it had dropped naturally, that he hadn’t noticed, that you were a grown woman fully capable of processing one irrational feeling without it showing up all over your face.

But Harry notices everything.

He didn’t say anything until the pasta aisle, until you’d spent three silent minutes pretending to read the back of a box of rigatoni you’ve bought so many times you could recite it. Then, quietly: “Something happen?”

“No.”

“You went somewhere.”

“I’m here, Harry.”

He looked at you. You looked at the pasta.

“Was it the yummy thing?” he asked.

You looked up before you could stop yourself.

His face was open, genuinely curious, and underneath that the faint edge of someone who already knows and is just giving you the chance to say it first. No accusation. Barely even surprise. Just that patient, full-attention look that usually makes you feel lucky and right now is making you feel like a person who got the ick about the word yummy, which is what you are.

“It was a little bit the yummy thing,” you said.

Something moved across his face. Not quite hurt, not quite amusement. Somewhere in the narrow honest space between them.

“Yummy,” he said slowly, like he was hearing it for the first time. Holding it up.

“Harry.”

“That’s given you the ick.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” He picked up a box of pasta, looked at it without seeing it, put it back. “Yummy,” he said again, quieter, private, like he was cross-referencing it against everything he thought you already knew about him and had decided to keep.

You felt a pang of something you hadn’t quite earned yet. Because he wasn’t making you pay for it. He was just standing there in a pasta aisle turning the word over, trying to figure out how he’d gotten to thirty-something saying yummy to a stranger about a walnut without once considering how it might land on the woman he was trying to impress.

“It’s not a big deal,” you said.

“Right,” he said.

He put his hand back in yours. Deliberate. Fingers sliding through and settling, and you let him because you always let him, because whatever the ick was doing it hadn’t touched that part yet.

He found the pasta he wanted. He compared two cans of tomatoes with his reading glasses on, holding them out, squinting, and something about it made the warmth come back on its own, quiet and persistent, like it had been waiting just off to the side the whole time.

At checkout, while the cashier scanned everything through, he leaned down to your ear and said, very quietly, completely straight-faced:

“The tomatoes, by the way. Very yummy.”

You closed your eyes.

He was already smiling when you opened them. Not the public one. The one that takes its time.

It didn’t fix anything. The image was still there, the toothpick, the closed eyes, the word said with such unguarded pleasure that you had nearly needed to sit down in a grocery store like a person in a medical drama. It would probably always be there. You’d be thirty years from now reaching for something and your brain would simply serve it back, uninvited.

But his hand was in yours in the parking lot, and the night was still ahead, and he caught you looking at him and said what in that voice that already knew exactly what, and you shook your head and said nothing and he let you have it.

For now, he let you have it.

#harry styles #fic recs

•18+ Adults Only

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musicforastylesrestaurant

im thinking angst, you usually both watch shania, but you had an argument before, so he is watching by himself, leaving you alone backstage, the ending can be whatever you decide xx

Still The One.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!!

authors note - hey everyone, happy sunday, enjoy this little bit of angst and a little surprise near the end.

word count - 4.3k

in which, usually you watch shania twain together, she’s your artist, but after a tense argument backstage, your not stood next to him and it’s absolutely killing him inside.

The thumping bass rattled the floorboards, a physical manifestation of the adrenaline pulsing through the stadium, but Harry couldn't feel it.

He was standing precisely where you had seen him earlier, pressed back against the cold, teal-blue wall, His hands were loosely clasped in front of his dark athletic shorts, his body entirely still while his friend—one of the crew members—stood beside him, gesturing and talking animatedly about the stage cues for Harry's upcoming set.

#harry styles #fic recs

esnyfreakrry

⋆.˚ - move in with me. - h.s

summary : in which your mafia boyfriend - harry is sick of you living in your shit apartment so he asks you to move in with him.

pairing : mafiarry x fem!reader

a/n: hehe surprise! hi peeps it’s been very very long since i did a mafiarry one shot of any kind i think i literally only have one uploaded. which is CRAZY because i love the mafia underworld plots in books so yes i had to do another take on it. by the way ! i do not view harry to be this person in real life before anyone says anything. please do not come here saying shit when i obviously know. this is why it is fake and creative writing! anyways i hope yall like it!

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#harry styles #fic recs

zclhes

Texting your older bf Harry

Join my taglist Find more texting stories

#harry styles #fic recs

ghstyles

Lip Therapist | H.S

♡ Boyfriendrry | Smut | Masterlist | Yours | WC: 4K ♡

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Hello there! This is your Lip Therapist speaking. I would like to let you know that you're not doing well by applying that lipbalm, lipgloss and lipstick stuff on your lips & not letting your Lip Therapist taste them. This could lead to a serious deficiency & bad lip condition. I would recommend you to meet me at my office as soon as possible and ask for the long kiss. Thank you.

Y/N stared at her phone screen, a startled laugh escaping her as she read the ridiculous text from Harry. Standing in the middle of the produce section with a shopping basket hanging from her arm, she couldn't help the flush that crept up her cheeks despite being alone. She glanced around, as if someone might be reading over her shoulder, before composing her reply, a smile playing at her lips as her thumbs moved across the screen.

