Hello everyone. Soooo sorry for being MIA. I was logged out of my account for nearly three months and I JUST NOW logged back in! It's good to be back!!
I will be doing requests now and I have to admit... a lot of things have changed and I even wrote a one shot called The Contract that you all might love. I will be using this time to respond to comments, asks and etc, and I am once again so very sorry I was gone for so long. I was devastated when I thought I had lost this account forever, but now that I have it back, I will be posting new blurbs!!
I love you all so much and I am deeply grateful for your endless dedication and devotion to this blog. :*
Warnings: None. :) Just a turtle farting his brains out and the fact you might laugh your brains out on this one.
Prompt: You're over at Harry's loft... Sir Shelldon farts so loud, it nearly shakes the ground. Harry's appalled, you're on your knees laughing and Sir Shelldon is smug af.
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(This just came to me at night lol, this made me laugh so hard!!)
You don’t hear it at first. You feel it.
A subtle vibration through the hardwood floor, like a truck passing outside or a washing machine hitting its spin cycle. Except you don’t own a washing machine, and the street outside is dead quiet.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the rug, flipping through one of Harry’s sketchbooks while he’s across the room, crouched beside Sir Shelldon’s terrarium, narrating his turtle’s morning routine like a nature documentary.
“And now,” Harry murmurs, voice soft and reverent, “we observe the elusive Sir Shelldon emerging from his mossy cavern… a brave lad… a noble lad… a lad who slept for precisely nine hours and forty-two minutes, because he respects his circadian rhythm…”
You smile without looking up. “You know he can’t understand you.”
Harry gasps like you’ve insulted his religion. “He understands everything.”
Sir Shelldon, for his part, blinks slowly. Possibly in agreement. Possibly because he’s a turtle. Harry beams at him anyway. “See? He’s listening.”
You’re about to tease him again when the floor trembles a second time. You freeze. Harry freezes.
Sir Shelldon does not freeze. Sir Shelldon… prepares. He shifts his little turtle legs. He lifts his shell a millimeter. His eyes narrow with the focus of a man about to commit a crime.
And then—BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT.
It is not a fart. It is a statement. It is a sonic event. It is the kind of sound that makes you instinctively check the ceiling for structural damage.
Harry’s mouth falls open. His curls sway from the shockwave. His soul leaves his body, floats to the ceiling, looks down, and whispers, no way.
You choke on a laugh. “Was that—?”
Harry lifts a trembling finger. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”
Sir Shelldon, having unleashed his truth upon the world, looks deeply satisfied. He stretches his neck out like a smug little king surveying his kingdom.
Harry blinks rapidly, still processing. “I… I didn’t know turtles could— I mean, I knew they had digestive systems, obviously, but— that was— that was—”
“Impressive?” you offer.
Harry whips around, scandalized. “That was indecent.”
Sir Shelldon blinks again. Slowly. Mockingly.
Harry clutches his chest. “He did it on purpose.”
You snort. “He’s a turtle, babe. I don’t think he’s plotting.”
Harry narrows his eyes at his beloved reptile. “He plots. He’s always plotting. Look at him. He’s got that face.”
Sir Shelldon’s face is the same as always: vaguely judgmental, vaguely sleepy, vaguely ancient. But Harry is convinced. He stands, dusts off his knees, and points sternly into the terrarium. “Sir Shelldon. That was rude.”
Sir Shelldon does not care.
Harry’s voice rises, soft but firm, like a kindergarten teacher scolding a child for biting someone. “We do not unleash— whatever that was— without warning. We do not weaponize our bodies. We do not terrorize the people we love.”
You’re laughing so hard you have to put the sketchbook down.
Harry turns to you, betrayed. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m not encouraging him,” you wheeze. “I’m just— I’m just impressed he didn’t crack the glass.”
Harry’s eyes widen. He rushes to inspect the terrarium. “Oh my god. What if he did? What if he shattered something internally? What if that was a cry for help? What if he’s sick?”
