imagine-that-one-thing

[imagine-that-one-thing]

relationships are so much healthier when the goal is to experience life together & not to try to make the person turn into who you want them to be.

[imagine-that-one-thing]

x

[imagine-that-one-thing]

falling for someone's soul hits different, like yeah you're cute, but the way you just exist? that's what gets me

[imagine-that-one-thing]

a man being gentle with you is the most masculine thing he can do.

[imagine-that-one-thing]

⸜❤︎⸝

[imagine-that-one-thing]

for the right person, all you have to do is exist

read that again

[imagine-that-one-thing]

[imagine-that-one-thing]

“I feel really, really good about this record. I cannot fucking wait for you guys to hear it.”

-Louis on LT3!

Zoa City Festival Switzerland. (11 July 2025)

[imagine-that-one-thing]

*whispers* Louis and Niall are both better songwriters than Harry has ever been

Thank you for the ask!!!

Hmmm maybe…

I would definitely say that Louis and Niall have better structured songs and that their lyrics are simpler yet still beautiful. Also we can’t forget that Louis wrote most 1D songs so his talent as a song writer is undeniable.

Whereas with Harry his lyrics can be quite poetic but sometimes it feels like he’s doing too much yk?

Like this is beautiful and deep but also what the hell is he actually talking about?

Before anyone comes for me I would like to say that I love them all and this isn’t me shitting on any of them. They are my boys and I will love and support all of their art <3

[imagine-that-one-thing]

“This one's for everyone who thinks there's too many One Direction songs on the setlist.”

-Louis introducing Drag Me Down tonight in Zurich!

Zoa City Festival Switzerland. (11 July 2025)

[imagine-that-one-thing]

Niall today in Portrush for The Open (via scottsdalegolf)

[imagine-that-one-thing]

And I don’t think through things, I never get time

[imagine-that-one-thing]

[A white fortune cookie paper with black text reading: Your fondest dream will come true within this year.]

[imagine-that-one-thing]

Performer | H.S

| Fluff | Blurb | HH Harry | Masterlist | WC: 490

The cobbled streets of Rome gleamed under the warm glow of streetlights as Y/N and her friends stumbled through the city, their laughter echoing off the ancient walls. The wine had hit. Hard. Everything was hilarious. Everything was magical. Her limbs felt loose, her mind light, and everything seemed like the best idea ever.

So when she spotted an empty spot by a fountain, inspiration struck.

"Hold my purse," she slurred to no one in particular before immediately reconsidering. Instead, she dropped it dramatically on the ground, opened it ,stepped back, and threw her arms wide. "Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment tonight. Me!"

Her friends erupted in cheers, already pulling out their phones to record.

Then, with absolutely no rhythm, no shame, and barely any recollection of the lyrics, she launched into As It Was.

The words were slurred, the tune nowhere near the original key, but the performance? Oscar-worthy.

A few passersby stopped to watch, phones out, amusement clear on their faces. Coins clinked into her purse. Her friends were doubled over, filming every second.

"Holdin’ me back… gravity’s holdin' me back… uh, somethin' 'palm of your hand… why don’t we leave it at hat… runnin’ awayyyy—”

She was butchering it. Notes off-key, words jumbled, voice cracking. But damn if she wasn’t feeling the performance of a lifetime.

A few tourists stopped to watch, some throwing in a few coins just for the spectacle of it. Her friends were in hysterics.

And then, a voice cut through her glorious display. Deep, amused, undeniably British.

"Practice will definitely make perfect, sweetheart."

She blinked, wobbling slightly as she turned to the source. A man stood nearby, hands in his pockets, lips quirked in amusement. Tall, wavy hair, sharp jawline, dimples.

She squinted. "Excusez-moi?" she demanded, forgetting for a moment she was in Italy and not France.

His smile deepened. "French? Thought we were in Italy," he teased.

She gasped, clapping a hand to her chest. "Oh my God, did you just mock me?"

"A little."