I wasn't aware I had a lip therapist. Do you take my insurance? The copay must be astronomical

#harry styles #fic recs

ghstyles

Lip Therapist (Text Messeges Edition) ♡ Boyfriendrry | Masterlist | Yours ♡

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#harry styles #fic recs

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

imjustanarrogantharrie

Together, Together

Summary: you open for harry for his new tour. that small crush slowly turning into infatuation. will confession reveal if the feeling is mutal?

warnings: eventual smut, fluff, cursing, pining, slow burn, drinking, some angst

authors note: this is going to be a series so let me know what you guys think

It was opening night for Wembley. Amsterdam had been bliss, dinners with the band, exploring the city during the day.

Now it was time for london and it was very hot.

The heat of a London summer in June should be illegal you think as you stand on the Wembley stage doing soundcheck.

"Can we run that one more time" you say into the mic. You've joined Harry Styles on tour. When your manager told you about it, you screamed in excitement and disbelief since you have been a fan since one direction.

You practice the same song about 40 times to achieve perfection. That's when you spot him, right there watching you with a grin on his face.

It's hard to hold composure when he's around you. Its the smile, how his dimples pop out and the brown hair that is now shorter due to him growing it out from a buzz.

"You're doing great," he shouts from the pit.

The corner of your mouth lifts, trying to fight back a smile.

"Thanks H" you say.

You continue soundcheck with him watching, once its over you go backstage and hang out with everyone.

You're talking to Sarah, Elin and Lorren, when you feel your body being lifted from the ground.

Harry is spinning you while laughing and so is everyone else. You're on his shoulder slapping his back while dying of laughter, begging him to put you down. He places you down on the floor gently, you run your hands through your hair trying to make yourself look presentable.

"You excited for tonight?" he says, with a grin on his face.

"yeah, just nervous. your fans are very scary."

"don't worry, if you get nervous just look for me and i'll be watching on the sidelines."

You flash him a smile.

Hours pass, waiting for your time to go on stage, you talk with everyone.

"two minutes till stage time" a tour crew member says.

You run your hands down your outfit for the millionth time, you're wearing a white top that says 'cool girls run the world', white flowy skirt and satellite stompers.

"You look beautiful y/n" you hear from behind you.

It's Harry.

He always finds a way to compliment you before the show to calm you down.

"thank you haz" you say, with a smile.

"I'm actually really excited, it's looking busy tonight."

"yeah it is" he says.

He pulls you closer by the waist and talks to you while his hands rest there. You feel a flush on your face and it's not from the heat. He runs his hands up and down your sides.

You let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding in.

"remember to look to the side if you get nervous."

"I will be expecting you there" you say.

"thirty seconds till show time y/n" a tour crew member says.

"i guess its time for me to go."

"go break a leg" he says, as he pulls you into a hug.

It's a warm, comforting hug that feels like home. It calms you down as you inhale his woody scent.

you pull away with a smile and go put in your in ears and get ready for the show. you do a chant with your band and everyone is just as excited as you.

the intro to your song starts, you run on stage and everyone screams and cheers.

"Good evening Wembley" you shout.

The crowd roars and cheers back.

you preform your songs and interact with fans. they love you.

you turn to the side and there he is, with a grin on his face.

you give a subtle smile back.

"it's been a pleasure to be apart of this tour with harry and seeing new and familiar faces every night. I'm so greatful for this opportunity and to play my music for you guys with this incredible band every night. I love you Wembley and thank you from the bottom of my heart."

"this is drop dead."

you play your final song and blow kisses and run off stage. your band jumps in cheer and so do you.

you feel a presence behind you, warm but familiar.

"you did amazing out there."

you turn and give him a hug, "thank you H."

you guys find yourself in a conversation while time passes.

"Harry, two minutes till show time" a tour crew member says.

"I gotta go, i'll see you later" he says.

"i'll be right there in the pit watching" you say with a smile.

You make your way into the circle pit with Jeff and your manager Maura. it's warm and packed in the pit, fans start to notice you and mention how they love you and your album; you say thank you and take photos with them.

The intro for harry starts to blast over the speakers around the stadium, fans start screaming and you chuckle.

Then the notes for Are you Listening yet start playing, you bop your head and start swaying with a drink in your hand. Harry notices you as he makes his way over and shoots you a wink. you dance with fans as the show progresses, joining in the dance circles.

then it happens.

He plays medicine as the surprise song and the crowd goes insane.

you start to notice the way he moves, the subtle thrusting against the mic stand, the licking of fingers and the winks he sends at you during certain lines.

you can start to feel that familiar flush grow again. you should not be letting him have this affect on you. he's basically your boss.

After he is done preforming medicine, he looks at you with pupils dilated and a smirk on his face.

that's when you realise, that small crush you thought you could hide might be more than you think.

you are fucked.

#harry styles #fic recs

harrywavycurly

Knock Twice: Plant Daddy

Masterlist: Here

A/N: I hope yall enjoy this update from our fave weirdos! This is smut free 🫪 I know! I know! It’s crazy for them but I wanted to show their normal domestic side. Also I know today can be hard for some people and I’m sending y’all lots of love and please enjoy this fun take on Harry being a “daddy”✨

CW: banter, light bickering and lots of fluff!

Word Count: 3.7K

Summary: You get Harry a new hat but he doesn’t quite understand the meaning of it✨

avenficrecs

they’re just so cute 🤏🏻 now im imagining they have children together

#harry styles #fic recs

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