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Bad Neighbours: Two. (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.

Part One | Other Writing

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It’s nearing midnight when Y/n’s eyes can no longer stand the sleepy stinging, and her eyelids droop in a desperate bid to embrace slumber.

And her body has been begging for sleep for at least an hour, but it simply pales in comparison to what she dismisses it for; clutching her phone tight in her palm, heart eyes beaming at the screen, desperately waiting for the next buzz to indicate loverboy has sent a message.

When he does respond, it’s so worth it, and it proudly reinforces her determined artillery to challenge the battle of slumber further- to defy it until loverboy himself indicates departure.

And he’s leaving very little chance for her to change her mind; his responses are almost instant, and she melts into the fantasy of his gaze glued to the screen, similar to her own.

Loverboy: I saw a golden retriever on my way to work today.

Loverboy: Made me think of you.

Y/n’s legs excitedly curl into her side, toes wiggling with glee. She can’t type fast enough- and definitely can’t do it without correcting several errors.

PastryPrincess: You think about me, do you?

Loverboy: Stop being silly.

Loverboy: I think about you all the time.

And her skin is searing beneath the silky sheets, exhaustion and endearment swirling together into an uncomfortable current that tingles up the marrow of her bones.

Meanwhile, just across the way, Harry lies in a similar position, phone puny in comparison to his palm, cradling it with such care, as if his tenderness would somehow bring the girl behind the screen nearer.

Life and pride on the line, Harry’s back stiffens against the mattress as the seconds tick by, reconsidering his admission. Reluctant to have sent it to start with, the sinking reality that she might reject his honesty is starting to eat away at the lining of his stomach.

PastryPrincess: Well, loverboy, that sentiment is mutual.

Her message sings out a soft ding, and it echoes in the chambers of his heart as he reads over, and re-reads, and then reads a couple times more to make extra certain that PastryPrincess shares a similar fondness for the undeniable sparks of anticipation and possibility.

Harry can’t stop his thumbs now, they’ve swiftly avoided the unguarded walls of his rationality and have begun conducting a chorus of letters that turn into an orchestra of a simple, but subtly curious sentence.

Loverboy: What do you think about?

PastryPrincess: Thinkin’ bout what you might be wearing right now, aha.

A low chuckle rumbles within the cavern of his bare chest, and Harry wishes he could huff out lazily adoring laughs into the crook of her neck while he begs her to keep talking about anything- everything.

PastryPrincess: I think about you whenever I watch Dragon’s Den, and whenever Pink Floyd comes on, when I see a video of pets reuniting with their owners, and so on.

That’s the moment that sets Harry over the edge. Makes him forget all about his bratty neighbour who mocks his TV shows, tells him to turn down his music, and has the audacity to say, “you can’t borrow a cat.”

Loverboy: Just an oversized t-shirt and some lacy red panties…

If playing along with her teasing means getting more insight into the mechanisms of her mind, Harry will say and do just about everything. He’d put a pair of those damn panties on if it made his girl happy.

Loverboy: You sure know how to make a man blush.

PastryPrincess: Send proof, or I won’t believe it.

She quips, and Harry swears each syllable is ticking like the hands of a clock, nearing twelve- a metronome carved of adoration counting down the minutes before Harry really says something he can’t take back. Instead, he’ll be cautious and dip a toe in the water of desire to get nearer.

Loverboy: You’ll have to come over and see for yourself.

And he’ll make sure that not only does his terrorising neighbour hear how good his girl makes him feel, but the entire neighbourhood, for that matter.

PastryPrincess: Drop the addy.

Perfect, maybe Harry could even let her know about his little plan, or vocal profession. Surely she would love to assist in anything that involved getting revenge on his neighbour, and hopefully, simultaneously, she’ll enjoy how he feels their chests pressed flush together, clashing along with their uneven breaths.

Loverboy: Gonna sweep me off my feet?

PastryPrincess: Well, now that you’ve figured out my plan, I’ll have to return to the drawing board.

The thought of meeting the mysterious man behind the screen- what he looks like, sounds like- is both terrifying and extremely enticing.

And as much as Y/n’s blood thickens with warm desire to minimise the gap with him, this middle ground offers hope without the possibility of disappointment upon meeting. Right now, in this limbo of anonymity and adoration, is the safest place to be.

Loverboy: I’d happily wait a lifetime.

Harry would. He thinks he would wait an eternity, and whatever comes after that. It feels as daunting as it does thrilling, like it could morph into something more, and he knows for certain that with each word, the branches of fondness begin to flower sweet summer fruit, skins hiding thick, gooey syrup akin to what Harry knows to be love.

PastryPrincess: Tryna make me blush, now?

Y/n’s skin feels like it’s been seared by an all-encompassing aura of adoration, like it’s too late to attempt defence, like it might burn into a deep glow of a feeling she hasn’t permitted herself to nurture for who knows how long.

Loverboy: Proof or it didn’t happen.

She thinks she might take a little leap of faith just this once. And maybe it will feel as euphoric as this moment right now, when she’s waltzing on the precipice of sleep and romance, ready to blend them into one slow dance of slumber.

Perhaps that feeling is what lets her guard down long enough for her fingers to whisper out her deepest secret and press send.

PastryPrincess: I think I’d like to meet you someday.