You rub your forehead. “Harry. He farted.”
Harry ignores you completely, scooping Sir Shelldon up with both hands like a fragile heirloom. “My sweet boy. My brave boy. Did your tummy hurt? Was that a distress signal? Blink twice if you’re in pain.”
Sir Shelldon blinks once.
Harry gasps. “He’s in pain.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Harry—”
“No, no, don’t try to downplay this. I know my son. I know his tells. That was a pain blink.”
“It was a normal blink.”
Harry shakes his head, curls bouncing. “No. No, no, no. That was a suffering blink.”
Sir Shelldon blinks again.
Harry nearly faints. “Oh god. He’s deteriorating.”
You stand, walk over, and gently pry the turtle from his hands. “He’s fine. He’s dramatic. Like someone else I know.”
Harry gasps again, hand to chest. “Are you calling my son dramatic?”
“I’m calling you dramatic.”
He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Sir Shelldon chooses that exact moment to release a second, smaller, but still deeply confident fart.
Pffft.
Harry screams. You drop to your knees laughing. Sir Shelldon looks pleased with himself.
Harry spends the next hour Googling “turtle gastrointestinal emergencies,” “is my turtle dying,” and “can turtles fart loud enough to cause concern.” You spend the next hour taking his phone away repeatedly.
“He’s fine,” you keep saying.
“You don’t know that,” Harry keeps insisting.
“He’s literally eating lettuce right now.”
“That could be a stress response.”
“He’s basking under his heat lamp.”
“He could be trying to regulate his internal organs.”
“He’s asleep.”
“He could be slipping into a coma.”
You stare at him. “Harry. He’s snoring.”
Harry’s eyes fill with tears. “Coma snores.”
You put a hand on his cheek. “Baby. He’s okay.”
Harry leans into your touch, but his eyes stay glued to Sir Shelldon. “He farted so loud. What if something ruptured.”
“Nothing ruptured.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Because he just did it again.”
Sir Shelldon, indeed, lets out a third, tiny, almost polite little toot. Harry looks like he’s going to pass out.
Eventually, you sit Harry down on the couch.
“Okay,” you say gently. “We need to talk.”
Harry sniffles. “About his gastrointestinal decline?”
“No. About your emotional decline.”
Harry blinks. “My what.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re spiraling so hard you’re creating wind.”
Harry opens his mouth to argue, but Sir Shelldon farts again from across the room. Harry flinches like he’s been shot.
You take his hands. “Harry. Listen to me. Turtles fart. It’s normal. It’s healthy. It means his digestion is working.”
Harry’s eyes widen. “Healthy?”
“Yes.”
“Like… good?”
“Yes.”
“Like… he’s thriving?”
“Yes.”
Harry looks over at Sir Shelldon, who is now proudly standing on a rock like a war general surveying a battlefield. Harry’s face softens. “My strong boy.”
You nod. “Your very strong, very gassy boy.”
Harry wipes his eyes. “I’m so proud of him.”
You squeeze his hands. “I know.”
He sniffles again. “I thought he was dying.”
“I thought he was sending me a final message.”
“I thought he was saying goodbye.”
Sir Shelldon farts again. Harry beams. “He’s saying hello.”
Later that night, you’re brushing your teeth when Harry appears in the doorway, looking troubled.
You spit. “What’s wrong now.”
He hesitates. “I think… Sir Shelldon is intimidated by you.”
You stare at him. “Because he farted?”
“No. Because he farted at you.”
You blink. “Harry. He didn’t—”
“He did. He aimed it. He projected it. He weaponized it. That was a territorial display.”
You put your toothbrush down. “Harry. He’s a turtle.”
Harry shakes his head. “He’s a man.”
You laugh. “He’s a reptile.”
“He’s a reptile man.”
You rub your temples. “Harry—”
“He’s threatened by you.”
“He’s not.”
“He is.”
You sigh. “Why would he be threatened by me.”
