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messyemmy · 8 days ago

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Bad Neighbours: One. (Harry Styles fic.)

Premise: Harry despises the girl next door, and it's mutual. But Harry also really likes the girl he met online, and that, is also mutual.

Other Writing

🍑

It’s not even eight a.m. when Y/n finds herself barefoot and stomping over the newly moved lawn in hot pursuit of her insufferable neighbour's front door.

The idea of making a fresh fruit smoothie had started her day on such a high that she found herself heading out into the back garden with the ingenious idea to add in some of those finally ripened peaches she had spent longer nurturing than her previous relationship.

Her hard work had paid off, and this peach tree might be the first foliage she managed to keep alive longer than a summer. This moment right here was the reward for all of those weekends spent with her knees in the soil, pruning leaf after leaf, and remembering to collect leftover fruit and veg for a makeshift fertiliser.

At first, the prideful tree comes into sight in all of its golden pink glory, and everything is as it’s supposed to be. Right up until she stands below the shade of the dangling fruit and suddenly notices that once again, someone has been helping themselves to her harvest.

And sure, it would be fine- more than- if the person just asked. But what really makes it the blood-boiling opposite of ‘fine’ is the obvious and villainous culprit who hasn’t even bothered to hide his crime. His accessory to the thievery is the metal ladder peeking out over the reddish brick wall that evidently does a shit job at protecting her from the monster next door.

Smoothie long forgotten, she doesn’t bother changing into something decent and carries her purple pyjama-short-clad legs in the direction of the suspect himself, who will certainly have already returned from his religious morning run and is more than likely in the middle of enjoying a totally undeserving bite of a juicy peach.

Harry is indeed back from his run and has actually consumed two full peaches by the time the violent thudding against his front door alerts him to the consequences he had already anticipated, just as he had anticipated how sweet those well-treated peaches would be.

He had long ago concluded that the punishment would never outweigh the crime, and man, Harry had been waiting for just over two years for the opportunity to finally present itself. He didn’t even own a ladder six months ago.

The banging has grown louder and more frantic, which paints his features with a devious grin, and Harry takes perhaps the most leisurely stroll of all time, revelling in the fact that his little theft riled his torture victim up enough to interrupt her predictable morning routine.

Serves her right for chuckling dryly and shutting the door in his face when he put aside his pride and asked to borrow some sugar. She knows he drinks tea every morning. Harry sometimes sees her scowling down at him as he enjoys a cuppa beneath the beaming sun.

It was six months ago, and Harry finds his thoughts consumed with the menace next door, conjuring up all the possible ways he could settle further under her skin, little sabotages and inconveniences that are guaranteed to prick sour goosebumps up along her arms.

Stealing her garden gnome had gone unnoticed long enough that she had replaced the little guy with a cream ceramic pot planted with a rosemary bush. Popping her tyre one morning was tragically anticlimactic as he watched, squinting and brows furrowing, as she got busy replacing it and was done within ten minutes, which made her neither late to work nor impressed with his childish attempts to get on her nerves.

And before it starts to sound like Harry is a loony with far too much free time, his neighbour is no saint. Every trick Harry pulls is retaliated with something just as spiteful- if not worse.

When she was informed by Beryl, the sweetest old lady across the street, that the garbage collection schedule had changed days, it shockingly took Harry two weeks to finally ask someone what the hell was going on. But, he asked the pest next door and she said they were on strike.

Week four, on a Tuesday morning, Harry prepared himself to take a third trip to the nearest dump, which was not ‘so near’, when the familiar truck rolled down the street, and Harry sighed in relief. No need to add even worse of an aroma to his already tainted car. He was about to walk back inside when he decided to ask one of the men what caused the strike to conclude..

Needless to say, his car smelled of trash for weeks, and his neighbour got the short end of his frazzled bewilderment for a solid five minutes, and the gift of being ignored by him for another few peaceful weeks.

On several occasions, he has opened his mailbox to some wicked surprise, ready to shoot out and attack him.

There was that glitter explosion, which Harry attempted to figure out the mechanisms behind, but couldn’t catch a clue as it all hid beneath a thick layer of thousands of glimmering turquoise flakes.

And then there was the massive, and freakishly hairy spider that he found resting atop his monthly catalogue. After his loud, high-pitched squeal alerted the entire neighbourhood, and his heart rate had returned to semi-normal, Harry spent the afternoon wondering where she even got the creature and naturally avoided his mailbox for a good while going forward.

Who initiated this frivolous rivalry that benefits absolutely no one? It’s hard to say, but it exists and consists mostly of cold introductions, miscommunications with a moving truck, and an accidental cat kidnapping.

Well, it resulted in this dynamic: where Harry has been periodically observing the love and time she puts into that damn flourishing garden. If the lemons weren’t so far away, he would have snatched a bunch and with so many blooming, she would have been none the wiser. His mum put the same amount of care and effort into her veggie garden growing up, it was inconceivable that his neighbours' harvest would be anything less than mouthwatering.

Revenge is certainly a dish served sweet and fresh off the branch, with a satiating dessert of being scolded by his favourite person to loathe. Her incessant knocking has not slowed and has only increased in impatience,

“Styles!” She knows he’s behind that door, taking his time. It has her fist throbbing as it thumps against the hardwood with rejuvenated anger, “Open up!”

Harry’s wide smirk only spreads further towards his smiling eyes as he unlatches the lock and comes face-to-face with Y/n- underdressed, face flushed, and angry as hell.

Dressed in scantily short red running joggers and a black sweater that hangs lazily along his collarbones, he rests his back against the doorframe, laxly crossing his arms atop his chest as he finally gifts his neighbour with a greeting.

“To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“I know what you did.” She accuses with both her words and her right arm that sassily hooks onto her hip while the other points at his smug figure.

“Darling, I do a lot of things.” She doesn’t even know about the dead rat he found on a walk and pathetically carried home, placing it beneath that new rosemary bush.

“Y’need to be more specific.”

“My peach tree.”

“What about it?” His voice lilts innocently.

“I know you’ve been stealing my peaches.” She frowns cutely, and Harry is almost inclined to be nice and lie. Almost.

“I have.”

“Don’t try to-Oh.” His confession disrupts the speech she had so much time to prepare for in the time it took him to finally open the door. “Well… Stop. They aren’t yours.”

“They hang over into my yard. It’s fair game.”

He merely shrugs, prepared to counter every accusation with such cheek and sanctimony that it’s sure to spoil not only her morning but, if lucky, her entire weekend.

“You’re so full of it.”

“Stop stealing my peaches, Styles!”

“I could say the same about you, sweetheart.”

She wonders if he can see the way her body stiffens under his stare, if he can hear the distant train whistle signalling that smoke will surely be spewing from her ears and nostrils if he says another word.

“Why would I do that when they taste so good?”

His flippant attitude has been perfected, finely tuned to poke and prod at her with the precise tools of retaliation, and Harry thinks he’d be a fool to waste this opportunity to point out how hypocritical she behaves.

“And while we’re at it, I’m tired of getting your mail. Call the post office and figure it out.”

“Why would I do that when I have my very own jackass to deliver them straight to my doorstep?”

It’s a frightening surprise every time Harry feels his insides twist at the sound of condescending nicknames being thrown his way. Like some sick contradiction that he refuses to acknowledge but cannot help seeking out more of.

On the odd occasion, he ponders if she might feel the same. If there might be a layer of excitement and fondness hidden beneath all of that teasing and sabotage.

But then she gives him one last sharp stare that slices at his confidence with the promise of revenge on the horizon. That, and his confused guts, are a problem for the future. All Harry wants now is to eat a third peach in protest and read his new book out in the July sun.

“Have a wonderful day, brat.” He sneers- a last attempt to really spoil it all. But she seems unbothered as her glossy lips stretch out into a smiteful smile,

“Likewise, Satan.”

Her bare feet are already departing the wooden porch and sinking into the dewy blades of grass by the time Harry finishes chuckling and calls out after her,

“That’s ‘m name, don’t wear it out.”

🍑

Perhaps Harry had failed to predict the true power of the peach because when Y/n semi-stomped through her front door, the words of Harry professing the deliciousness of his stolen goods were nagging at her and didn’t cease until she returned to the garden and picked the lowest fuzzy fruit.

It was delicious. And enough to draw a sweet and sugary blanket over the confrontation she had just departed. Her day was mended, the weekend was on its way, and then there was the one thing, or person, who could and would help her forget all about the menace living five hundred metres away.

Late afternoon, as she packs up and prepares to leave her office space for a couple of days, she finally has the chance to check her phone. Heading straight to her most recent chat, and re-reading the last message from last night, wishing her sweet dreams, dainty feathers tickle the insides of her chest at the sight of the little green circle indicating her loverboy is online.

Her fingers are like the roadrunner dancing along the screen as she composes the question that seems to be on her mind more and more by the day.

PastryPrincess: How’s my favourite boy?

There’s hardly time to exit the chat because three little dots are already bouncing with an indication of his imminent reply.

Loverboy: Better now that I know I’m at least one person's favourite.

She doesn't even notice how suddenly her brows swoop into a frown that matches her pouting lips; she lets her bag lazily slip from her wrist, ignoring the way it falls and settles beside her heels, too hung up on whatever her sweet loverboy is implying.

PastryPrincess: Who do I need to fight?

Loverboy: My neighbour thinks I’m the devil.

Well, Y/n certainly knows what it’s like to have an intolerable neighbour. Someone who believes her to be some sort of monster simply because of a completely valid reaction she had to the sudden disappearance of the thing most valuable to her.

Of course, her panic turned to relief when she found out the cat-napper was her new neighbour, Harry. And then that relief shifted to bewildered rage that she made sure to project it directly at the foot of his doorstep, chunky ginger kitty dangling in one arm as the other flailed about with frustration.

PastryPrincess: To be fair, you are devilishly handsome.

Loverboy: Don’t make me blush.

His response has her own face flushing with bashful warmth at the idea of her loverboy’s heart fluttering from her compliment. She’s curious, though, certain that if he continues talking, another opportunity to be sweet on him will surely arise.

PastryPrincess: Why does your neighbour hate you?

Loverboy: That’s the thing! I haven’t done anything!

Loverboy: … I think

Well, if Loverboy looks anything like his charming personality, and he doesn’t recall doing anything to piss his neighbour off, the reason for their disdain might be as simple as sexual frustration.

PastryPrincess: Maybe they have a crush on you?

