🍉🏠Harry's Watermelon House🏠🍉 @watermelonlovershigh - Tumblr Blog

Just got the shots to numb my toes. That was some of the worst pain I've ever felt. 😭 At least I shouldn't feel when the remove the toenails. But damn I almost passed out and I've never passed out before.

#ingrown toenail removal surgery

An update i'm sure no one cares about.

I just took the bandages off and that was such a relief. Most of the pain i experienced after the numbing wore off yesterday was 95% the bandages they had wrapped around my toes. I can walk so much better now. They didn't remove my whole toe nails but the sides of my toe nails are gone. Now it's time for me to soak them.

hiiii could you maybe write something about harry eating his gf outt?

Full Course Meal

Pairings: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Smut, Soft Domestic, Hurt Comfort, Smutty

Word Count: ~3k words or more IDK

Warnings: None. Just Harry eating his meal and Yn enjoying the appetizers (I'm not good at sex talk.)

Prompt: You pose for some sexy pics and Harry happens to walk in while you're in a spicy thong and hunched over with your moon in his gaze.

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The moonlight filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the master suite, casting long, liquid shadows across the expansive king-sized bed. You stood before the floor-length gilded mirror, the only light in the room coming from a pair of dimmed bedside lamps that bathed everything in a warm, amber glow.

You caught your reflection and felt a surge of quiet confidence. The dark blue lace of the lingerie set was a striking contrast against your skin, the deep midnight hue making your complexion look luminous in the low light. The bra was delicate but structured, framing your breasts perfectly, while the matching thong sat high on your hips, accentuating the soft curve of your waist and the slim, toned line of your stomach.

Adjusting the strap of the bra, you picked up your phone. You weren't usually this bold, but there was something about the silence of the house and the way the lace felt against your skin that made you want to capture the moment. You arched your back slightly, watching how the light played over your collarbones and the pronounced curves of your body.

You angled the phone, snapping a few photos. In the mirror, you looked like a vision—the dark blue lace was intricate, almost like a second skin, and the view from the back left very little to the imagination, highlighting the shape of your bottom in a way that made your heart race just looking at it. You moved to the edge of the bed, kneeling on the silk duvet, posing with one hand behind your head as you looked over your shoulder at the camera.

The click of the bedroom door handle was nearly silent, but in the stillness of the room, it sounded like a crack of thunder.

You froze, your phone still raised, your back arched in a pose that bared everything.

Harry stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the hallway light before he stepped inside and the door swung shut behind him. He was still in his dress shirt from dinner, the top few buttons undone, his hair slightly tousled from a long day.

His eyes found yours in the mirror first, then slowly, hungrily, they raked down your body. The air in the room seemed to vanish instantly. You watched his throat join as he swallowed hard, his gaze lingering on the curve of your hips and the way the blue lace clung to your skin. The exhaustion that had been on his face moments ago was gone, replaced by an intense, dark heat that made your breath hitch.

Harry didn’t move, but his pupils blown wide, and the way his hand tightened on the doorknob told you everything. He was paralyzed by the sight of you, his arousal immediate and undeniable.

I love your dad Harry and how he’s dramatic. I have 2 ideas here do what you want with them.

1: Harry and y/n have a teenage son/ daughter and they catch Harry and y/n in bed if u know what i mean then try tease them in front of Anne and Gemma and Harry is really dramatic about it.

2: it’s the other way round and the teenager gets caught 😂

Hopefully you can do something with this

Looks like I'm doing a two in one special!!! LOL

The Day May Lost Her Innocence

Pairings: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: Domestic, Family Domestic, Soft Angst, Fluff, Soft Comfort, Comedy

Word Count: ~6k words (or close to it)

Warnings: Harry, Yn and your children sneaking around and screwing lmao!!

Prompt: Your daughter, May catches you having sex and teases you and Harry about it to his family; then May gets caught in action with her new guy, Landon.

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You and Harry have been married for twenty years. You have an 18‑year‑old daughter named May, who is smart, sarcastic, and unfortunately very observant. She is also supposed to be at school.

Which is why you and Harry are currently in bed, enjoying a rare quiet morning. Cuddling. Kissing. Screwing. Just… married people being affectionate. Harry is kissing your neck in that way that makes you giggle and blush and swat at him.

“Stop,” you whisper, laughing.

“Never,” he murmurs, nuzzling you. “M’wife. I get t’kiss you whenever I want.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

You do. You absolutely do. He leans in again, lips brushing your jaw—and that’s when your bedroom door swings open.