Harry looks at you with devastating sincerity. “Because I love you.”
You freeze.
Harry swallows. “And he knows it.”
You soften. “Harry…”
“He’s used to being my number one. My little guy. My whole world. And now you’re here. And he’s adjusting. And sometimes adjusting means… farting.”
You try not to laugh. “You think he’s jealous.”
Harry nods gravely. “Deeply.”
You step closer, wrap your arms around his waist. “Then we’ll help him adjust.”
Harry melts into you. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.”
“For him?”
“For you.”
Harry kisses your forehead, soft and grateful. “You’re the best.”
Sir Shelldon farts from the living room. Harry beams. “He’s warming up to you.”
The next morning, Harry sets up what he calls a “bonding circle.” It is, in reality, three pillows on the floor arranged around Sir Shelldon, who is sitting in the middle like a tiny, judgmental emperor.
Harry gestures for you to sit. “We’re going to build trust.”
You sit. Harry sits. Sir Shelldon stares.
Harry clears his throat. “Sir Shelldon. This is my partner. They are kind. They are gentle. They are not here to steal your place in my heart.”
Sir Shelldon blinks.
Harry continues. “They love you. They respect you. They admire your strength.”
You nod solemnly. “Very strong.”
Sir Shelldon shifts slightly. Harry gasps. “He’s opening up.”
Sir Shelldon lifts his back leg. Harry’s eyes widen. “Oh god. Oh god. He’s going to—”
PFFFT.
Harry claps his hands. “He accepts you.”
You stare at him. “Harry. He just farted on me.”
Harry wipes a tear. “He’s welcoming you into the family.”
You groan. “Harry—”
Harry pulls you into a hug, rocking you gently. “Shh. Don’t ruin this. This is a sacred moment.”
Sir Shelldon farts again. Harry beams. “He loves you.”
By the end of the week, Sir Shelldon has farted on you, near you, and while making direct eye contact with you. Harry has interpreted every single one as affection, trust, and a sign of deepening family unity.
You’ve given up trying to argue. Harry is glowing. Sir Shelldon is thriving. And you… well, you’ve accepted your fate.
You are dating a man. And his turtle. And his turtle’s digestive system.
And honestly? You wouldn’t change a thing.
Because every time Sir Shelldon lets one rip, Harry looks at him with such pure, ridiculous, overwhelming love that your heart squeezes. And every time Harry looks at you with that same love, you realize something:
You’re not the third wheel. You’re part of the chaos. Part of the family. Part of the fart-powered emotional ecosystem that is Harry and Sir Shelldon.
Warnings: Harry getting his inner Real Housewife on!!!
Prompt: Harry is polite.... until pushed.
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You’ve known Harry for years. You’ve dated him for two. You’ve lived with him for one. And in all that time, you’ve learned one universal truth:
Harry Styles does not have a bitch bone in his body.
He is incapable of pettiness. He is allergic to drama. He is constitutionally unable to clap back.
You’ve seen him get cut off in traffic and respond with, “Hope they get where they’re goin’ safely.” You’ve seen someone steal his parking spot and he said, “Maybe they needed it more.” You’ve seen a man spill coffee on him and Harry apologized.
He is, in short, a golden retriever in human form.
Until today. Until Madame Zena.
You’re at a fashion event — one of those pretentious, avant‑garde, “is this art or a tax write‑off?” types of shows. Harry’s been invited to meet Madame Zena, a designer known for her dramatic capes, her hatred of joy, and her ability to make grown men cry.
She sweeps into the room like a bat that learned couture. Her hair is a silver tower. Her lipstick is the color of fresh blood. Her heels could kill a man. She looks at Harry like he’s a stain on her carpet.
“Ah,” she says, voice dripping disdain. “The pop star.”
Harry smiles politely. “Hiya. Lovely to meet—”
She lifts a hand. “No need for pleasantries. I know who you are.”
You blink. Harry blinks.