Loverboy: Oh, I highly doubt that. She lives to despise me.

Hm, Y/n surely feels the same about Harry.

Yes, he’s unbelievably and undeniably fuck-able. And in the past, Y/n has certainly put aside disdain for others in favour of chemistry. But there’s something so deeply annoying about Harry, it’s gotta be an anomaly that she sees his face and feels nothing but disdain.

But again, that’s an anomaly. Loverboy is possibly the kindest person she knows, so encouraging and gentle, thoughtful, and she could go on and on.

PastryPrincess: Who could ever despise you?

PastryPrincess: Perhaps she and I need to have a little chat.

Loverboy: Think you can take her?

Bending down, she loops the handle of her tote back around her wrist and starts to make her way toward the elevator.

PastryPrincess: I think we already know how well I can take things.

Loverboy: Naughty. Getting yourself worked up thinking about fighting for me?

The elevator dings, and the steel doors come to a slow open. Y/n’s gaze is so glued to the suggestive sentence staring back at her, for so long that the lift dings once more to impatiently alert that she hasn’t even pressed the button for the ground floor.

PastryPrincess: No comment.

Loverboy: I would love a comment.

Tiny sparklers fuelled by eagerness fire at the walls of her stomach, encouraging her to construct a lengthy paragraph pertaining to all of the unfamiliar, but exciting, ideas and feelings floating around her foggy thoughts.

Clarity catches her at the last second and encourages her to use this enthusiasm as a guide for her evening plans.

PastryPrincess: You’ll never know…

The elevator dings one final time as the doors squeakily separate and the building’s entrance hall welcomes Y/n out of the elevator with anticipation strumming up her bones, starting a percussion that encourages her thudding heart to drum along, and finally, her nails join in, tapping along the phone screen.

PastryPrincess: Alright loverboy, I gotta go prepare for tonight.

Loverboy: I’ll be tuned in. As always.

Reaching her car, thinking about how whole she feels after speaking to him. How soothed and assured she is whenever his words make their presence known. Slinking down into the car, she has an afterthought.

PastryPrincess: I don’t think I could ever hate you.

🍑

Gathering her bags and stepping out of the car, her shoes have barely touched the ground before Harry decides to make his presence known. Leaning against the wooden beam of the front porch, paper grocery bag still hooked around his wrist, he peers over the waist-high hedge that carries every disagreement within its leaves, and waits a moment longer for her to shut the car door and start the short stroll up the driveway before calling out for her attention.

“Hey, neighbour.”

His greeting is returned with a scowl so sharp and stern that Harry is certain she has it reserved just for him- she does- but when it becomes clear that she has no words to spare and starts to walk further away, Harry grasps the easy and familiar tactic of garnering some negative attention.

It’s like he can’t help himself. Like his day will only be satiated by an aggressive and sassy retaliation from his neighbour. If Harry thought she was a normal person and not the devil in disguise, he would treat her the same as his friends, maybe even offer her some of his baked goods, and pick her brain about gardening tips. But she’s not normal, and it clearly brings out the worst in him.

“Aw, sweetheart, you shouldn't pout like that. S’alright to be bummed about having no plans on a Friday. Again.”

It’s none of Harry’s business what she gets up to, and to say it irked her how much he seems to pay attention to her routine is an understatement. Partially because she can’t just put him in his place and confirm that she does indeed have plans, but mostly because it means she’s more predictable than she thought.

And if Harry believes himself to be some sort of fast-living adventure-seeking man, it’s about time he finds out how incorrect that thought is.

“Says the man who will certainly be spending his evening eating Thai takeout and watching Dragons Den.”

“Might tug one out if I’m feelin’ frisky.” He definitely will. And he certainly won’t be thinking of the menace next door.

“You’re disgusting.” She scoffs.

“You’d love to spend the night with me.”

Over the weekend, Y/n will need to figure out why her neck is flushed and warming up at the sudden introduction to Harry’s sex life. It’s virtually impossible to think of that man without her guts twisting into a rage-tangled mess.

But, he’s gorgeous and witty and always wearing far too little clothing: everything that should have her sink to her knees, yet only seems to further that bubbling frustration making itself present with every word that slips from his pretty pink lips.

“I’d rather be trampled by an elephant.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, sweetheart.” He only shrugs, turning on his heel and reaching into his pocket for his house keys.

Sleeping with the enemy wouldn’t be the worst thing on a long list of embarrassing encounters that Y/n deeply loathes herself for. But she’s still recovering from her most recent escapade that she had not only settled for, but suffered dissatisfaction as a consequence, and that disaster was enough to shake those senseless thoughts of what Harry might be hiding beneath those shorty-shorts with a firm full-body shudder.

Thankfully, Harry seems to be finished with his little moment of mockery and has disappeared into his house with the slam of the door substituting words of goodbye.

With a little free time before her actual Friday plans, Y/n decides to reward herself with a hot bath so full that the bubbles balance along the edges, and when she strips down and sinks beneath the steaming water, they become holographic and airborne, floating and popping in all directions.

Shoulders melting into full body relaxation, her thoughts gently swirl with recounts of the week, the messy articles she edited, the uncalled arguments with Harry, and the conversations with one particular boy who has her chest thudding with a type of eager elation that had evaded her heart for so long.

A boy who quietly watched her Friday streams for several weeks before finally sending a message in the chat. So polite and encouraging, Y/n couldn’t quite figure out why a single sentence from some stranger, who always tipped with great generosity but seemed to demand nothing in return, was repeating itself on a loop the rest of that evening.

It was a discerning feeling, so much so that she willed herself to forget about it and act like a damn professional. Well, as professional as the act of stripping down and pleasuring herself in front of strangers could possibly be.

But Y/n’s willpower had weakened the moment she started paying attention to this particular and mysterious subscriber, and it was a week later when she found herself clicking on his profile, disappointed but not surprised to see how little information he offered.

His display image is a ridiculously adorable white cat wearing a wizard hat, and perhaps that offered her more information than the measly list of his location and lack of even a short bio. Though he lives in the same city, that could be the case for many of her regulars, and, how was she supposed to recognise him based solely on an ivory cat? Just pray that he happens to be strolling down the street with a cat in tow?

Still, this wasn’t enough to discourage her just yet, and, if asked, Y/n is sure to blame her post-Friday euphoria for guiding her frantic fingers straight to his chat, strumming up a simple message pondering his opinion on the livestream, an absurdly overwhelming anticipation running rampant at the hasty response dinging straight into the depths of her heart.

Turns out, loverboy is, if possible, even kinder than when he sticks to his usual words of encouragement, and quickly proves himself to be perhaps the most intriguing person to have ever stumbled into her bubble.

Now, Y/n has to make a conscious effort to acknowledge the many other viewers who love to push her back and forth, and thankfully, make up for it with how nicely they take care of her with egregious tips and the odd pricy gift.

But does that mean that she definitely didn’t pick out her blue mesh lingerie set based on the fact that Loverboy had mentioned his fondness for it? Well, she pleads the fifth on that one.

🍑

After successfully picking another useless spat with his neighbour, Harry is in one of the best moods.

And it's not just because it's the weekend, nor because he was going anywhere- his neighbours' predictions about his routine were spot on- but because Harry was being truthful when he informed her of his intentions to end the evening on a high.

It's because every Friday night at 9, Harry gets to tune in to his favourite girl, PastryPrincess’ live stream. Does it say something that Harry’s favourite person is a camgirl? Probably, but he knows better than to think too hard about that.

Harry had never intended for things to go any further than a one-sided relationship that consisted of him simply admiring her through a screen, but something happened in the last six months to change that.

He never intended to draw her attention, never expected her even to acknowledge him. Now she knows him as ‘loverboy’, the mysterious man who tips far too much and always sends encouraging compliments in the chat.

It's unclear to Harry what he might have done to shift her perspective, but in a shocking and overwhelming turn of events, PastryPrincess sent him a message of thanks after a particularly naughty stream.

So, he responded, as sweet as ever, which she went on to profess herself. So, he replied to that, and she said something back, and now Harry finds himself checking his phone more than he cares to admit, all in hopes of getting to talk to her.

So, catching Y/n on her arrival home was simply the cherry on top of an already delicious and promising sundae. And unlike Y/n, Miss PastryPrincess does an excellent job at helping him relax after another jaw-clenching week in the office.

He rushes through a container of Khao Soi, a steaming shower, and even has time to enjoy an episode of Shark Tank because he's already up to date with Dragons Den- not that his pesky neighbour needs to know that.

Harry makes a mental note to shut his blinds the next time he wants to simply sit and relax to the soundtrack of people putting their hopes and dreams on the line. It’s not his fault that his living room is perfectly angled to give his neighbour a wonderful view from her second-floor office.

Nevertheless, she definitely doesn’t need any more ammo to fuel that machine gun of distaste that she carries for protection whenever exiting and entering her home. Does Harry plan on stopping the collection of belittling bullets he keeps so neatly in her name? Of course not. What would he spend his downtime doing if not living to annoy her?

Besides, Harry already has a collection of love-infused arrows that he polishes with such timely and delicate care in preparation for the next time he talks to PastryPrincess.

And God forbid his neighbour catches sight of his Friday night commitment, he would be at her torturous will until she inevitably kills his morale or simply gets bored and, hopefully, moves out.

Off to the bedroom, Harry’s body bounces atop the king-sized slumber haven, laxly sinking into the soft, cobalt sheets, expensive and totally worth it. Laptop already resting atop the mattress, he mindlessly reaches for it, hand instinctively gliding around the mouse, opening up a new browser, logging in, and heading straight to PastyPrincesses' page.

She’s always right on time. Looking like a painting from the baroque period, lying across her bed, face just out of frame, body shielded by a flimsy graphic tee that looks both well-worn and effortlessly enticing.

Tonight, as the screen stops loading and glitches onto the image of her garnering a shirt that rests atop her upper thigh, simple white with the words ‘redrum’ splotched in red, moulding itself to drape the curves of her breasts.

Harry feels privy to secret tidbits that other viewers wouldn’t even think to envy. Recalls one-on-one conversations where she so easily offered up information about the person behind the sweet sighs and moans.

A sense of superiority, of specialness, that PastryPrincess had seen something in him worth pursuing with personal intrigue.

Private insight into her interests, her passion for movies, the ones that made her cry, or spooked, or downright puzzled. The love she has for birds, especially the ugly ones, and how badly she wants to learn to bake, but ultimately avoids doing so at all costs.

