#hstyles

[xosiren]

Harry Styles Joins Brittany Broski's Royal Court

[watermelonkiwiharry]

hiii so then i have a request: it’s basically kind of like cockwarming so harry has realized his gf has been very stressed, so he takes a bath with her and hives her princess treatment and in the bath he puts it in because that usually relaxes both of them so not really actually sex but could also lead to that if you want to

OOOOOHHH Just got me feeling ALL THE WAYS just reading this lol!!!

The Princess Treatment

Pairings: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Soft Domestic, Soft Comfort, Smut, Heavy Smut, Cock Play, Anal Sex, Clit Play, Penetration, Breast Groping, Nipple Play

Word Count: ~2k words

Warnings: None. Just Harry and Yn having some fun in the tub ;)

Prompt: You're stressed out from life, work and everything else and Harry decides that a nice bath might relax you -- and him too.

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(My first smut post. Lemme know what you think!!!! ;)))))

The weight of the world had settled into the space between your shoulders, a hard, unyielding knot of tension that no amount of stretching or sighing could unravel. It had been one of those days—no, one of those months—where every email was a demand, every deadline a cliff edge, and the quiet hum of the city outside your window felt less like a lullaby and more like a taunt.

You’d trudged through the front door of your lavish home, a place that usually felt like a sanctuary, and dropped your bag onto the marble floor with a thud that seemed to echo your own internal state of collapse.

Silence. You’d expected to hear the faint strum of a guitar from his studio or the low murmur of a record spinning in the living room. But there was nothing. A tiny, irrational pang of disappointment pricked at you. You’d been craving him, craving the specific brand of calm that only Harry Styles could manufacture.

“Haz?” you called out, your voice sounding thin and weary even to your own ears.

No answer. You kicked off your shoes, the cool floor a minor relief against your aching feet and padded further into the house. Then you saw it: a single, deep red rose petal on the bottom step of the staircase.

You stopped, frowning. You hadn’t bought roses.

Another petal a few steps up. And another. A trail of crimson, velvety softness leading upstairs. Your heart, which had been beating a sluggish, tired rhythm, gave a curious little flutter.

You followed the path, your exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by a burgeoning curiosity. The trail led down the hall, past the bedrooms, and stopped at the closed door of the master bathroom. From under the door, a warm, golden light spilled out, and the most incredible scent drifted through the air—a mix of sandalwood, bergamot, and the unmistakable sweetness of roses.

You pushed the door open slowly.

The sight that greeted you stole the breath from your lungs.

The entire bathroom was transformed. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of rose petals carpeted the floor, a lush crimson river leading to the sunken, free-standing tub, which was itself overflowing with them. They floated on the water’s surface like a delicate, fragrant mosaic.

Dozens of pillar candles of varying heights flickered from every available surface—the vanity, the edges of the tub, the windowsill—casting the room in a warm, intimate, dancing light. The mirrors were slightly steamed, and soft, melodic music, something instrumental and gentle, played from a hidden speaker.

And there he was.

Harry stood by the tub, wearing just a soft pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His brown hair was slightly mussed, and his green eyes, reflecting the candlelight, held a softness that made your throat tighten. A small, knowing smile played on his lips.

“Hi, love,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through the last of your stress. “Rough day?”

You could only nod, your eyes stinging with sudden, overwhelmed tears. You weren’t a crier, not usually, but this—the sheer thoughtfulness, the blatant romance of it—unmoored you completely.

He crossed the petal-strewn floor in two strides and cupped your face in his hands. His thumbs swept gently under your eyes, catching the tears before they could fall. “Hey, none of that,” he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours. “This is a no-stress zone. Officially.”

“Harry,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “This is… it’s too much. You didn’t have to…”

“I know I didn’t have to,” he interrupted softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I wanted to. I saw your text this afternoon, the one that just said ‘Ugh.’ I knew my girl needed some looking after.” He took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours. “C’mon. Your bath is getting cold, and I’ve put in that expensive oil you like. The one that smells like vanilla and heaven.”