She circles him like a shark. “You are… how do they say… cute.” Harry’s smile falters. You’ve never seen that happen. “You dress like a child who raided his grandmother’s attic,” she continues.
Harry’s jaw drops.
“And your tattoos…” She waves a dismissive hand. “They look like doodles from a bored schoolboy.”
Harry inhales sharply. You swear you hear something crack inside him.
Harry straightens. His shoulders roll back. His eyes narrow. You’ve never seen this expression on him before — it’s like watching a Disney prince discover he has a villain arc.
“Right,” he says slowly. “Okay.”
Madame Zena smirks. “Did I offend you?”
Harry tilts his head. “No, no. Just realizin’ somethin’.”
“And what is that?”
“That you’re rude.”
You choke. Madame Zena’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
Harry crosses his arms. “You heard me. You’re rude. And not even in an interestin’ way. Just… garden‑variety rude.”
You stare at him. Who is this man? Where did he come from? Is this… is this Harry’s bitch bone emerging from the depths like a long‑dormant volcano?
Madame Zena scoffs. “I am honest.”
“No,” Harry says, “you’re mean.”
She gasps like he slapped her with a white glove.
Madame Zena steps closer. “You dare insult me?”
Harry steps closer too. “You insulted me first.”
You look around for cameras because this is Bravo TV energy.
She sneers. “You are sensitive.”
Harry shrugs. “And you’re pressed.”
You slap a hand over your mouth. Madame Zena sputters. “Pressed?!”
“Pressed,” Harry repeats. “Wrinkled. Crinkled. Crispy. Pick whichever one fits.”
You are witnessing history. Harry Styles is reading someone for filth.
She jabs a finger at his chest. “You think you can speak to me this way?”
Harry leans in. “I think I just did.”
You swear you hear a “YASSS” from a gay man across the room.
Madame Zena flicks her cape dramatically. “I have dressed royalty.”
Harry flicks his own imaginary cape. “I am royalty. Styles royalty. Ask literally anyone.”
She narrows her eyes. “Your fashion sense is childish.”
Harry gestures at her outfit. “You look like a chandelier that escaped.”
A gasp ripples through the room. Someone whispers, “Oh my God, he’s snapping.”
Madame Zena’s nostrils flare. “You are uncultured.”
Harry scoffs. “I read books.”
“You read what, romance novels?”
Harry lifts his chin. “Better than whatever you read — which I’m guessin’ is just your own press releases.”
You wheeze. You are crying. You are witnessing the birth of Harry’s inner Real Housewife.
Madame Zena steps back, clutching her pearls. “I do not have to stand here and be insulted by a boy band member.”
Harry smirks. “Then sit.”
The room explodes. People are covering their mouths. Someone drops a champagne glass. A stylist faints.
Madame Zena sputters, cape trembling. “You— you—”
Harry waves a hand. “Run along now, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. He called her sweetheart. You are deceased.
Madame Zena storms away, heels stabbing the floor like she’s killing it with each step.
Harry turns to you, face flushed, chest heaving. You stare at him. He stares at you.
“…Harry,” you whisper.
He blinks. “Yeah?”
“What was that?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Dunno. Somethin’ came over me.”
“Something?”
He nods. “Yeah. Like… like a switch flipped.”
“A bitch switch?”
Harry gasps. “Don’t call it that.”
“You were a Real Housewife.”
“I was not.”
“You told her to sit.”
Harry covers his face. “Oh God.”
“You called her pressed.”
He groans. “Stop.”
“You said she looked like a chandelier.”
He peeks through his fingers. “Okay, that one was funny.”
You grin. “Harry… I’ve never seen you like that.”
He shrugs helplessly. “She was bein’ awful. And I just… snapped.”
“You snapped beautifully.”
He laughs, embarrassed. “I’m not proud of it.”
“You should be.”
He sighs. “I feel like I need to sage myself.”
A week later, a package arrives. Harry opens it. Inside is a note:
“To the pop star.
You may be rude, but you are entertaining. Consider modeling for my next show.