And before you ask- because Harry certainly did- it was PastryPrincess who admitted that her first message had puzzled her just as much as his, and it was in that same breath that she confirmed this was new to her.

But turning on that gentle, enigmatic personality was certainly not new. Her confidence exuded with such density that it was no wonder Harry constantly slipped back into the category of many others, trapped in a trance of fervour that refuses to set him free until her approval of release is granted.

And fuck, it’s always worth it. Always leaves Harry a jello mess for the rest of the weekend, always alleviates his weekly woes and permits him to untangle the knots in his neck, to press his body into the sofa cushions and ignore any convenience that dares to cross his path.

That includes his devious neighbour. His desire to rattle her bones is so far beyond reach as his own feel light as a feather, practically humming with humbleness, the craving to envelope peace.

It seems like Harry’s neighbour is more than delighted to call a truce. Has her own ways of mellowing out and embracing the simplicity that is a couple of days' vacation from the real world. Whatever the reason, Harry looks forward to the weekend more and more each day, almost as much as he looks forward to resuming the feud first thing Monday morn.

PastryPrincess’s timidly deceiving voice fills the silence of his room, prickling goosebumps up along his spine, blushing his ears with deep rouge.

“How was everyone's week?”

She does the usual and takes a moment to scan over some of the comments, stopping now and then to address specific responses.

“Aw, I’m sorry to hear that, Ace.” Harry can already imagine the sweet pout that accompanies her sympathetic words. He can almost picture her lashes batting lustfully as she offers her services, “ Maybe I can help relieve some of that stress.”

Harry’s already desperate to be singled out amongst the others, willing to clutch at anything to grab her attention. Even if it’s just the acknowledgement of her Stephen King-inspired shirt.

Loverboy: I love the shining!

She addresses him so quickly that Harry’s heart lurches in hopes that she was seeking out his message all along.

“Loverboy, I never pegged you as a fan of horrors.” She coos in surprise before her voice deepens in a sultry rendition of Ghostface, “What’s your favourite scary movie?”

Loverboy: Evil Dead!

Harry types with a haste that stems from keeping her attention trained on him, a need for her to see his reply before it slips away among dozens of others rolling in with their favourite films.

She sees him, though. Of course she does. A soft gasp, her voice lilting with sudden enthusiasm, right hand disappearing off screen as she presumably gesticulates her revelation.

“Evil Dead? No way, that’s my favourite, too!”

Her giggles escape the small speaker and head straight for his steady heart, threatening to increase the thudding pace if she continues speaking.

“Take off my top? Already? Wow, you guys really need a break, huh?”

Yep, she got him, shot straight to the heart. Black briefs tightening as his bulge begins to swell and strain against the cruelly restrictive material.

“Well, you know I aim to please…”

She trails off, shifting her position from perfectly posed and ready to become an oil painting to an even further enticing angle where she sits upright, neck and face obscured from view, body resting atop her bent legs, thighs looking thicker and more delectable by the second.

And she makes no effort to take her top off slowly or seductively; instead, the material departs clumsily, exposing the curves of her smooth skin, guiding Harry’s gaze to trail from the dips of her waist, up along her bare abdomen, before settling on her chest, admiring the way the bralette cups and presents her breasts for his pleasure. He’ll make a note of telling her this little pantie set is definitely his favourite.

She’s back to scanning the comment section, letting her hand aimlessly wander along the swoops of her upper thigh.

“Today was a pretty slow day. Had another fight with my coworker.”

Harry’s brows furrow at the sound of the word ‘fight’ entering the chat, besides the fact that she had failed to mention any discourse when they spoke before, he’s recalling what she did mention earlier.

‘Fight’ is on a loop, lassooing his brain with an anticipatory itch to hear more about her affinity for getting into arguments. He can’t fathom it. He doubts anyone can. Nevertheless, his entirety now clings to the necessity of knowing more.

“Maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about this crazy idea all day. Thinking about how hot it would be to fight someone who disrespects my man.”

Harry must have swallowed his heart. Why else would his stomach be thudding with something far stronger than a kaleidoscope of enthusiastic butterflies?

If he had thoughts about who this sudden ‘man’ is, he need not ask because one of the most obnoxiously vocal and persistent subscribers beats him to it.

“No, Bradley. I don’t have a secret boyfriend. Promise.”

For some reason, that dampens Harry’s spirit, he doesn’t know if her admitting to having a boyfriend would have been any better. But it does leave a tiny gap of nuance that Harry can use to challenge her confession.

Loverboy: Your man, huh?

“Yeah. My man would be a real loverboy.”

Harry exhales a sharp breath he hadn't noticed, it’s as shaky as his right hand as he lets it trail in descent from his resting with the other atop his chest in pursuit of his throbbing cock.

He’s about to pose the question himself when it becomes clear that someone must have beaten him to it.

“Who would ever wanna fight with me?” Her palm pressed to her chest, “You guys are too sweet to me.”

Replies are pouring in, far too fast for Harry to read, and he has to wonder if she even has time to catch one or two. But she seems to do it with such ease, like she takes pride in looking after and pleasing her viewers.

“It’s true, I am very sweet… but I can be mean if you like?”

Harry’s thumb hooks onto the waistband of his briefs, tugging carelessly at the material until it settles lower on his waist and finally allows his cock to spring free with a harsh but welcoming sting of cool evening air. His palm cradles it with care, and unable to resist a little tease, he lets his hand move up and down his shaft at an agonisingly slow pace.

Her hand slips from the hilt of her breast and settles atop her upper thigh, drawing lazy swirls along her skin. Harry can see it prickle beneath the dim orange-hued lights, shadows doing nothing but highlighting the heart-stopping silhouette of her body.

She seems in deep thought, letting her fingers slowly inch nearer to the crevasse formed from where her closed thighs meet.

“Hm, maybe I’ll try that sometime soon…” She finally ponders aloud, “But I’m feeling extra sweet today. Just wanna make you feel good.”

Her body raises slightly, allowing her legs to slip out of their position as her chair, splaying out in front of her and finally showing what everyone has been on the edge of their seats waiting for, damp panties slung along her hips as if they were crafted for her body in mind.

“Is that alright?” She leans back against a fluffy purple pillow, taking it slow to ensure her face remains out of view, her hand edging toward the seam that sits along the swoop of her waist, accentuating her soft, fleshy skin.

Harry rushes out a reply in the absence of her voice, encouraged by the barely audible hums and sighs slipping past her hidden lips.

Loverboy: More than.

And when she sighs out seconds after he presses send, it’s laced with gratitude for approval, so pliant, so gentle that Harry becomes inclined to believe it might be dedicated to him and him alone.

He wishes he could take care of her. Knows what a good job he would do at making her moan out and writhe beneath him til she was drunk on the feeling of him buried inside her. Thinks he has an idea of just what would make her toes curl, how she prefers to be touched, kissed, where she’s most sensitive, and exactly how to ensure she ends the night saying his name on an endless and desperate loop.

“You always take such good care of me.”

“Wish you were here right now, touching me all over, letting me be a good girl for you.”

“Bet you’d like it if I helped you forget about the week, huh? I could get on my knees for you and suck you until you’re seeing stars.” She teases her fingers along the flimsy blue material, tugging it ever so slightly, “Maybe even let you fuck my mouth, if you like?”

Harry would very much like that. If he had any inclination that she felt the same way (she does), he would do far more than slot his cock between her ideally perfect, plumped, and glossy lips.

“I couldn't decide which toy to use tonight- oh, you guys are very opinionated.” She giggles cutely, and Harry squeezes his cock at the sweet sound. “No, Jessie, don’t even think about it.”

“Had a feeling you’d act this way. So I’ve narrowed it down.” Her arm extends and searches along the lavender sheets until she finds her favourite toys, holding one up in each hand for the audience.

“We have the fan favourite, my little Rabbit.” She wiggles the pastel pink toy in jest, before bringing attention to the baby blue toy in her left hand, “And we also have the tried-and-true Bullet.”

Loverboy: Rabbit.

Harry rapidly adds his contribution to the imaginary poll and watches as it vanishes among the many others, his hand lending all of its focus to taking care of his aching, pulsing cock, desperately bucking with the need to be buried deep inside of her.

For a moment longer, she reads through the informal votes, and Harry tries his best to slow his needy strokes down lest he find himself busting before she’s even done anything.

“Hm, looks like we’re going with…” She takes a beat to let the anticipation threaten to boil over. “The Rabbit.”

The sense of pride Harry feels is ridiculous; nonetheless, it engulfs him and wills his wrist to commit to making his cock feel as good as his head does, rhythmically gliding up and down as she awakens the little toy and lets it settle atop the damp mesh hiding what Harry’s watering mouth desires most.

Her body jolts on instinct before her body needily bucks up into the toy, a thick, low moan sneaking past her lips.

“Oh, fuck.” “That- that feels so good.”

In a haze, she’s discarding her panties and getting back to work, guiding herself through a type of pleasure that Harry would sacrifice his life to bear physical witness to even for a single second. Especially when she vocalises the thought on her very own terms, dipping the tip of the toy past her entrance and wishing,

“Would feel even better with your cock buried inside me.”

From that moment on, the stream becomes a blur of Harry’s gravelly moans synchronising with her soft, angelic ones, his chest is rising and falling in rhythm with his wrist, tugging and squeezing himself as she lets the toy fully sink inside her, hips raising to the ceiling in ecstasy.

And it ends the same as it always does, with Harry covered in the remnants of pleasure, and PastryPrincess trying, but failing, to catch her breath, and to still her quaking legs. She checks in on her audience and thanks them graciously for choosing to spend their evening with her before signing off with an adorable little wave.

It’s mere seconds after the screen turns black that a notification for a message from PastryPrincess pops up at the top corner of his browser. And Harry doesn’t hesitate to open it, forgetting where and frankly, who he is.

Heart already thudding at a rate that medical professionals might find concerning, Harry’s chest thumps in tune, breathing becoming increasingly jagged when his hazy gaze absorbs her silly and overwhelmingly endearing question.

PastryPrincess: Did you like it?

Of course he did, how could she think otherwise? There should be zero doubt in her cute little mind that he was merely one of hundreds who would be slipping off into an over-satiated slumber.

Loverboy: Loved.

Loverboy: Love the idea of you being possessive.