He led you to the edge of the tub. With infinitely gentle hands, he helped you out of your stiff work clothes, each piece falling to the petal-covered floor until you were standing bare before him in the candlelight. There was no urgency in his touch, only reverence. He kissed your shoulder, his lips warm against your skin, before helping you step into the water.

It was perfection. The water was the exact temperature you loved—blissfully hot, almost scalding, just how you needed it to seep into your bones. The scent of the oils and the roses enveloped you instantly.

You sank down with a sigh that felt like it came from the very depths of your soul, the water rising up to your chest. You let your head rest back against the curved edge and closed your eyes, feeling the tensions of the day begin to, ever so slowly, dissolve.

You heard the soft rustle of fabric and opened your eyes to see Harry shedding his sweatpants. The candlelight played over the familiar planes of his body, the tattoos you knew by heart, the lean strength of him. He was beautiful, a living piece of art in the flickering golden light. He stepped into the tub opposite you, the water sloshing gently, and sank down, his long legs stretching out alongside yours amidst a sea of petals.

For a long while, you just sat in comfortable silence. The music swelled softly. He reached out and took your foot in his hand, his thumb finding the arch and pressing in a slow, circular motion that made you groan in pure ecstasy.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice a low hum. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He worked on your feet for a few minutes, then urged you to turn around, presenting your back to him. You complied, shuffling in the water until you were settled between his legs, your back resting against his chest. His arms came around you, and his hands found your shoulders.

His touch was magic. Strong, skilled fingers sought out the rock-hard knot between your shoulder blades and began to knead it with a firm, steady pressure. You let out a low moan, your head lolling back against his shoulder.

“There’s the trouble-maker,” he muttered, his lips close to your ear. He worked the knot relentlessly, until it began to yield under his ministrations, melting away from a stone of stress into something pliable and soft. You were boneless against him, completely surrendered to the sensation. The heat of the water, the scent of the roses, the sound of his breathing in your ear—it was a symphony of relaxation.

You could feel him, hard and warm, pressing against the small of your back. It wasn’t a demand; it was just a fact of his presence, a part of the intimate tableau. The massage slowed, his hands smoothing over your now-pliant muscles in long, soothing strokes. His lips found the sensitive spot just below your ear, kissing it softly, then tracing a path down the column of your neck.

A different kind of heat began to unspool low in your belly, intertwining with the warmth of the bath. The relaxation was morphing, shifting into something heavier, more wanting. You tilted your head to the side, giving him better access, a silent invitation.

He took it. His hands drifted down from your shoulders, over your slick, oil-slicked skin, to cup your breasts. His thumbs circled your nipples, which peaked instantly under the water, tight and sensitive. A soft gasp escaped you, getting lost in the steam-filled air.

“Feeling better?” he whispered, his voice husky now, laced with a desire that mirrored your own.

“Mmm,” you managed, incapable of coherent speech. “So much better.”

One of his hands drifted lower, over the flat plane of your stomach, down through the warm, rose-strewn water. His fingertips brushed through your curls, so gently it was almost a question. You answered by pressing back against him, a clear, unmistakable consent.

His touch was exquisite. He knew your body as well as his own, his fingers finding the perfect rhythm, the perfect pressure to make you arch against him, the water lapping at your skin. The relaxation he had so carefully built was now thrumming with a new, electric energy. The candles flickered, casting your entangled shadows on the wall. The petals stuck to you and Harry's skin, tiny red kisses against the steam-sheened flush that was spreading across your chest.

You were writhing against his hand, breaths coming in short, sharp pants, when he suddenly stilled. You whimpered in protest at the loss of contact.

“Shhh, darling,” he soothed, kissing your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

He shifted behind you, his hands on your hips, guiding you up slightly. You knew what he wanted. You braced your hands on the edge of the tub, lifting your body just enough. You felt the broad, smooth head of his cock nudge against you, and then, with a slow, exquisite pressure, he was pushing inside.