"Unbelievable," she slurred, stumbling toward him with all the righteous indignation of a drunk girl on a mission. "I'll have you know, sir, that I— I am a performer. And performers deserve respect."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Is that right?"

"That's right," she huffed. "And who even are you to criticize my artistry?"

For a split second, something flickered across his face. Amusement, maybe a bit of disbelief.

"Just someone who knows the lyrics," he mused.

Her jaw dropped. "Ohhh, so now you're a music expert?"

He bit back a laugh. "Something like that."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Well, Mr. Music Snob, if you're so good, why don't you sing it?"

"Nah," he said, grinning. "Think I like your version better."

She huffed, turning back to her audience (which had dwindled significantly). "That's what I thought."

It wasn’t until the next morning—hungover, scrolling through the blurry footage—that she realized.

Harry. Fucking. Styles.

Taglist: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinemaa @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spargelhund @myfavfanficsever @spinninc @catmomstyles3 @mads3502

[imagine-that-one-thing]

Ovulating | H.S.

You’re engaged to THE Harry Styles. ‘Nuff said.

Warnings: Very NSFW

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You’ve been teasing him without meaning to.

Wearing those little shorts around the house. Stretching in front of the open fridge. Pressing your thighs together every time he so much as breathes near your neck. Harry’s noticed it all. He always does.

And when he found your period tracker open on your phone screen earlier—he didn’t say a word. Just smirked to himself.

“Fertile window, hm?” he murmured as he walked off to make tea, like it wasn’t the most dangerous piece of information he could’ve gotten his hands on.

Now, he’s behind you in the kitchen. You’re doing something ordinary—pouring a glass of water, checking your phone—and then he’s crowding you, warm chest against your back, hands firm on your hips.

“I know what this is about,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your neck. “You’ve been walking around this house like a little heat-struck kitten.”

“Harry—”

“You want it, don’t you?” His voice is so low, it’s practically a growl. “Want me to fill you up while you’re ovulating like a good little thing.”

You should say no. You should remind him you’re not ready, that just because your body’s desperate doesn’t mean your mind is. But your legs go weak the moment his palm slips between them, cupping your pussy through the thin fabric.

“So wet already,” he purrs. “Fucking dripping.”

He turns you around and lifts you onto the kitchen counter in one swift move. Your shorts are yanked down. Your underwear follows. He doesn’t waste a second. Two fingers dip into your soaked folds and your entire body reacts like it’s been waiting for him to do that all day.

“You ovulating, baby?” he asks again, teasing you with the tip of his finger. “Need Daddy to take care of you?”

His words burn into your skin, molten and reckless. You nod, lips parted, the heat in your belly unbearable now.

That’s all the confirmation he needs.

His pants are barely pushed down before his cock is out—thick, flushed, leaking.

“You don’t wanna be pregnant?” he asks while lining himself up, like he’s trying to give you one last chance to change your mind. “You sure?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know—fuck—I don’t know.”

“But your pussy does,” he hisses, dragging the head through your folds. “She’s fuckin’ begging for me.”

The second he pushes in, your back arches and a choked moan escapes you. He’s too big. Too deep. Too much.

And it feels so good.

He doesn’t start slow. There’s no gentle rhythm. He’s been holding back for days, maybe weeks, and now he’s unhinged.

“You’re taking it,” he snarls. “So fuckin’ greedy for my cock.”

Your legs are spread wide, your back pressed to the cold countertop, his fingers bruising into your hips as he pounds into you. You can feel every drag, every twitch. His eyes are locked on your belly.

“Gonna fuck a baby into you,” he pants. “Gonna fill you till you’re leaking down your thighs.”

Your body pulses at his words, and that’s when it happens.

You squirt around him without warning, a high-pitched cry ripping from your throat as your vision blurs. He groans deep and slams in harder, wetter sounds filling the kitchen.

“Fuck yes,” he growls. “Milk my cock, baby. Take it all. You’re gonna make me come so deep.”

