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)

*[EDITING]* When Harry was twenty two, if a dangerously overconfident, time-hopping doppelgänger had pulled up in a freaky, rubber balaclava ('listen, mate' - hand on the shoulder and everything, like the reenactment of a cliché, time-honored rite of passage), and told him that in the very near future, his Friday nights would be indefinitely spent wearing a Greek moniker in the form of a fetishized allusion, that he'd be garbed by a latex mask to protect the sacred, fragile veil of secrecy- Well. He'd probably get a head start for padded walls and a straight jacket. Consider he was doing himself a favor with that one. But if he were told the same thing at twenty three, he'd probably choose to overlook the minor detail of reality imploding and sit back in his armchair, swirling his whiskey with excitement. Twenty three was an eventful year. He'd started casually enjoying whiskey after a long workday (honestly, a palate milestone in and of itself) and became enlightened on the fine art of tactically-applied suffering (and with it, gained a whole new appreciation for high-quality restraints). Because sometimes, a well-placed bruise and bliss just happened to go hand-in-hand. - OR the one in which there's a sex club, Greek stage names, an exploration of boundaries, an open house, a pair of dress shoes, and two evident sides to the same coin.

Harry appears to be a nice boy. He comes from a good, wealthy family. He's been with his childhood sweetheart forever. He owns a flower shop. Arabella appears to be a bad girl. She throws loud and obnoxious parties. She screams the lyrics to angry songs at three in the morning. She owns a sex shop. When her sex shop moves in next-door to his flower shop, Harry is shocked to realize his new neighbor is a ghost from his past. Their unexpected feelings about their one-time encounter leave them both confused and drawn together, despite claiming to absolutely hate one another. To the naked eye, they seem to be locked in a hate-filled feud... but things are not always as they seem.

Bloodletter. Everyone knows the name, but few know the man behind it. He's the most ruthless fighter in a local underground fight club, nicknamed for how often he makes his opponents bleed. When Zara Clark, an ambitious writer for her college newspaper, gets assigned the fighter as her next featured piece-nothing will stop her from getting her story. Especially not the cold, arrogant, closed-off man himself. The unexpected connection she feels to him when they finally meet throws her for a loop and she embarks on the wildest ride of her life, as she begins to uncover and unravel the man beneath the legend-Harry Styles. **This story contains strong sexual content and mature themes throughout. Reader's discretion is advised.** Started: March 2020 Finished: July 2021

♡ The year is 1994 and Harry is having a reawakening and discovery. ♡ By popular demand, the much-loved story from Harry Tales gets its very own book! Most Impressive Rankings //#1 in Discovery, #2 in Wattpride, #2 in Queer, #3 in Pride, #4 in Pansexual. Please read with discretion.

H.S. AU - Harry is almost as old as time and he's got a lot to say. But right now he's hunting for the perfect female to carry his heir (as he must do every century). When Harry meets you, a pastor's daughter, he finds himself strangely obsessed with you in every way but you're a good girl and Harry is definitely not your usual type. Will the handsome demon corrupt sweet (y/n)?

In the last year, Joanne Smith Giles, has once again become Jo Smith. In another heartbreaking turn of events, she's also the single mother of an infant, again. She knows she can do this on her own, and better at 40 than 19, but it seems weird to be launching a son into manhood, a new career as an art professor, and changing nappies all in one day. She is so thankful when Ethan, her boy, comes home from Uni. Jo could use the help. His best friend, Harry, comes round too. And his launch into manhood may be another heartbreaking turn, for all of them

Harry knew he shouldn't. He was older, and she was his daughter's best friend. It's certain disaster, written in the stars to cause a stir that none of them needed, but she had changed. One look at her buttery skin, water droplets dripping down her chest and that wide, toothy smile had him breaking in a way a grown man shouldn't. Harry knew he should't, yes. But he did anyways. ------- Ivy knew she shouldn't do it. It was one of the worst things you could do to a friend, but she couldn't help the pull. Seeing him sit there with the sunglasses placed delicately over his shapely nose, raspberry lips stained wet with lemonade, he looked like a god amongst men. She had been so good her entire life. She had decided to go for it, knowing she deserved to take something fun for herself. Make a bad decision for once. But no one ever imagined it would be her best friend's father. -----

continuations of my citrine fic ----- u can find me on my tumblr moonchildstyles.tumblr.com

harry and y/n are roommates, and she doesn't want him to feel lonely __________________ find more on my Tumblr @/moonchildstyles