Harry knows his thoughts are sure to be clouded by that simple sentence, “my man”, over and over until he’s physically ill and bed-bound, body cramping with the aching need to expel this lovesickness from his guts before it spreads to his blood, and inevitably eats at his brain until he can think of nothing but her.

PastryPrincess: sent image.

Perhaps that was her plan all along. How else can Harry justify the rapid pace at which he loses the will to resist, to succumb to the disease of falling freely into her trap?

How is he supposed to feel anything but the desperation to drop to his knees for her when he clicks on the image and is greeted by the most soaking, swollen, pretty pussy, still slick with overstimulation, on full display for Harry himself?

Loverboy: Fuck, tryna make me bust again?

His hand is already finding home on his suddenly, and unsurprisingly, risen cock, lethargically stroking himself tip to base as his stare returns to his new favourite image, letting his frantic gaze dart around each little detail, his lip trapped and aching beneath his teeth, mouth watering in desperation of soothing his thirst by drinking on her ‘til his body demands taking a breath.

And, he’d rather pass out than stop for even a moment.

PastryPrincess: My plan has been foiled…

As if Harry hadn’t just covered his abdomen in thick arousal, his body begs to chase this high until he bursts with exhausted euphoria. His wrist quickens, a satisfied spark straight to his stomach with each glide along his tip, using his left hand to struggle out a response.

Loverboy: You’re incredible.

Loverboy: Would lap you up till my face is covered in you.

PastryPrincess: You have no idea how badly I want that.

Her reply instantaneous, Harry’s thoughts stray to what she might be doing right now. Could she possibly be in a similar position? Lower body bare, pretty little hand trapped between her thighs, fingers swirling around her throbbing clit.

Loverboy: Yeah?

Loverboy: Are you this sweet to all of your subscribers?

PastryPrincess: No, you’re my favourite. You already know that.

PastryPrincess: Was that photo not enough proof for you?

God, Harry’s losing the ability to think straight. Able to do nothing but let his palm take the lead, press, and squeeze himself to the self-inflicted command to chase the high she hasn’t even asked for. To do good for her- be good for her.

Loverboy: Just wanted to hear you say it again.

PastryPrincess: Maybe you’re the devil after all.

Huh, Harry doesn’t quite mind that statement when it’s coming from her, though he can’t fathom the notion of being anything but a doting sub to her. Harry will commend himself later for the skill it took to type out a response.

Loverboy: Only if you want me to be.

Loverboy: But you already knew that.

With the rapid pace at which he strokes himself, working his body up to the same incredible arousal he experienced minutes before, his laptop is slipping from his thigh as his limbs twitch with need.

His ears are ringing and enveloping the dim room around him, and the faint backing track of her desperate, panting moans is increasing, louder and louder until Harry swears he can feel her presence right beside him.

PastryPrincess: Just wanted to hear you say it.

With those final words, Harry’s body goes into overdrive, acting on autopilot as his left hand joins the right, cupping his balls, right squeezing his shaft so adamantly. It’s too late to avoid his thoughts entering an imagination where she is the one taking care of him.

Whispering tender, encouraging pleas for him to show her how good she makes him feel, begging him to make a mess all over her, to let her taste just how much he wants her.

Harry slips over the edge, spilling his pleasure atop his hand, leaking down the tip of his cock until it pools at the base of his abdomen and joins his earlier mess. All because of her. Always because of her.

And maybe it’s because this is the second time in such a short span that Harry has found himself submitting to a stranger on the internet, but he finds himself doing something he thought himself too shy to ever consider.

He clicks on the option to send a picture, feeling like a teenager as he opens his webcam and awkwardly angles the laptop to capture his right hand cradling his sticky and still swollen cock, the only way he can truly profess the pleasure she derives.

It’s no surprise that he hesitates for a moment, contemplating the intimacy of going through with his impulsive plan, but impulsivity wins as he takes a shallow breath and presses send.

Loverboy: sent image

Unlike his teen years, Harry isn’t left with agonisingly long minutes to fret over the many possibilities of how his risky pic might be perceived. She responds in an instant.

PastryPrincess: I take it back. You’re an angel.

and Harry’s body graciously sinks back into the sheets, eyes lulling and burning with the plea to close and switch off for the night.

PastryPrincess: Do I always get you this riled up?

Loverboy: Always.

Perhaps Harry should consider showing her how good she makes her feel more often. For now, sleep is swallowing him whole, and he can’t submit until he cleans off and does his bedtime routine.

He’s spent countless evenings pushing past burning blinks, hanging on to every one of her replies until the rooster his neighbour has the gall to call a pet starts to crow in ode to the rising sun.

But it’s peak summer now, and that means that Harry has to do his daily run a lot earlier than normal, and he’s not ashamed to admit that he has learned the consequences first-hand.

It pains him to be the first to say goodnight. But in this little imaginary world where she rests beside him, Harry can only hope she feels the same with his absence.

Loverboy: Got an early morning, sweetheart. Chat first thing tomorrow? x

He lets the laptop slip from his legs completely as he carefully manoeuvres his way off the mattress, bare feet padding along the cool hardwood floors in pursuit of the en suite bathroom.

Rushing through his routine- even sacrificing his nightly moisturiser, Harry slinks back to his bed, sliding his body under the summer sheets and taking a final look at his laptop screen.

PastryPrincess: Sweet dreams, loverboy xx

Tummy fluttering at the mere mention of his pseudonym (one that now feels like a familiar nickname), as per usual, Harry vows to oblige her innocent request.

Shutting the laptop and shoving it far enough away for his worry of damaging it to dissipate, Harry begrudgingly stretches his arm out to find the lamp switch.

Darkness engulfs him with the promise of dreamland, and Harry’s skin starts to tingle as he slips further from reality. Seconds away from slumber, the audacious hum of music sneaks past his ajar window and disrupts almost all of his work.

It’s hardly loud enough to be a targeted attack from next door; nevertheless, Harry squeezes his eyes in frustration as his same arm blindly fumbles around the side table for what he deems a necessary communication tool to deal with his neighbour.

He’ll give her credit for this one. Forcing him to take one of the walkie-talkies, which god only knows where she purchased, seemed like another way to get on his nerves even without having to show her face.

But it was quickly proven how much they came in handy. And how easy it was for Harry to take advantage of the privilege of pestering her for hours on end. It took him less than a week to figure out when she switched it on and off, and it has still not occurred to he knows.

Eyes still shut, Harry’s finger familiarly finds the voice switch, and perhaps more grouchy than needed, interjects with the actually soothing instrumental she had picked out.

“Turn the music down. Over.”

It takes a good moment for Y/n to locate that bloody consequence of what was sure to be a good and beneficial way of voicing her complaints, and when she does, Harry takes great pleasure in her grumbles mixed with a soft bass.

“Move out. Over.”

Harry lets a chuckle slip and ends the spat.

“I hate you. Over.”

“Likewise. Over.”

She does, but Harry concludes it’s not nearly enough for her to betray the passive, understanding, and considerate person she seems to be with everyone in the neighbourhood bar himself, because the music comes to a respectful halt, and Harry is enveloped in slumber once more. And this time, the distant echo of PastryPrincess’s voice welcomes him with open arms.

Across the way, Y/n begrudgingly turns the music down to a whisper and readies herself for bed, letting herself be lured into unconsciousness. Her final thoughts consist of remarkable confusion at the juxtaposition of which Harry managed to contradict everything loverboy instils in her, ultimately, loverboy takes centre stage and invites her to meet him in dreamland- how could she possibly refuse?

🍑

[I've decided to make these shorter than my usual series- hopefully it'll help me get more of the story out with less of those massive gaps I tend to create. Let me know what you guys think!!]

Taglist: @gem1712 @mellamolayla @ellastyles13 @teenwolf9-1-1lover @cherreigh @mads3502 @lizsogolden @natyk @mothersversiononly @hannah9921 @harryswifeyyyy @rpwprpwprpwprw @cowboylikeliv @angeldavis777 @daphnesutton @ellamariee @magicalmorg

#harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles x y/n #harry x reader #harry styles fanfic #harry styles blurb #harry styles x you #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles angst #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles concept #harry styles fic rec #harry styles imagines #harry styles masterlist #harry styles writing #harry styles enemies to lovers

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messyemmy · 12 days ago

Note

maybe reader gets a package accidentally sent to harry’s address and he opens it and she gets annoyed??? or like he is stealing her parking space idk lol

ooh this is so good!! I've already got some mail-thievery concepts swirling around at just the thought! And if you know me, you know I love a good parking space situation, and we all know what type of driver Harry happens to be....

writing part two as we speak- it's getting exciting!!

#messyemmy asks 🐈#messyemmy bad neighbours

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messyemmy · 12 days ago

Text

Any suggestions for little 'neughbourly' encounters with Harry and his FAVOURITE neighbour?? 🥰 drop me some asks!

Bad Neighbours: One. (Harry Styles fic.)

Premise: Harry despises the girl next door, and it's mutual. But Harry also really likes the girl he met online, and that, is also mutual.

Other Writing

🍑

It’s not even eight a.m. when Y/n finds herself barefoot and stomping over the newly moved lawn in hot pursuit of her insufferable neighbour's front door.

And before it starts to sound like Harry is a loony with far too much free time, his neighbour is no saint. Every trick Harry pulls is retaliated with something just as spiteful- if not worse.

On several occasions, he has opened his mailbox to some wicked surprise, ready to shoot out and attack him.

“Styles!” She knows he’s behind that door, taking his time. It has her fist throbbing as it thumps against the hardwood with rejuvenated anger, “Open up!”

Harry’s wide smirk only spreads further towards his smiling eyes as he unlatches the lock and comes face-to-face with Y/n- underdressed, face flushed, and angry as hell.

“To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“I know what you did.” She accuses with both her words and her right arm that sassily hooks onto her hip while the other points at his smug figure.

“Darling, I do a lot of things.” She doesn’t even know about the dead rat he found on a walk and pathetically carried home, placing it beneath that new rosemary bush.

“Y’need to be more specific.”

“My peach tree.”

“What about it?” His voice lilts innocently.

“I know you’ve been stealing my peaches.” She frowns cutely, and Harry is almost inclined to be nice and lie. Almost.

“I have.”

“Don’t try to-Oh.” His confession disrupts the speech she had so much time to prepare for in the time it took him to finally open the door. “Well… Stop. They aren’t yours.”

“They hang over into my yard. It’s fair game.”

He merely shrugs, prepared to counter every accusation with such cheek and sanctimony that it’s sure to spoil not only her morning but, if lucky, her entire weekend.

