but some things... can't be copied.

TREASURE SERIES (1/3) Brinna Harper; a twenty-three year old publicist's assistant with too much fear and not enough self control. After working her way out of an abusive household, Brinna struggles to cope with her need for harmless fun. But even a few harmless thrills add up. When she happens to stumble into a new Las Vegas night club, all morals and responsibilities crumble to the ground. There, she finds a new harmless thrill, one who goes by the name of Harry. *** "But you never crave a drug? Or alcohol? You don't run from your obligations to get a fix, right?" He softens his brows. "That doesn't mean I'm not addicted to it, I keep going back." He sighs, eyes flicking between my own. "I hate to break it to you, but that's called being in your twenties, Brinna." I pout at his roundabout way of calling my worries ridiculous. "That's how addiction starts, I like it so much that I keep coming back for more until eventually I get hooked." "Not everyone gets addicted. Your parents went through something horrible and found comfort in something they shouldn't have. You smoke a little weed and make out with your friend. There's a big difference," he says bluntly. ***

"Why do you care?" he asks. But it's not soft. It's sharp, defensive, like he's already bracing for the answer. I want to tell him the truth. Because you saved me. Because you're the only one who makes me feel real. Because if you fall apart, I don't know what happens to the rest of us. Instead, I just say, "Maybe I want to understand." He scoffs, no humor in it. "You don't. Trust me." Silence stretches between us. Then he steps forward, close enough that I can see the way his hands won't stop shaking. "You already know too much," he says, voice low. "More than you ever should've." I don't look away. "Then tell me the rest." He shakes his head. "It's not your place. You don't get to ask." "But I am asking." He exhales sharply. "Jesus, Lily. This isn't a story with a clean ending. I'm not a mystery. I'm a goddamn warning sign. I'm dangerous." I flinch, but I don't move. And that pisses him off more. He takes a step back like he's going to leave, then pauses. His eyes flick to my jacket. In one quick motion, he reaches in and pulls out the burner phone. "I think this belongs to me," he says, tone sharp but quiet. No accusation. Just fact. I don't respond. Just watch as he slips it into his pocket, like closing a door I wasn't supposed to open. He looks at me for one long second, jaw clenched. "Go home," he says again, this time like a warning. And this time, I believe him. He crushes the cigarette under his boot, turns his back, and walks down the alley, leaving me standing in the dark. - Lily didn't ask to be assigned to him. Harry Styles is a name whispered like a warning, famous for his ink, infamous for everything else. Brooding. Untouchable. But Lily has a habit of looking too closely. And when she finds something she shouldn't, the line between curiosity and consequence begins to blur. He told her to stay away. She should've listened. - TW: emotional abuse, manipulation, drugs, sex, violence, trauma.

She stirred her tea slowly. "I'm not your babysitter, you know." "Says the girl hired to keep me from combusting." "I was told 'companion with boundaries.'" Harry narrowed his eyes, then grinned like the cat that found a string to pull. "That's adorable." "Don't flirt with me before I've had caffeine." "Wasn't flirting." He stepped closer, walking past her toward the fridge, close enough that his arm brushed hers - possibly by accident, possibly not. "If I flirted, you'd know." She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt her forehead. "What are we even doing here?" Harry paused, hand on the fridge handle, then looked over his shoulder with that look - the one she couldn't read yet. "Trying not to kill each other, apparently." © 2025 . All rights reserved.

Freelance painter Mickayla is introduced to music producer Harry via a mutual friend. Most would assume that the meet-up is a blind date for the singletons, but they'd be wrong. Their encounter is purely business: baby business. Harry dreams of nothing more than becoming a Dad, but he has no time or interest in starting a relationship to get him to that goal. Mickayla is more than happy to help him out, especially after a generous sum of money is offered by Harry as payment for her to be the surrogate of his child. It's an amount that'll change her life, just like what she's going to do for Harry will change his. The two strangers end up bonded by not only Harry's baby in Mickayla's belly, but a love for one another that neither of them expected to experience soon existing in both of their hearts. Mature content | for an 18+ audience only.

Dark Romance | BDSM | Power Play Harry Styles doesn't hire assistants. He breaks them. Cold, calculating, and ruthlessly dominant, he runs his empire with an iron will-and expects his personal life to follow the same rules. Enter Lucy Berryford. Shy. Fragile. Perfect prey. He expected her to run like the others. She doesn't. Behind her quiet eyes is a hunger she doesn't understand. Behind his sharp suit is a man who knows exactly how to feed it. Rules become rituals. Obedience becomes pleasure. And pain? That becomes a gift. He gives her a collar instead of a contract. She gives him everything. But in a world where love is control, and trust is power, one mistake could destroy them both. She was meant to be temporary. Now he's addicted. And she's kneeling willingly at the feet of the devil.

"There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you-of kindness and consideration and respect-not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn't know you had." Includes Mature Content | 18+

Right person. Wrong time. It's the story we hear about one too many times, but it's a story that Madeline Craig never dreamed would be her own. The world seemed to never flow in her favor, the only positive being her three year old daughter, Rosie. When Harry Styles came to hide away in her town of Rochester, NY, she finally felt like a balance was occurring in her life... Only for life to knock her right off her feet.

"For all time." A slow...slow...slow burning friends to lovers because I love the torture! ❤️ 18+

Harry didn't plan for it to become a recurring motif. It was never intended, from his perspective, to anchor him, and it certainly wasn't there to define him. At the time, he'd thought it was a one-time thing, like waxing his chest, or trying hot yoga, or letting someone gaslight him into believing that olives don't just taste like someone preserved despair in brine. At best, he'd figured it would be a strange, mildly entertaining story to pull out after drinks with a select, close-knit group of attendees. It'd fall in line somewhere between the one about the dentist with the singular nipple piercing and the time he'd mistakenly crashed a wake because the GPS rerouted him through a church parking lot. And then she called him Sir. One minute he was perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed he'd snagged off of facebook marketplace (suspiciously low price tag- maybe haunted), wondering if tilting her too far would result in blunt force trauma via nightstand, and the next, she was twisting her chin to look at him over her shoulder, voice low and syrupy-sweet, eyes half-lidded as she was saying it- Sir- with this kind of reverence that made him feel like someone with gravity. Purpose. Like he was something more than a financially unstable, sleep-deprived undergrad sporting a semi; like something cracked open in her ribs every time she used it, and he was the only one who could crawl inside. Retrospectively, that was the beginning of the end. - OR The one in which there's an interesting blog focused on a niche genre of soft-core pornography, two next-door neighbors in an apartment complex with paper-thin walls, a simple case of misinterpretation, a man that runs from intimacy like there's an award waiting at the invisible finish line, and a pet bunny called Snuggles. - (reader-insert/ Y/N - early access patreon fic)