The feeling was overwhelming. The heat of the water magnified every sensation, the slickness of the oils making his entry seamless and deep. You cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief and pleasure as he filled you completely, stretching you in the most perfect way. He was sheathed to the hilt, his body pressed flush against your back, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you steady.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You were just connected, breathing in sync, feeling the incredible intimacy of the join. The stress, the worry, the noise of the world—it all vanished, burned away by the candlelight and the profound, soul-deep connection you shared with him in this moment. He was your anchor, your safe harbor.

“Okay?” he breathed into your ear, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.

“Perfect,” you rasped. “Don’t you dare stop.”

A low groan vibrated through his chest and into yours. He began to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that was less about frantic passion and more about a deep, soulful communion. The water swirled and pulsed around you with every thrust, rose petals clinging to your arms, your breasts, your joined bodies. His pace was relentless and tender, each movement calculated to draw out the pleasure, to build it slowly and beautifully.

One of his hands slid up your body, over your slick stomach, to cradle one of your breasts, his thumb rolling over your nipple in time with his thrusts. The other hand remained splayed on your lower stomach, holding you firmly against him, ensuring every stroke was as deep as possible.

The combined sensations were dizzying. The friction inside you, the play of his hands on your sensitive skin, the hot water, the heady scent of roses and sex, the sight of his strong, tattooed forearm wrapped around you—it was a sensory overload of the most blissful kind. You let your head fall back against his shoulder, turning to capture his mouth in a wet, desperate kiss. He met you with equal fervor, his tongue tangling with yours.

His thrusts began to deepen, to gain a slightly more urgent edge. The water sloshed gently over the side of the tub, a soft slap, slap, slap accompanying the sound of your ragged breathing and his low, guttural moans.

“You feel… so fucking good,” he gritted out, his voice raw. “So perfect for me, my love. My wife.”

His words, spoken with such possessiveness and adoration, pushed you closer to the edge. You could feel the coil of pleasure tightening unbearably low in your abdomen, a pressure building with every one of his deep, sure strokes.

“Harry… I’m close,” you panted, your fingers digging into the edge of the tub.

“I know, baby, I know,” he murmured, his breath hot against your neck. “Let go. I’ve got you. Always.”

He slid the hand on your stomach lower, through your wet waves, finding that perfect, swollen spot. The second his fingers made contact, you shattered.

Your orgasm crashed over you not like a wave, but like a warm, all-enveloping tide. It radiated out from your core, melting every last remnant of tension, washing through you with a force that made you cry out his name, your body seizing around his. The world narrowed to the feeling of him inside you, the sound of his voice in your ear, and the blinding, sparkling pleasure coursing through your veins.

Feeling you clench around him was his undoing. With a deep, ragged groan that was halfway a sob, he buried himself as deep as he could, his own release pulsing into you, hot and endless. His arms tightened around you like a vice, holding you through the tremors that wracked both your bodies.

For a long time, you stayed like that, slumped together in the cooling, petal-strewn water, breathing heavily. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the candles and the slowing beat of your hearts. Slowly, carefully, he softened inside you and slipped out. He turned you gently in his arms until you were facing him, your legs tangled together under the water. Your bodies were still flush, your foreheads resting together.

His green eyes, dark with spent passion and unwavering love, searched yours. He brushed a stray petal from your cheek. “Welcome back,” he whispered, a soft smile gracing his beautiful, familiar face.

You smiled, a real, genuine, stress-free smile for the first time in weeks. You felt light. You felt cherished. You felt like a princess in a fairy tale, but better, because this was real, and he was yours.

“I never left,” you whispered back, leaning in to kiss him softly. “You just brought me home.”

[music-source]

HARRY STYLES TOGETHER, TOGETHER | WEMBLEY, 2026

[gumballavocadoharry]

Harry accidentally embarrasses you:

You should’ve known better than to bring Harry.

You love him — deeply, stupidly, endlessly — but the man has zero concept of subtlety. Or volume control. Or social awareness when he’s trying to “help.”

But you’re crampy, tired, and craving chocolate, so when he offered to drive you to the drugstore, you said yes.

Mistake number one.

Now you’re standing in the feminine care aisle, trying to discreetly grab the brand you always use, when Harry — sweet, oblivious, six‑foot‑something Harry — picks up a giant box of pads like it’s a pack of cereal.