“You’re so full of it.”

“Stop stealing my peaches, Styles!”

“I could say the same about you, sweetheart.”

“Why would I do that when they taste so good?”

“And while we’re at it, I’m tired of getting your mail. Call the post office and figure it out.”

“Why would I do that when I have my very own jackass to deliver them straight to my doorstep?”

On the odd occasion, he ponders if she might feel the same. If there might be a layer of excitement and fondness hidden beneath all of that teasing and sabotage.

“Have a wonderful day, brat.” He sneers- a last attempt to really spoil it all. But she seems unbothered as her glossy lips stretch out into a smiteful smile,

“Likewise, Satan.”

Her bare feet are already departing the wooden porch and sinking into the dewy blades of grass by the time Harry finishes chuckling and calls out after her,

“That’s ‘m name, don’t wear it out.”

🍑

Her fingers are like the roadrunner dancing along the screen as she composes the question that seems to be on her mind more and more by the day.

PastryPrincess: How’s my favourite boy?

There’s hardly time to exit the chat because three little dots are already bouncing with an indication of his imminent reply.

Loverboy: Better now that I know I’m at least one person's favourite.

PastryPrincess: Who do I need to fight?

Loverboy: My neighbour thinks I’m the devil.

PastryPrincess: To be fair, you are devilishly handsome.

Loverboy: Don’t make me blush.

PastryPrincess: Why does your neighbour hate you?

Loverboy: That’s the thing! I haven’t done anything!

Loverboy: … I think

PastryPrincess: Maybe they have a crush on you?

Loverboy: Oh, I highly doubt that. She lives to despise me.

Hm, Y/n surely feels the same about Harry.

But again, that’s an anomaly. Loverboy is possibly the kindest person she knows, so encouraging and gentle, thoughtful, and she could go on and on.

PastryPrincess: Who could ever despise you?

PastryPrincess: Perhaps she and I need to have a little chat.

Loverboy: Think you can take her?

Bending down, she loops the handle of her tote back around her wrist and starts to make her way toward the elevator.

PastryPrincess: I think we already know how well I can take things.

Loverboy: Naughty. Getting yourself worked up thinking about fighting for me?

PastryPrincess: No comment.

Loverboy: I would love a comment.

Clarity catches her at the last second and encourages her to use this enthusiasm as a guide for her evening plans.

PastryPrincess: You’ll never know…

PastryPrincess: Alright loverboy, I gotta go prepare for tonight.

Loverboy: I’ll be tuned in. As always.

PastryPrincess: I don’t think I could ever hate you.

🍑

“Hey, neighbour.”

“Aw, sweetheart, you shouldn't pout like that. S’alright to be bummed about having no plans on a Friday. Again.”

And if Harry believes himself to be some sort of fast-living adventure-seeking man, it’s about time he finds out how incorrect that thought is.

“Says the man who will certainly be spending his evening eating Thai takeout and watching Dragons Den.”

“Might tug one out if I’m feelin’ frisky.” He definitely will. And he certainly won’t be thinking of the menace next door.

“You’re disgusting.” She scoffs.

“You’d love to spend the night with me.”

“I’d rather be trampled by an elephant.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, sweetheart.” He only shrugs, turning on his heel and reaching into his pocket for his house keys.

Thankfully, Harry seems to be finished with his little moment of mockery and has disappeared into his house with the slam of the door substituting words of goodbye.

But does that mean that she definitely didn’t pick out her blue mesh lingerie set based on the fact that Loverboy had mentioned his fondness for it? Well, she pleads the fifth on that one.

🍑

After successfully picking another useless spat with his neighbour, Harry is in one of the best moods.

Besides, Harry already has a collection of love-infused arrows that he polishes with such timely and delicate care in preparation for the next time he talks to PastryPrincess.

And God forbid his neighbour catches sight of his Friday night commitment, he would be at her torturous will until she inevitably kills his morale or simply gets bored and, hopefully, moves out.

A sense of superiority, of specialness, that PastryPrincess had seen something in him worth pursuing with personal intrigue.

That includes his devious neighbour. His desire to rattle her bones is so far beyond reach as his own feel light as a feather, practically humming with humbleness, the craving to envelope peace.

PastryPrincess’s timidly deceiving voice fills the silence of his room, prickling goosebumps up along his spine, blushing his ears with deep rouge.

“How was everyone's week?”

She does the usual and takes a moment to scan over some of the comments, stopping now and then to address specific responses.

Harry’s already desperate to be singled out amongst the others, willing to clutch at anything to grab her attention. Even if it’s just the acknowledgement of her Stephen King-inspired shirt.

Loverboy: I love the shining!

She addresses him so quickly that Harry’s heart lurches in hopes that she was seeking out his message all along.

“Loverboy, I never pegged you as a fan of horrors.” She coos in surprise before her voice deepens in a sultry rendition of Ghostface, “What’s your favourite scary movie?”

Loverboy: Evil Dead!

Harry types with a haste that stems from keeping her attention trained on him, a need for her to see his reply before it slips away among dozens of others rolling in with their favourite films.

She sees him, though. Of course she does. A soft gasp, her voice lilting with sudden enthusiasm, right hand disappearing off screen as she presumably gesticulates her revelation.

“Evil Dead? No way, that’s my favourite, too!”

Her giggles escape the small speaker and head straight for his steady heart, threatening to increase the thudding pace if she continues speaking.

“Take off my top? Already? Wow, you guys really need a break, huh?”

Yep, she got him, shot straight to the heart. Black briefs tightening as his bulge begins to swell and strain against the cruelly restrictive material.

“Well, you know I aim to please…”

She’s back to scanning the comment section, letting her hand aimlessly wander along the swoops of her upper thigh.

“Today was a pretty slow day. Had another fight with my coworker.”

“Maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about this crazy idea all day. Thinking about how hot it would be to fight someone who disrespects my man.”

Harry must have swallowed his heart. Why else would his stomach be thudding with something far stronger than a kaleidoscope of enthusiastic butterflies?

If he had thoughts about who this sudden ‘man’ is, he need not ask because one of the most obnoxiously vocal and persistent subscribers beats him to it.

“No, Bradley. I don’t have a secret boyfriend. Promise.”

Loverboy: Your man, huh?

“Yeah. My man would be a real loverboy.”

Harry exhales a sharp breath he hadn't noticed, it’s as shaky as his right hand as he lets it trail in descent from his resting with the other atop his chest in pursuit of his throbbing cock.

He’s about to pose the question himself when it becomes clear that someone must have beaten him to it.

“Who would ever wanna fight with me?” Her palm pressed to her chest, “You guys are too sweet to me.”

“It’s true, I am very sweet… but I can be mean if you like?”

She seems in deep thought, letting her fingers slowly inch nearer to the crevasse formed from where her closed thighs meet.

“Hm, maybe I’ll try that sometime soon…” She finally ponders aloud, “But I’m feeling extra sweet today. Just wanna make you feel good.”

Harry rushes out a reply in the absence of her voice, encouraged by the barely audible hums and sighs slipping past her hidden lips.

Loverboy: More than.

And when she sighs out seconds after he presses send, it’s laced with gratitude for approval, so pliant, so gentle that Harry becomes inclined to believe it might be dedicated to him and him alone.

“You always take such good care of me.”

“Wish you were here right now, touching me all over, letting me be a good girl for you.”

Harry would very much like that. If he had any inclination that she felt the same way (she does), he would do far more than slot his cock between her ideally perfect, plumped, and glossy lips.

“I couldn't decide which toy to use tonight- oh, you guys are very opinionated.” She giggles cutely, and Harry squeezes his cock at the sweet sound. “No, Jessie, don’t even think about it.”

Loverboy: Rabbit.

For a moment longer, she reads through the informal votes, and Harry tries his best to slow his needy strokes down lest he find himself busting before she’s even done anything.

“Hm, looks like we’re going with…” She takes a beat to let the anticipation threaten to boil over. “The Rabbit.”

Her body jolts on instinct before her body needily bucks up into the toy, a thick, low moan sneaking past her lips.

“Oh, fuck.” “That- that feels so good.”

“Would feel even better with your cock buried inside me.”

PastryPrincess: Did you like it?

Of course he did, how could she think otherwise? There should be zero doubt in her cute little mind that he was merely one of hundreds who would be slipping off into an over-satiated slumber.

Loverboy: Loved.

Loverboy: Love the idea of you being possessive.

PastryPrincess: sent image.

Perhaps that was her plan all along. How else can Harry justify the rapid pace at which he loses the will to resist, to succumb to the disease of falling freely into her trap?

Loverboy: Fuck, tryna make me bust again?

And, he’d rather pass out than stop for even a moment.

PastryPrincess: My plan has been foiled…

Loverboy: You’re incredible.

Loverboy: Would lap you up till my face is covered in you.

PastryPrincess: You have no idea how badly I want that.

Loverboy: Yeah?

Loverboy: Are you this sweet to all of your subscribers?

PastryPrincess: No, you’re my favourite. You already know that.

PastryPrincess: Was that photo not enough proof for you?

Loverboy: Just wanted to hear you say it again.

PastryPrincess: Maybe you’re the devil after all.

Loverboy: Only if you want me to be.

Loverboy: But you already knew that.

With the rapid pace at which he strokes himself, working his body up to the same incredible arousal he experienced minutes before, his laptop is slipping from his thigh as his limbs twitch with need.

PastryPrincess: Just wanted to hear you say it.

Whispering tender, encouraging pleas for him to show her how good she makes him feel, begging him to make a mess all over her, to let her taste just how much he wants her.

It’s no surprise that he hesitates for a moment, contemplating the intimacy of going through with his impulsive plan, but impulsivity wins as he takes a shallow breath and presses send.

Loverboy: sent image

Unlike his teen years, Harry isn’t left with agonisingly long minutes to fret over the many possibilities of how his risky pic might be perceived. She responds in an instant.

PastryPrincess: I take it back. You’re an angel.

and Harry’s body graciously sinks back into the sheets, eyes lulling and burning with the plea to close and switch off for the night.

PastryPrincess: Do I always get you this riled up?

Loverboy: Always.

Perhaps Harry should consider showing her how good she makes her feel more often. For now, sleep is swallowing him whole, and he can’t submit until he cleans off and does his bedtime routine.

He’s spent countless evenings pushing past burning blinks, hanging on to every one of her replies until the rooster his neighbour has the gall to call a pet starts to crow in ode to the rising sun.