And then he’s there—hips jerking, cock buried to the hilt, coming inside you with a raw, broken sound. His hands tremble as he holds you in place, making sure none of it spills.

You’re both shaking. Covered in sweat. And he still doesn’t pull out.

Instead, he slides out just enough to watch his cum drip from you… then pushes it back in with his thumb.

“Look at that,” he whispers. “Didn’t even pull out. What if that was it? What if I just made you a mama?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because your body is already clenching again, needing more.

And Harry—still hard—just grins.

“Round two,” he says, eyes dark. “On the floor. I’m not done with you yet.”

Your legs are still trembling when he lowers you to the cold tile floor. You barely have time to adjust before he drops to his knees between your thighs like a man possessed.

You try to protest—softly, uselessly—something about being too sensitive, too full. But Harry looks up at you, lips shiny, eyes blazing.

“You thought I was done?” he says, voice dark and low. “Not when you’re still dripping with me. Not when this cunt’s still clenching like she’s begging.”

He grabs the backs of your thighs and spreads you wide open, forcing you to hold eye contact.

“Gotta taste what I gave you.”

And then he dives in.

There’s no warm-up, no teasing. His mouth seals around your pussy like it belongs there—tongue lapping greedily at his own cum leaking from your hole. It’s filthy. It’s feral. It makes your head fall back and your mouth open in a silent scream.

“Harry—oh my god—”

“You taste so fuckin’ good with me inside you,” he growls against your cunt, tongue thrusting in, then dragging up to your clit. “Gonna make you squirt again. All over my face this time.”

His fingers join his mouth—two, then three—stretching you open, fucking his cum back inside you while his tongue works your clit in fast, relentless circles.

You try to close your legs. He yanks them apart wider.

“No, baby. You don’t get to hide from this. Let me have it.”

And then it hits you—violent, uncontrollable. You come with a strangled cry, body jerking as you gush all over his mouth. He groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, lapping up every drop, completely drenched, and still hungry.

He’s hard again. You feel it before you even open your eyes—his cock rubbing against your soaked folds, slick from your squirt and his spit, twitching with need.

“You’re gonna take it again,” he says, dragging the head of his cock against your sensitive entrance. “One more time, baby. Let me fill you again. Wanna see it dripping twice.”

You don’t even answer. You just whimper and nod, already lifting your hips toward him, aching for more.

He sinks in fast and deep, both of you gasping. It’s too much—too full—but you take it anyway. Your walls flutter around him, overstimulated and stretched wide, and Harry groans at the feeling.

“That’s it, fuckin’ hell—milk my cock again, just like that.”

The thrusts are slower this time but deeper, heavier. He’s watching your belly again. Watching your tits bounce. Watching your face twist in overstimmed pleasure.

“You feel that? My cum still in there? Gonna fuck it in deeper, make sure it sticks.”

Your nails dig into his back. You’re shaking again, on the edge, your pussy pulling him in tighter with every snap of his hips.

“I’m gonna come inside you again, baby,” he pants, hand gripping your throat now—not hard, just enough. “And you’re gonna take it. Let me fuckin’ breed you.”

You shatter again.

Squirting around him as your orgasm explodes through you, crying out his name, soaking his thighs and stomach while your pussy clamps down and pulls him over the edge with you.

He lets out a wrecked, feral moan as he comes inside you again—thick, hot spurts spilling deep until you feel like you can’t hold anymore.

But he doesn’t pull out.

He just presses in deeper. Lets it sit there.

Lets you feel how full you are.

Both of you breathless, tangled, shaking on the floor.

Then his mouth is at your ear.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he whispers, hand sliding down to your belly. “You were made for this. Look at you—overflowing for me.”

And somehow… you love it.

Every messy, filthy, fucked-out second of it.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author’s Note:

Who else is in their ovulation please with me because omg HELPPPPPP

[imagine-that-one-thing]

LOVE ON TOUR | Toronto- 8/16

[imagine-that-one-thing]

Somone sedate me.