“Hey, Mum, have you seen my—”

May freezes. You freeze. Harry freezes. Everyone stares at each other like a wildlife documentary where the predator and prey lock eyes. May blinks once. Twice. Then she screams.

“OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD.”

Harry sits up so fast he nearly pulls a muscle. “May! Knock!”

“I DIDN’T THINK I NEEDED TO KNOCK AT EIGHT IN THE MORNING!”

You grab the blanket and pull it up to your chin. “Sweetheart, we weren’t—”

“NOPE. DON’T EXPLAIN. I DON’T WANT TO KNOW. I’M LEAVING THE COUNTRY.”

She backs out of the room like she’s escaping a crime scene. Harry groans and flops onto his back. “Well. That’s ruined.”

You smack his arm. “Harry!”

“What? It has!”

May storms into the kitchen, pacing like she’s preparing to testify in court. Gemma is sitting at the table with a cup of tea. Anne is flipping pancakes. Both look up.

May slams her hands on the counter. “I need therapy.”

Gemma blinks. “What happened?”

Anne frowns. “Are you hurt?”

“I walked in on Mum and Dad being… ugh!”

Gemma chokes on her tea. Anne drops the spatula. May continues, hands flailing. “They were all cuddly and whispery and— and— I can’t even say it.”

Gemma wipes her eyes, laughing. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” May says dramatically. “I saw Dad’s shoulder. His bare shoulder.”

Anne gasps. “Not the shoulder.”

“Yes, Nana. The shoulder. The shoulder of sin.”

Gemma is wheezing now. May points at her. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m traumatized.”

Anne pats her arm. “Sweetheart, your parents are married. They’re allowed to be affectionate.”

“Not when I’m home!”

Gemma snorts. “You were supposed to be at school.”

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.

Vertigo

Pairings: Dad!Harry Styles x Reader and teen daughter

Genre: Soft Angst, Fluff, Coming‑of‑Age, Family Dynamics

Word Count: ~5K words

Warnings: Teenage awkwardness, Parental affection, Emotional vulnerability

Prompt: Kelly is deep in her awkward era — trying to be invisible, trying not to need anyone — but every time Harry does something soft and dad‑coded, she gets that embarrassing, heart‑too‑big feeling she can’t outrun.

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(This was inspired off of that Taylor Acorn song, Vertigo because it made me think of something EXACTLY like this!!! ;)))))

Kelly Styles is thirteen and allergic to being perceived.

Not literally, obviously. But it feels like it. Like every time someone looks at her too long, her skin buzzes and her stomach flips and her brain goes, Abort mission, we’re going down. Especially when it’s him. Her dad. Harry.

Because he loves her too loudly. Too brightly. Too… Harry‑ly. And she doesn’t know what to do with that anymore.

Kelly sits at the kitchen island like she’s trying to fold herself into a smaller version of herself. Hoodie up. Knees tucked. Phone held at the exact angle that says I’m busy, don’t talk to me, even though she’s just scrolling the same three apps in a loop.

The house is quiet in that weekend way — soft, slow, like it’s still waking up.

Then he walks in.

Ngl i cried reading this one. 😭

2 AM Fridge Raid

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Domestic Romance, Soft Comedy

Word Count: ~3,000 words

Warnings: High sugar content (metaphorically), sleep deprivation, aggressive cheese consumption, and excessive soft Harry.

Prompt: It's 2 AM, the fridge light is the only thing guiding us, and I think Harry's in love with this brie as much as he's in love with you.

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The silence of the house was absolute, the kind of heavy, velvety quiet that only exists in the dead of night. You were staring at the ceiling, your eyes wide and your brain decided it was the perfect time to remember a slightly embarrassing thing you said in 2014. Beside you, the bed was empty—the sheets cold where Harry usually curled into your side.

A faint clatter echoed from downstairs. Then, the distinct, muffled sound of a man trying to be quiet and failing spectacularly.

You threw back the duvet, your toes hitting the cold hardwood as you grabbed your oversized cardigan. You crept down the stairs, guided by the soft, buttery glow emanating from the kitchen.

There he was.

Harry was illuminated by the harsh, clinical light of the open refrigerator, wearing nothing but his plaid pajama pants and a look of intense, scholarly concentration. He was currently debating between a jar of pickles and a block of sharp cheddar.

"You know," you whispered, leaning against the doorframe, "the pickles are a bold choice for two in the morning."

Harry jumped, nearly knocking over a carton of almond milk. He spun around, a hand over his heart, his curls tousled into a chaotic bird's nest. "Love! You nearly sent me to the afterlife."

"What are we doing, H?"

"I couldn’t sleep," he admitted, his voice a gravelly, sleepy rumble that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. He flashed a cheeky, dimpled grin. "And then my stomach started singing the song of its people. I was thinking... a board?"