But it’s peak summer now, and that means that Harry has to do his daily run a lot earlier than normal, and he’s not ashamed to admit that he has learned the consequences first-hand.

It pains him to be the first to say goodnight. But in this little imaginary world where she rests beside him, Harry can only hope she feels the same with his absence.

Loverboy: Got an early morning, sweetheart. Chat first thing tomorrow? x

He lets the laptop slip from his legs completely as he carefully manoeuvres his way off the mattress, bare feet padding along the cool hardwood floors in pursuit of the en suite bathroom.

Rushing through his routine- even sacrificing his nightly moisturiser, Harry slinks back to his bed, sliding his body under the summer sheets and taking a final look at his laptop screen.

PastryPrincess: Sweet dreams, loverboy xx

Tummy fluttering at the mere mention of his pseudonym (one that now feels like a familiar nickname), as per usual, Harry vows to oblige her innocent request.

Shutting the laptop and shoving it far enough away for his worry of damaging it to dissipate, Harry begrudgingly stretches his arm out to find the lamp switch.

Eyes still shut, Harry’s finger familiarly finds the voice switch, and perhaps more grouchy than needed, interjects with the actually soothing instrumental she had picked out.

“Turn the music down. Over.”

“Move out. Over.”

Harry lets a chuckle slip and ends the spat.

“I hate you. Over.”

“Likewise. Over.”

🍑

[I've decided to make these shorter than my usual series- hopefully it'll help me get more of the story out with less of those massive gaps I tend to create. Let me know what you guys think!!]

435 notes · View notes

messyemmy · 13 days ago

Note

Hiii i loved bad neighbors sm! The concept/Idea of it is so cute. I was wondering how many parts its gonna have? xx

Hi honeyyy! Thank you so much, I'm really glad you like it!

honestly wasn't too sure how many parts to do- because they're shorter, there will be at least four parts, but I can get them out sooner this way and there's so much to come!!

Also, if you guys have any ideas about little inconveniences or fun neighbourly things that you'd like to see in the next parts- drop me a message! Those are my favourite interactions hehe

#messyemmy asks 🐈#harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles x y/n

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messyemmy · 14 days ago

Text

Bad Neighbours: One. (Harry Styles fic.)

Premise: Harry despises the girl next door, and it's mutual. But Harry also really likes the girl he met online, and that, is also mutual.

Other Writing

🍑

It’s not even eight a.m. when Y/n finds herself barefoot and stomping over the newly moved lawn in hot pursuit of her insufferable neighbour's front door.

And before it starts to sound like Harry is a loony with far too much free time, his neighbour is no saint. Every trick Harry pulls is retaliated with something just as spiteful- if not worse.

On several occasions, he has opened his mailbox to some wicked surprise, ready to shoot out and attack him.

“Styles!” She knows he’s behind that door, taking his time. It has her fist throbbing as it thumps against the hardwood with rejuvenated anger, “Open up!”

Harry’s wide smirk only spreads further towards his smiling eyes as he unlatches the lock and comes face-to-face with Y/n- underdressed, face flushed, and angry as hell.

“To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“I know what you did.” She accuses with both her words and her right arm that sassily hooks onto her hip while the other points at his smug figure.

“Darling, I do a lot of things.” She doesn’t even know about the dead rat he found on a walk and pathetically carried home, placing it beneath that new rosemary bush.

“Y’need to be more specific.”

“My peach tree.”

“What about it?” His voice lilts innocently.

“I know you’ve been stealing my peaches.” She frowns cutely, and Harry is almost inclined to be nice and lie. Almost.

“I have.”

“Don’t try to-Oh.” His confession disrupts the speech she had so much time to prepare for in the time it took him to finally open the door. “Well… Stop. They aren’t yours.”

“They hang over into my yard. It’s fair game.”

He merely shrugs, prepared to counter every accusation with such cheek and sanctimony that it’s sure to spoil not only her morning but, if lucky, her entire weekend.

“You’re so full of it.”

“Stop stealing my peaches, Styles!”

“I could say the same about you, sweetheart.”

“Why would I do that when they taste so good?”

“And while we’re at it, I’m tired of getting your mail. Call the post office and figure it out.”

“Why would I do that when I have my very own jackass to deliver them straight to my doorstep?”

On the odd occasion, he ponders if she might feel the same. If there might be a layer of excitement and fondness hidden beneath all of that teasing and sabotage.

“Have a wonderful day, brat.” He sneers- a last attempt to really spoil it all. But she seems unbothered as her glossy lips stretch out into a smiteful smile,

“Likewise, Satan.”

Her bare feet are already departing the wooden porch and sinking into the dewy blades of grass by the time Harry finishes chuckling and calls out after her,

“That’s ‘m name, don’t wear it out.”

🍑

Her fingers are like the roadrunner dancing along the screen as she composes the question that seems to be on her mind more and more by the day.

PastryPrincess: How’s my favourite boy?

There’s hardly time to exit the chat because three little dots are already bouncing with an indication of his imminent reply.

Loverboy: Better now that I know I’m at least one person's favourite.

PastryPrincess: Who do I need to fight?

Loverboy: My neighbour thinks I’m the devil.

PastryPrincess: To be fair, you are devilishly handsome.

Loverboy: Don’t make me blush.

PastryPrincess: Why does your neighbour hate you?

Loverboy: That’s the thing! I haven’t done anything!

Loverboy: … I think

PastryPrincess: Maybe they have a crush on you?

Loverboy: Oh, I highly doubt that. She lives to despise me.

Hm, Y/n surely feels the same about Harry.

But again, that’s an anomaly. Loverboy is possibly the kindest person she knows, so encouraging and gentle, thoughtful, and she could go on and on.

PastryPrincess: Who could ever despise you?

PastryPrincess: Perhaps she and I need to have a little chat.

Loverboy: Think you can take her?

Bending down, she loops the handle of her tote back around her wrist and starts to make her way toward the elevator.

PastryPrincess: I think we already know how well I can take things.

Loverboy: Naughty. Getting yourself worked up thinking about fighting for me?

PastryPrincess: No comment.

Loverboy: I would love a comment.

Clarity catches her at the last second and encourages her to use this enthusiasm as a guide for her evening plans.

PastryPrincess: You’ll never know…

PastryPrincess: Alright loverboy, I gotta go prepare for tonight.

Loverboy: I’ll be tuned in. As always.

PastryPrincess: I don’t think I could ever hate you.

🍑

“Hey, neighbour.”

“Aw, sweetheart, you shouldn't pout like that. S’alright to be bummed about having no plans on a Friday. Again.”

And if Harry believes himself to be some sort of fast-living adventure-seeking man, it’s about time he finds out how incorrect that thought is.

“Says the man who will certainly be spending his evening eating Thai takeout and watching Dragons Den.”

“Might tug one out if I’m feelin’ frisky.” He definitely will. And he certainly won’t be thinking of the menace next door.

“You’re disgusting.” She scoffs.

“You’d love to spend the night with me.”

“I’d rather be trampled by an elephant.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, sweetheart.” He only shrugs, turning on his heel and reaching into his pocket for his house keys.

Thankfully, Harry seems to be finished with his little moment of mockery and has disappeared into his house with the slam of the door substituting words of goodbye.

But does that mean that she definitely didn’t pick out her blue mesh lingerie set based on the fact that Loverboy had mentioned his fondness for it? Well, she pleads the fifth on that one.

🍑

After successfully picking another useless spat with his neighbour, Harry is in one of the best moods.

Besides, Harry already has a collection of love-infused arrows that he polishes with such timely and delicate care in preparation for the next time he talks to PastryPrincess.

And God forbid his neighbour catches sight of his Friday night commitment, he would be at her torturous will until she inevitably kills his morale or simply gets bored and, hopefully, moves out.

A sense of superiority, of specialness, that PastryPrincess had seen something in him worth pursuing with personal intrigue.

That includes his devious neighbour. His desire to rattle her bones is so far beyond reach as his own feel light as a feather, practically humming with humbleness, the craving to envelope peace.

PastryPrincess’s timidly deceiving voice fills the silence of his room, prickling goosebumps up along his spine, blushing his ears with deep rouge.

“How was everyone's week?”

She does the usual and takes a moment to scan over some of the comments, stopping now and then to address specific responses.

Harry’s already desperate to be singled out amongst the others, willing to clutch at anything to grab her attention. Even if it’s just the acknowledgement of her Stephen King-inspired shirt.

Loverboy: I love the shining!

She addresses him so quickly that Harry’s heart lurches in hopes that she was seeking out his message all along.

“Loverboy, I never pegged you as a fan of horrors.” She coos in surprise before her voice deepens in a sultry rendition of Ghostface, “What’s your favourite scary movie?”

Loverboy: Evil Dead!

Harry types with a haste that stems from keeping her attention trained on him, a need for her to see his reply before it slips away among dozens of others rolling in with their favourite films.

She sees him, though. Of course she does. A soft gasp, her voice lilting with sudden enthusiasm, right hand disappearing off screen as she presumably gesticulates her revelation.

“Evil Dead? No way, that’s my favourite, too!”

Her giggles escape the small speaker and head straight for his steady heart, threatening to increase the thudding pace if she continues speaking.

“Take off my top? Already? Wow, you guys really need a break, huh?”

Yep, she got him, shot straight to the heart. Black briefs tightening as his bulge begins to swell and strain against the cruelly restrictive material.

“Well, you know I aim to please…”

She’s back to scanning the comment section, letting her hand aimlessly wander along the swoops of her upper thigh.

“Today was a pretty slow day. Had another fight with my coworker.”

“Maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about this crazy idea all day. Thinking about how hot it would be to fight someone who disrespects my man.”

Harry must have swallowed his heart. Why else would his stomach be thudding with something far stronger than a kaleidoscope of enthusiastic butterflies?

If he had thoughts about who this sudden ‘man’ is, he need not ask because one of the most obnoxiously vocal and persistent subscribers beats him to it.

“No, Bradley. I don’t have a secret boyfriend. Promise.”

Loverboy: Your man, huh?

“Yeah. My man would be a real loverboy.”

Harry exhales a sharp breath he hadn't noticed, it’s as shaky as his right hand as he lets it trail in descent from his resting with the other atop his chest in pursuit of his throbbing cock.

He’s about to pose the question himself when it becomes clear that someone must have beaten him to it.