— Madame Zena”
If you want to write you need to read. Read everything you can get your hands on. Not just fiction from your genre. Read other genres, read articles, read the paper, read things you disagree with, read the same plot over and over because it’s that good, read pamphlets, read academic literature, read children’s books, read smutty erotica, read sweet coming of age, read jokes on social media, read posts made by friends and strangers, read texts, read folklore, read experimental texts, read lyrics, read plaques at the park, read info texts in museums, read books no one else has read, read reviews for the most popular books, read, read, read.
Read anything and everything you can get your hands on and let it all sink in until the written word becomes a language so ingrained in yourself that nothing is foreign to you.
*Based off a request and a Perrie Edwards song, Cute Aggression!*
Harry’s already running late.
Which is, in fairness, not entirely his fault. It’s hard to be punctual when your two‑year‑old insists on wearing sparkly rain boots, a tutu, and one of your old beanies that keeps sliding over her eyes.
“Daddy, hat,” Lexi mumbles, pushing the beanie up again with both hands.
“I know, bug. It keeps fallin’,” Harry laughs, adjusting it for the tenth time. “Told you it’s too big.”
She gasps like he’s said something scandalous. “No. It’s pwetty.”
“Alright, alright. It’s pretty.”
They reach the rehearsal room door. Harry barely gets it open before—
“IS THAT MY FAVORITE GIRL IN THE WORLD?”
Louis is the first to sprint over, nearly knocking over a mic stand. He scoops Lexi right out of Harry’s arms, spinning her around while she squeals.
“Lou, careful—” Harry starts. But it’s too late. The rest of the boys have descended.
Niall: “LEXIIIIII! Oh my God, look at her little boots. I’m gonna cry.”
Zayn: “Nah, mate, look at the beanie. It’s bigger than her whole head.”
Liam: “Come here, sweetheart—oh my goodness, she’s so tiny today. Why is she so tiny today?”
Harry stands there, hands on hips, watching four grown men lose their collective minds over a toddler. Lexi, meanwhile, is thriving. She pats Liam’s cheeks, grabs Zayn’s necklace, and kicks her sparkly boots against Niall’s chest like she’s conducting an orchestra.
“Guys,” Harry says, trying not to laugh, “I did actually bring her here so I could rehearse.”
“Rehearse?” Louis scoffs. “And deprive us of THIS?”
“She’s literally eating your hoodie drawstring,” Harry points out.
“And I’d let her,” Louis says without hesitation.
Rehearsal becomes chaos immediately. Harry tries to run through harmonies, but every time he opens his mouth, he's interrupted by:
“Lexi, sweetheart, do you want this tambourine?”
“OH MY GOD SHE SMILED AT ME—HARRY DID YOU SEE THAT?”
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lads. Please. I’m beggin’.”
But he’s smiling. Because this—this ridiculous, chaotic, love‑soaked mess—is exactly why he brings her. She’s safe here. She’s growing up surrounded by people who treat her like she hung the moon.
Break time is even worse. Lexi sits on the floor drawing something that looks vaguely like a potato.
“What’s that, Lex?” Harry asks.
She holds it up proudly. “Daddy.”
The boys collectively gasp like they’re watching a marriage proposal.
Then comes the moment that ends them all. Lexi toddles over to Harry, climbs into his lap, and rests her head on his chest. Just… curls right into him like he’s her whole world.
Harry wraps his arms around her, swaying gently, humming under his breath.
The boys freeze.
“I’m gonna explode,” Louis whispers.
Niall: “I actually feel it. In my chest. I’m dying.”
Lexi lifts her head, looks at the boys, and says in the tiniest voice: “Hi.”
They scream. Actually scream.
Harry covers her ears. “OI! She’s a baby!”
By the end of the day, Lexi is asleep on Harry’s shoulder, her beanie crooked, her boots dangling. The boys are gathered around like she’s a rare artifact.
“She’s perfect,” Niall whispers.