"A Midnight Snack Party?" you asked, your eyes brightening.

"The best kind of party," he agreed.

Faceplant

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Soft Harry, Idiots in Love

Word count: 1073

Warnings: Broken nose, facial injuries (shattered chin/bandages), accidental falls.

Prompt: After a freak accident that ends up with you faceplanting onto the icy stairwell outside your loft, Harry comforts and cares for you, as he desperately tries to get to the bottom as to how the fall happened in the first place.

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You had, in fact, promised you wouldn’t do this.

Not that you meant to make promises just to break them, but the loft’s front steps were slick with black ice, your fingers were freezing, and—well. Your pockets were right there.

You barely registered the slip until your chin cracked against the edge of the second step. The impact was sharp enough to send a white-hot jolt through your skull, the kind of pain that blurred your vision for a solid five seconds. You managed to catch yourself on your forearms, but not before your face took the worst of it—your nose smashed against the railing, your chin splitting open like overripe fruit.

The ER nurses had been sympathetic, at least. "Looks like you lost an argument with the sidewalk," one joked, swabbing blood from your jaw. You tried to laugh. It came out as a whimper.

Two hours later, you were discharged with a splinted nose, three stitches in your chin, and a bottle of painkillers you’d already misplaced by the time you got home.

Now, you were curled up on your sofa, looking like a poorly constructed mummy. Your nose was set and taped, and your chin—which the doctor described as "shattered" like a dropped porcelain plate—was a mess of stitches and heavy gauze. Every time you breathed, you felt the throb of your own heartbeat in your face.

You were trying very hard not to think about how much your face throbbed. Or how pathetic you looked—swollen nose, bruised eye, a bandage covering the worst of the cut.

Or how Harry was absolutely going to lose his goddamn mind when he saw you.

The Other Bedroom

Pairings: Dad!Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: Extreme Angst, Domestic Angst, Family Angst, Hurt Comfort, Sadness

Word Count: ~3k words

Warnings: Mentions of miscarriage, depression, loss of child.

Prompt: Yn and Harry lose their second child. Their son, Floyd is confused why the other bedroom is empty.

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The silence in the house was a living thing. It had teeth.

Yn Styles felt it every time she walked past the closed door at the end of the hallway—the room that was supposed to be the nursery. Seven weeks ago, it had been a cheerful explosion of pastel yellows and hand-painted clouds. A mobile of felted planets spun lazily above an empty crib. Tiny sleepsuits, folded with military precision, sat in neat stacks on a changing table that had never been used. The name on the wall, hand-lettered by Harry in gold acrylic—Florence—caught the afternoon light like a cruel joke.

Now the door stayed shut. Yn had tried to go in once, three days after they came home from the hospital with empty arms and a folded piece of paper listing the hospital’s bereavement counseling hours. She’d made it as far as the threshold. The smell—baby powder, clean laundry, and underneath it, a faint, sweet scent that was probably just her imagination—had hit her like a physical blow. She’d turned around, walked back to the bedroom she shared with Harry, and lain down in the dark. She hadn't opened that door since.

Harry dealt with it differently. He dealt with it by not dealing with it at all. He woke up at 5:30 every morning, before the sun had even thought about rising, and went to the home gym he’d built in the converted garage. He lifted weights until his arms trembled.

He ran on the treadmill until his lungs burned. He cooked elaborate meals that no one ate. He cleaned surfaces that were already spotless. He did everything except sit still. Because sitting still meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering the ultrasound at twenty weeks, the little heartbeat that had been so strong, so fierce. And remembering that heartbeat led to the thirty-week appointment, the silence where the doppler should have found a galloping horse, the terrible, apologetic face of the doctor who’d said the words no fetal heartbeat with the same gentle tone you might use to tell someone their house had burned down.

They hadn't told Floyd yet. Not really. Floyd was four years old—a boy with Harry’s green eyes and Yn’s stubborn chin, a mop of caramel curls that stuck up in the back no matter how much you brushed them. He knew that Mummy had been very sad for a while, and that Daddy had been going to the garage a lot. He knew that the door at the end of the hall was closed, and that when he’d asked about it last week, Mummy had made a strange sound—half cough, half sob—and Daddy had scooped him up and taken him to the park to see the ducks.

But children, even very young ones, are not stupid. They feel the shape of a family's grief the way a seismograph feels an earthquake. They may not have words for the fault line, but they know the ground has shifted.

It was a Tuesday when Floyd finally asked the question they'd been dreading.

omg this was so good yet sad. loved it so much.