“Who would ever wanna fight with me?” Her palm pressed to her chest, “You guys are too sweet to me.”

“It’s true, I am very sweet… but I can be mean if you like?”

She seems in deep thought, letting her fingers slowly inch nearer to the crevasse formed from where her closed thighs meet.

“Hm, maybe I’ll try that sometime soon…” She finally ponders aloud, “But I’m feeling extra sweet today. Just wanna make you feel good.”

Harry rushes out a reply in the absence of her voice, encouraged by the barely audible hums and sighs slipping past her hidden lips.

Loverboy: More than.

And when she sighs out seconds after he presses send, it’s laced with gratitude for approval, so pliant, so gentle that Harry becomes inclined to believe it might be dedicated to him and him alone.

“You always take such good care of me.”

“Wish you were here right now, touching me all over, letting me be a good girl for you.”

Harry would very much like that. If he had any inclination that she felt the same way (she does), he would do far more than slot his cock between her ideally perfect, plumped, and glossy lips.

“I couldn't decide which toy to use tonight- oh, you guys are very opinionated.” She giggles cutely, and Harry squeezes his cock at the sweet sound. “No, Jessie, don’t even think about it.”

Loverboy: Rabbit.

For a moment longer, she reads through the informal votes, and Harry tries his best to slow his needy strokes down lest he find himself busting before she’s even done anything.

“Hm, looks like we’re going with…” She takes a beat to let the anticipation threaten to boil over. “The Rabbit.”

Her body jolts on instinct before her body needily bucks up into the toy, a thick, low moan sneaking past her lips.

“Oh, fuck.” “That- that feels so good.”

“Would feel even better with your cock buried inside me.”

PastryPrincess: Did you like it?

Of course he did, how could she think otherwise? There should be zero doubt in her cute little mind that he was merely one of hundreds who would be slipping off into an over-satiated slumber.

Loverboy: Loved.

Loverboy: Love the idea of you being possessive.

PastryPrincess: sent image.

Perhaps that was her plan all along. How else can Harry justify the rapid pace at which he loses the will to resist, to succumb to the disease of falling freely into her trap?

Loverboy: Fuck, tryna make me bust again?

And, he’d rather pass out than stop for even a moment.

PastryPrincess: My plan has been foiled…

Loverboy: You’re incredible.

Loverboy: Would lap you up till my face is covered in you.

PastryPrincess: You have no idea how badly I want that.

Loverboy: Yeah?

Loverboy: Are you this sweet to all of your subscribers?

PastryPrincess: No, you’re my favourite. You already know that.

PastryPrincess: Was that photo not enough proof for you?

Loverboy: Just wanted to hear you say it again.

PastryPrincess: Maybe you’re the devil after all.

Loverboy: Only if you want me to be.

Loverboy: But you already knew that.

With the rapid pace at which he strokes himself, working his body up to the same incredible arousal he experienced minutes before, his laptop is slipping from his thigh as his limbs twitch with need.

PastryPrincess: Just wanted to hear you say it.

Whispering tender, encouraging pleas for him to show her how good she makes him feel, begging him to make a mess all over her, to let her taste just how much he wants her.

It’s no surprise that he hesitates for a moment, contemplating the intimacy of going through with his impulsive plan, but impulsivity wins as he takes a shallow breath and presses send.

Loverboy: sent image

Unlike his teen years, Harry isn’t left with agonisingly long minutes to fret over the many possibilities of how his risky pic might be perceived. She responds in an instant.

PastryPrincess: I take it back. You’re an angel.

and Harry’s body graciously sinks back into the sheets, eyes lulling and burning with the plea to close and switch off for the night.

PastryPrincess: Do I always get you this riled up?

Loverboy: Always.

Perhaps Harry should consider showing her how good she makes her feel more often. For now, sleep is swallowing him whole, and he can’t submit until he cleans off and does his bedtime routine.

He’s spent countless evenings pushing past burning blinks, hanging on to every one of her replies until the rooster his neighbour has the gall to call a pet starts to crow in ode to the rising sun.

But it’s peak summer now, and that means that Harry has to do his daily run a lot earlier than normal, and he’s not ashamed to admit that he has learned the consequences first-hand.

It pains him to be the first to say goodnight. But in this little imaginary world where she rests beside him, Harry can only hope she feels the same with his absence.

Loverboy: Got an early morning, sweetheart. Chat first thing tomorrow? x

He lets the laptop slip from his legs completely as he carefully manoeuvres his way off the mattress, bare feet padding along the cool hardwood floors in pursuit of the en suite bathroom.

Rushing through his routine- even sacrificing his nightly moisturiser, Harry slinks back to his bed, sliding his body under the summer sheets and taking a final look at his laptop screen.

PastryPrincess: Sweet dreams, loverboy xx

Tummy fluttering at the mere mention of his pseudonym (one that now feels like a familiar nickname), as per usual, Harry vows to oblige her innocent request.

Shutting the laptop and shoving it far enough away for his worry of damaging it to dissipate, Harry begrudgingly stretches his arm out to find the lamp switch.

Eyes still shut, Harry’s finger familiarly finds the voice switch, and perhaps more grouchy than needed, interjects with the actually soothing instrumental she had picked out.

“Turn the music down. Over.”

“Move out. Over.”

Harry lets a chuckle slip and ends the spat.

“I hate you. Over.”

“Likewise. Over.”

🍑

[I've decided to make these shorter than my usual series- hopefully it'll help me get more of the story out with less of those massive gaps I tend to create. Let me know what you guys think!!]

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messyemmy · 16 days ago

Text

Here it is my lovelies! Let me know what you think!!

Bad Neighbours: One

Bad Neighbours (Harry Styles fic)

PREVIEW

Premise: Harry despises the girl next door, and it's mutual. But Harry also really likes the girl he met online, and that, is also mutual.

🍑

“I know you’ve been stealing my peaches.” She frowns cutely, and Harry is almost inclined to be nice and lie. Almost.

“I have.”

“Don’t try to- Oh.” His confession disrupts the speech she had so much time to prepare for in the time it took him to finally open the door,

“Well… Stop. They aren’t yours.”

“They hang over into my yard. It’s fair game.”

He merely shrugs, prepared to counter every accusation with such cheek and sanctimony that it’s sure to spoil not only her morning, but if lucky, her entire weekend.

“You’re so full of it.”

“Likewise, sweetheart.”

“Stop stealing my peaches, Styles!”

She wonders if he can see the way her searing skin ignites goosebumps, if he can hear the distant train whistle signalling that smoke will surely be spewing from her ears and nostrils if he says another word.

“Why would I do that when they taste so good?”

🍑

Ohhhh this is gonna be gooood!! Hopefully part 1 will be out by this weekend! Lmk if you wanna be on the taglist! -Emmy. Xo

#harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles masterlist #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles x you #harry styles blurb #harry x reader #harry styles fanfic #harry styles angst #harry styles smut #harry styles imagines #harrh styles fluff #harry styles au #harry styles enemies to lovers #harry styles

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messyemmy · 16 days ago

Text

Bad Neighbours: One. (Harry Styles fic.)

Premise: Harry despises the girl next door, and it's mutual. But Harry also really likes the girl he met online, and that, is also mutual.

Other Writing

🍑

It’s not even eight a.m. when Y/n finds herself barefoot and stomping over the newly moved lawn in hot pursuit of her insufferable neighbour's front door.

And before it starts to sound like Harry is a loony with far too much free time, his neighbour is no saint. Every trick Harry pulls is retaliated with something just as spiteful- if not worse.

On several occasions, he has opened his mailbox to some wicked surprise, ready to shoot out and attack him.

There was that glitter explosion, which Harry attempted to figure out the mechanisms behind, but couldn��t catch a clue as it all hid beneath a thick layer of thousands of glimmering turquoise flakes.

“Styles!” She knows he’s behind that door, taking his time. It has her fist throbbing as it thumps against the hardwood with rejuvenated anger, “Open up!”

Harry’s wide smirk only spreads further towards his smiling eyes as he unlatches the lock and comes face-to-face with Y/n- underdressed, face flushed, and angry as hell.

“To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“I know what you did.” She accuses with both her words and her right arm that sassily hooks onto her hip while the other points at his smug figure.

“Darling, I do a lot of things.” She doesn’t even know about the dead rat he found on a walk and pathetically carried home, placing it beneath that new rosemary bush.

“Y’need to be more specific.”

“My peach tree.”

“What about it?” His voice lilts innocently.

“I know you’ve been stealing my peaches.” She frowns cutely, and Harry is almost inclined to be nice and lie. Almost.

“I have.”

“Don’t try to-Oh.” His confession disrupts the speech she had so much time to prepare for in the time it took him to finally open the door. “Well… Stop. They aren’t yours.”

“They hang over into my yard. It’s fair game.”

He merely shrugs, prepared to counter every accusation with such cheek and sanctimony that it’s sure to spoil not only her morning but, if lucky, her entire weekend.

“You’re so full of it.”

“Stop stealing my peaches, Styles!”

“I could say the same about you, sweetheart.”

“Why would I do that when they taste so good?”

“And while we’re at it, I’m tired of getting your mail. Call the post office and figure it out.”

“Why would I do that when I have my very own jackass to deliver them straight to my doorstep?”

On the odd occasion, he ponders if she might feel the same. If there might be a layer of excitement and fondness hidden beneath all of that teasing and sabotage.

“Have a wonderful day, brat.” He sneers- a last attempt to really spoil it all. But she seems unbothered as her glossy lips stretch out into a smiteful smile,

“Likewise, Satan.”

Her bare feet are already departing the wooden porch and sinking into the dewy blades of grass by the time Harry finishes chuckling and calls out after her,

“That’s ‘m name, don’t wear it out.”

🍑

Her fingers are like the roadrunner dancing along the screen as she composes the question that seems to be on her mind more and more by the day.

PastryPrincess: How’s my favourite boy?

There’s hardly time to exit the chat because three little dots are already bouncing with an indication of his imminent reply.

Loverboy: Better now that I know I’m at least one person's favourite.

PastryPrincess: Who do I need to fight?

Loverboy: My neighbour thinks I’m the devil.

PastryPrincess: To be fair, you are devilishly handsome.

Loverboy: Don’t make me blush.

PastryPrincess: Why does your neighbour hate you?

Loverboy: That’s the thing! I haven’t done anything!

Loverboy: … I think

PastryPrincess: Maybe they have a crush on you?