“She’s the band baby,” Zayn adds.
Harry looks at all of them—these idiots, these brothers—and feels something warm settle in his chest. “Thanks for lovin’ her,” he says softly.
Louis bumps his shoulder. “Mate. We’re obsessed with her.”
Harry laughs quietly so he doesn’t wake her. “Yeah,” he murmurs, kissing the top of her head. “I know.”
-------
(I added a bonus cause WHY NOT???!!!)
Harry should’ve known something was off the moment the room went quiet.
Lexi is sitting on the floor of the rehearsal space, surrounded by the boys, coloring with the intensity of someone who believes Crayola is a competitive sport. Louis is lying on his stomach beside her, kicking his feet in the air like a teenage girl on the phone.
Harry’s across the room tuning his guitar when he hears it. A tiny voice. Sweet. High‑pitched. Innocent.
“Shi’.”
Harry freezes. The guitar pick drops out of his hand. Slowly—slowly—he turns around.
Lexi is still coloring. Louis is staring at her like he’s seen a ghost. Niall has both hands over his mouth. Zayn is blinking very fast. Liam looks like he’s about to call a family meeting.
Harry walks over, voice dangerously calm. “…What did she just say?”
Louis immediately points at Niall. “It was him.”
Niall chokes. “WHAT—no it wasn’t! I didn’t say anything!”
Lexi looks up at Harry, proud as can be, and repeats it. “Shi’.”
Harry’s soul leaves his body. “LEXI ROSE STYLES.”
She giggles. “Shi’!”
Louis is wheezing into the floor. Harry rounds on him. “LOUIS. WHAT DID YOU DO.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Louis insists, still laughing. “She just—she just said it! She’s a genius!”
“She’s TWO.”
“Exactly! Advanced vocabulary!”
Liam steps in like the responsible dad friend he is. “Okay, okay, everyone calm down. Harry, she doesn’t know what it means.”
“I KNOW she doesn’t know what it means,” Harry says, pacing. “But my baby said a curse word.”
Lexi, delighted by the attention, tries again. “Shi’!”
Harry makes a noise that can only be described as a dying kettle.
Zayn finally loses it and starts laughing. “Mate, you’re doomed. She’s around Louis too much.”
Harry kneels in front of Lexi, trying to keep his voice gentle. “Bug… we don’t say that word, okay? It’s a grown‑up word.”
Lexi blinks at him. Then points at Louis. “Lou say it.”
The room explodes. Niall falls off the couch. Zayn is crying. Liam is wheezing. Louis looks like he’s been caught by the principal.
“Louis. Care to explain?”
Louis throws his hands up. “I stubbed my toe! It slipped out! I didn’t think she heard me!”
“She hears EVERYTHING,” Harry groans. “She’s like a sponge with pigtails.”
“NO—no, no, no, sweetheart, we say… shoot. Shoot.”
Lexi considers this. Then nods. “Shoot.”
Harry exhales in relief. Then she adds, very softly: “Shi’.”
Harry’s head hits the wall. Louis is laughing so hard he’s useless.
Later, when they’re packing up, Lexi is asleep on Harry’s shoulder. Louis walks over, looking properly sheepish.
“Hey… Haz? I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to teach her that.”
Harry looks at him, tired but fond. “I know you didn’t. Just… maybe watch the language around her, yeah?”
Louis nods. “Promise. Then I better start saying nice things.”
Harry raises a brow. “Like what?”
Louis leans in and whispers to Lexi’s sleeping form: “Daddy’s the best.”
Harry’s face softens instantly. “…Thanks, Lou.”
Louis shrugs. “Figured if she’s gonna parrot something, might as well be true.”
Harry smiles down at his daughter. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”
Hiii, can you do single dad harry styles x 3 year old daughter where its 2013 and harry is still yk in 1D and he takes her with him to see the boys and they all have cute aggression (including harry) and they play with her and stuff!!
Oh yeah!!!! I've been waiting for this!!! Absolutely!