“These the ones you like, love?”

You freeze. “Harry,” you whisper, “put that down.”

He squints at the box. “It says ‘overnight super‑duper absorbency.’ That sounds good, yeah?”

A man walking by chokes on his gum. You want to die.

“Harry,” you hiss, “please lower your voice.”

He blinks. “Why? It’s just pads.”

“Yes,” you whisper, “and I don’t need the entire store knowing about my—”

He gasps. Loudly. “Oh! These have wings! You like the winged ones, right? For extra stability?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Harry, I swear—”

He grabs another box. “What about these? Ultra‑thin? Or— oh! These say ‘leakproof.’ That sounds important.”

A teenage boy down the aisle is staring at you like you’re a zoo exhibit. You want to evaporate.

You try to grab the box from him, but Harry holds it above his head like a toddler playing keep‑away.

“Just tell me which ones you want, love,” he says, smiling like this is a fun bonding activity.

“I want you to stop talking,” you mutter.

He laughs. “Can’t do that. I’m helpin’.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Sure I am. I’m bein’ supportive.”

“Harry, you’re holding a box of pads like it’s a Grammy.”

He shrugs. “Same level of importance, if you ask me.”

You groan. Then — because the universe hates you — he calls across the aisle: “Excuse me! Do you know if these run small? My girlfriend gets really bad periods and I want to make sure—”

“OH MY GOD,” you whisper‑scream, slapping a hand over his mouth.

Harry’s eyes go wide.

You glare. “We are leaving. Now.”

He nods, muffled behind your hand. You grab the correct box, toss it into the basket, and drag him toward the checkout like a misbehaving golden retriever.

The cashier is a sweet older woman who smiles warmly at you. “Rough week, honey?”

You force a smile. “Something like that.”

Harry, still trying to redeem himself, beams proudly. “She’s on her period!”

You close your eyes. The cashier pats your hand sympathetically. “Bless your heart.”

You consider walking into traffic.

You don’t speak for the first two minutes. Harry keeps glancing at you like a scolded puppy.

Finally, he says, “I think that went well.”

You turn slowly. “Harry. Edward. Styles.”

He winces. “Uh‑oh.”

“You embarrassed me.”

“I know.”

“You announced my period to a stranger.”

“I did.”

“You asked a teenage boy about pad absorbency.”

“In hindsight, not my best move.”

You cross your arms. “Harry.”

He sighs, pulling into the driveway. “I just wanted to help,” he says softly. “You were in pain. And I hate when you’re in pain. And I wanted to make it easier.”

Your anger softens. Just a little.

You sigh. “You could’ve helped quietly.”

He nods. “I’ll practice my quiet voice.”

You raise a brow. “Your quiet voice?”

He clears his throat and whispers dramatically, “Pads.”

You burst out laughing. He grins, relieved.

Inside, he sets your things on the counter and pulls you into his arms.

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you,” he murmurs into your hair. “Truly.”

You lean into him. “I know. And I love you. Even when you’re… you.”

He kisses your forehead. “Next time, I’ll wait in the car.”

You smile. “Good plan.”

He pulls back, eyes sparkling. “But I’m still proud of you.”

“For what?”

“For survivin’ the drugstore with me.”

You laugh again, and he kisses your cheek.

“Now,” he says, “go get comfy. I’m makin’ you tea and heating up your heating pad.”

You blink. “You know how to use the heating pad?”

He smirks. “I read the instructions. Twice.”

Your heart melts.

“Harry?”

“Yeah, love?”

“Thank you.”

He kisses you softly. “Always.”

[queenbruv]

stuntdriver this coltland twin au that. well the only fall guy crossover i care about is the one that acknowledges that ryan gosling has only ever been in a split screen with another person twice: once as colt seavers with romantic co-lead jody moreno

and once on saturday night live, as actual ryan gosling, with harry styles

do with that with you will

[obiwan]

Harry Styles | Grammys Red Carpet 2023

[mack-will]

Harry Styles - Daylight (Official Video)

[erosedits]

I'm in an LA mood. I don't wanna talk to you. She said: Give me a day or two; I go round and round. Satellite.