Loverboy: Oh, I highly doubt that. She lives to despise me.

Hm, Y/n surely feels the same about Harry.

But again, that’s an anomaly. Loverboy is possibly the kindest person she knows, so encouraging and gentle, thoughtful, and she could go on and on.

PastryPrincess: Who could ever despise you?

PastryPrincess: Perhaps she and I need to have a little chat.

Loverboy: Think you can take her?

Bending down, she loops the handle of her tote back around her wrist and starts to make her way toward the elevator.

PastryPrincess: I think we already know how well I can take things.

Loverboy: Naughty. Getting yourself worked up thinking about fighting for me?

PastryPrincess: No comment.

Loverboy: I would love a comment.

Clarity catches her at the last second and encourages her to use this enthusiasm as a guide for her evening plans.

PastryPrincess: You’ll never know…

PastryPrincess: Alright loverboy, I gotta go prepare for tonight.

Loverboy: I’ll be tuned in. As always.

PastryPrincess: I don’t think I could ever hate you.

🍑

“Hey, neighbour.”

“Aw, sweetheart, you shouldn't pout like that. S’alright to be bummed about having no plans on a Friday. Again.”

And if Harry believes himself to be some sort of fast-living adventure-seeking man, it’s about time he finds out how incorrect that thought is.

“Says the man who will certainly be spending his evening eating Thai takeout and watching Dragons Den.”

“Might tug one out if I’m feelin’ frisky.” He definitely will. And he certainly won’t be thinking of the menace next door.

“You’re disgusting.” She scoffs.

“You’d love to spend the night with me.”

“I’d rather be trampled by an elephant.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, sweetheart.” He only shrugs, turning on his heel and reaching into his pocket for his house keys.

Thankfully, Harry seems to be finished with his little moment of mockery and has disappeared into his house with the slam of the door substituting words of goodbye.

But does that mean that she definitely didn’t pick out her blue mesh lingerie set based on the fact that Loverboy had mentioned his fondness for it? Well, she pleads the fifth on that one.

🍑

After successfully picking another useless spat with his neighbour, Harry is in one of the best moods.

Besides, Harry already has a collection of love-infused arrows that he polishes with such timely and delicate care in preparation for the next time he talks to PastryPrincess.

And God forbid his neighbour catches sight of his Friday night commitment, he would be at her torturous will until she inevitably kills his morale or simply gets bored and, hopefully, moves out.

A sense of superiority, of specialness, that PastryPrincess had seen something in him worth pursuing with personal intrigue.

That includes his devious neighbour. His desire to rattle her bones is so far beyond reach as his own feel light as a feather, practically humming with humbleness, the craving to envelope peace.

PastryPrincess’s timidly deceiving voice fills the silence of his room, prickling goosebumps up along his spine, blushing his ears with deep rouge.

“How was everyone's week?”

She does the usual and takes a moment to scan over some of the comments, stopping now and then to address specific responses.

Harry’s already desperate to be singled out amongst the others, willing to clutch at anything to grab her attention. Even if it’s just the acknowledgement of her Stephen King-inspired shirt.

Loverboy: I love the shining!

She addresses him so quickly that Harry’s heart lurches in hopes that she was seeking out his message all along.

“Loverboy, I never pegged you as a fan of horrors.” She coos in surprise before her voice deepens in a sultry rendition of Ghostface, “What’s your favourite scary movie?”

Loverboy: Evil Dead!

Harry types with a haste that stems from keeping her attention trained on him, a need for her to see his reply before it slips away among dozens of others rolling in with their favourite films.

She sees him, though. Of course she does. A soft gasp, her voice lilting with sudden enthusiasm, right hand disappearing off screen as she presumably gesticulates her revelation.

“Evil Dead? No way, that’s my favourite, too!”

Her giggles escape the small speaker and head straight for his steady heart, threatening to increase the thudding pace if she continues speaking.

“Take off my top? Already? Wow, you guys really need a break, huh?”

Yep, she got him, shot straight to the heart. Black briefs tightening as his bulge begins to swell and strain against the cruelly restrictive material.

“Well, you know I aim to please…”

She’s back to scanning the comment section, letting her hand aimlessly wander along the swoops of her upper thigh.

“Today was a pretty slow day. Had another fight with my coworker.”

“Maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about this crazy idea all day. Thinking about how hot it would be to fight someone who disrespects my man.”

Harry must have swallowed his heart. Why else would his stomach be thudding with something far stronger than a kaleidoscope of enthusiastic butterflies?

If he had thoughts about who this sudden ‘man’ is, he need not ask because one of the most obnoxiously vocal and persistent subscribers beats him to it.

“No, Bradley. I don’t have a secret boyfriend. Promise.”

Loverboy: Your man, huh?

“Yeah. My man would be a real loverboy.”

Harry exhales a sharp breath he hadn't noticed, it’s as shaky as his right hand as he lets it trail in descent from his resting with the other atop his chest in pursuit of his throbbing cock.

He’s about to pose the question himself when it becomes clear that someone must have beaten him to it.

“Who would ever wanna fight with me?” Her palm pressed to her chest, “You guys are too sweet to me.”

“It’s true, I am very sweet… but I can be mean if you like?”

She seems in deep thought, letting her fingers slowly inch nearer to the crevasse formed from where her closed thighs meet.

“Hm, maybe I’ll try that sometime soon…” She finally ponders aloud, “But I’m feeling extra sweet today. Just wanna make you feel good.”

Harry rushes out a reply in the absence of her voice, encouraged by the barely audible hums and sighs slipping past her hidden lips.

Loverboy: More than.

And when she sighs out seconds after he presses send, it’s laced with gratitude for approval, so pliant, so gentle that Harry becomes inclined to believe it might be dedicated to him and him alone.

“You always take such good care of me.”

“Wish you were here right now, touching me all over, letting me be a good girl for you.”

Harry would very much like that. If he had any inclination that she felt the same way (she does), he would do far more than slot his cock between her ideally perfect, plumped, and glossy lips.

“I couldn't decide which toy to use tonight- oh, you guys are very opinionated.” She giggles cutely, and Harry squeezes his cock at the sweet sound. “No, Jessie, don’t even think about it.”

Loverboy: Rabbit.

For a moment longer, she reads through the informal votes, and Harry tries his best to slow his needy strokes down lest he find himself busting before she’s even done anything.

“Hm, looks like we’re going with…” She takes a beat to let the anticipation threaten to boil over. “The Rabbit.”

Her body jolts on instinct before her body needily bucks up into the toy, a thick, low moan sneaking past her lips.

“Oh, fuck.” “That- that feels so good.”

“Would feel even better with your cock buried inside me.”

PastryPrincess: Did you like it?

Of course he did, how could she think otherwise? There should be zero doubt in her cute little mind that he was merely one of hundreds who would be slipping off into an over-satiated slumber.

Loverboy: Loved.

Loverboy: Love the idea of you being possessive.

PastryPrincess: sent image.

Perhaps that was her plan all along. How else can Harry justify the rapid pace at which he loses the will to resist, to succumb to the disease of falling freely into her trap?

Loverboy: Fuck, tryna make me bust again?

And, he’d rather pass out than stop for even a moment.

PastryPrincess: My plan has been foiled…

Loverboy: You’re incredible.

Loverboy: Would lap you up till my face is covered in you.

PastryPrincess: You have no idea how badly I want that.

Loverboy: Yeah?

Loverboy: Are you this sweet to all of your subscribers?

PastryPrincess: No, you’re my favourite. You already know that.

PastryPrincess: Was that photo not enough proof for you?

Loverboy: Just wanted to hear you say it again.

PastryPrincess: Maybe you’re the devil after all.

Loverboy: Only if you want me to be.

Loverboy: But you already knew that.

With the rapid pace at which he strokes himself, working his body up to the same incredible arousal he experienced minutes before, his laptop is slipping from his thigh as his limbs twitch with need.

PastryPrincess: Just wanted to hear you say it.

Whispering tender, encouraging pleas for him to show her how good she makes him feel, begging him to make a mess all over her, to let her taste just how much he wants her.

It’s no surprise that he hesitates for a moment, contemplating the intimacy of going through with his impulsive plan, but impulsivity wins as he takes a shallow breath and presses send.

Loverboy: sent image

Unlike his teen years, Harry isn’t left with agonisingly long minutes to fret over the many possibilities of how his risky pic might be perceived. She responds in an instant.

PastryPrincess: I take it back. You’re an angel.

and Harry’s body graciously sinks back into the sheets, eyes lulling and burning with the plea to close and switch off for the night.

PastryPrincess: Do I always get you this riled up?

Loverboy: Always.

Perhaps Harry should consider showing her how good she makes her feel more often. For now, sleep is swallowing him whole, and he can’t submit until he cleans off and does his bedtime routine.

He’s spent countless evenings pushing past burning blinks, hanging on to every one of her replies until the rooster his neighbour has the gall to call a pet starts to crow in ode to the rising sun.

But it’s peak summer now, and that means that Harry has to do his daily run a lot earlier than normal, and he’s not ashamed to admit that he has learned the consequences first-hand.

It pains him to be the first to say goodnight. But in this little imaginary world where she rests beside him, Harry can only hope she feels the same with his absence.

Loverboy: Got an early morning, sweetheart. Chat first thing tomorrow? x

He lets the laptop slip from his legs completely as he carefully manoeuvres his way off the mattress, bare feet padding along the cool hardwood floors in pursuit of the en suite bathroom.

Rushing through his routine- even sacrificing his nightly moisturiser, Harry slinks back to his bed, sliding his body under the summer sheets and taking a final look at his laptop screen.

PastryPrincess: Sweet dreams, loverboy xx

Tummy fluttering at the mere mention of his pseudonym (one that now feels like a familiar nickname), as per usual, Harry vows to oblige her innocent request.

Shutting the laptop and shoving it far enough away for his worry of damaging it to dissipate, Harry begrudgingly stretches his arm out to find the lamp switch.

Eyes still shut, Harry’s finger familiarly finds the voice switch, and perhaps more grouchy than needed, interjects with the actually soothing instrumental she had picked out.

“Turn the music down. Over.”

“Move out. Over.”

Harry lets a chuckle slip and ends the spat.

“I hate you. Over.”

“Likewise. Over.”

🍑

[I've decided to make these shorter than my usual series- hopefully it'll help me get more of the story out with less of those massive gaps I tend to create. Let me know what you guys think!!]

435 notes · View notes