Harry’s heart jolts and thumps against his chest at her admission, relieved that he didn't have to be the first to say it, because it’s something he’s been wanting to blurt out since the very first time he stumbled across her livestream.

Loverboy: I’d like that, too.

He presses send with a haste that should invoke shame but only works to reassure the girl behind the screen, and a couple of metres away, and he has no clue how soothing his words are- how they warp her anxiety up in a blanket of reassurance and seem to be the final encouragement she needs to drift off into unconsciousness.

PastryPrincess: But for now, I’m losing the war on sleep and fear I must surrender.

Harry tries to reason with the disappointment that pangs at his insides, tries to convince himself that he also needs to get some rest, that he has an early meeting tomorrow, and his eyes are swollen and sinking lower by the second.

But he doesn't want to say goodbye- never does. Harry can only hope that she feels as reluctant, that it might pain her to say goodbye. And god, he hopes she falls asleep in anxious anticipation of speaking to him first thing after waking up.

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Loverboy: Sleep tight, princess.

PastryPrincess: See you in my dreams, loverboy.

Y/n pushes the tiny bubble of dread aside and focuses on letting her body tingle and flush with unabashed glee. Letting his words play on a loop, wishing she knew how he might sound saying them aloud, sinking into a wonderland where loverboy whispers sweet nothings atop the crown of her soft hair.

And, she’s selfishly plucked from that simplistic fantasy by the deviously sinister sound of static emitting from the walkie-talkie, soon followed by the sly whispers of her neighbour.

“Pspspsps.”

Harry must think she’s already asleep, or having another midnight snack where she turns on the unnecessarily bright white light and cares little if it reflects and beams up against his bedroom window, retorting, ‘close your blinds at night, then’, enough times for him to concede and do as she suggested.

It worked out better than he had believed it would, allowing Harry precious hours of sleep he had allowed the morning sun’s rays to steal, and now that he shuts the blinds, he doesn’t think he could ever go back.

After the very first time he tried out her suggestion, a ticklish bundle of excitement to share his newfound sleep-increaser with someone who knew his usual style of sleeping. And the only person he could tell was that snarky neighbour of his.

He almost told her on a couple of occasions, right before the sound of her scoffing, ‘I told you so’, shut him up on the spot.

So he’s here, trying to lure away his neighbours’ chunky ginger cat, to convince him to betray his very doting and beloved owner in favour of good head scratches and his secret stash of “kitty treats.”

“Pspspsps.”

Sudden static across the old-school device alerts Harry that he’s been caught in the act, again. What was that pseudo-grandma doing up at this late hour anyhow?

“Stop that right now. Over.”

She scolds, voice gravelly with sleep, and Harry’s heart betrays him with a sympathetic squeeze at the thought that he might have woken her up.

“No idea what you’re talking about. Over.”

His smile is so wide it surely hurts, and he stumbles out of the bathroom into the bedroom in lazy pursuit of his warm, welcoming mattress.

“You’re abusing walkie-talkie privileges. Over.”

When is he not? It took him less than a minute of incredulity to light up his gaze with delightful and devious ideas of how to get under his neighbour's skin without even needing to wait for her on the front step.

“Didn’t know there were rules. Over.” He waits to be reprimanded, and when the line is void of silence for long enough that Harry considers she might have disappeared, he tries again.

“Pspspsps.”

“Harry, I’m warning you. I’ll turn this thing off. Over.”

Yep. She’s still there, sleepy and disgruntled, but not enough to prevent her from demanding that he respect their most passive form of communication.

“Okay, okay! I’ll find another way… Over.”

That is not respecting the walkie-talkie rules- whatever they may be. Nor is it respecting the fact that Harry is overtly attempting to steal her cat, again.

“Get your own cat! Over.”

Sure, he could do that. But Harry really, really likes the chunky, fuzzy ginger boy who makes biscuits on his chest and once, even slept under the covers with him.

Harry considers starting up another useless argument, but tiredness looms with a harsh reminder that the meeting he’s been stressing about is first thing in the morning. So Harry chuckles under his breath and pompously convinces himself that he’s doing a kindness to his sleepy neighbour whilst switching off the light and slinking beneath the silky sheets.

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It’s not enough that Harry has already been shamefully sitting on his front steps for forty-five minutes, but the impending ridicule that is guaranteed to occur when his neighbour arrives home from work,

And, man, Harry has been having a rough day from the minute he realised he had forgotten to pick up more coffee beans and could no longer enjoy a morning cup before work. So, he rushed through his routine, forgot to put on his lucky ring, waited in line for far too long at the local cafe and was subsequently seconds away from being late for his meeting.

The meeting went well, thankfully, but less than five minutes later, Harry remembered that his perfectly constructed pasta salad was still on the kitchen counter, and he had no time to go out for lunch.

Surprisingly, the lack of lunch helped him get through his work with little distraction, and Harry actually got to leave earlier than most days. His mood on the mend, he sang along to his favourite playlist and took the scenic route home.

Humming a tune on his stroll up the driveway, Harry aimlessly searches his pockets for his keys. And then his bag, and then brief briefcase, then his limbs are bending and fumbling about in his car. Unsuccessful, still, he thinks he must have left his keys at the office and quickly calls his secretary. But she searches, and double-checks, and they’re nowhere to be found.

There’s a chance he left them at the coffee shop, or they fell on the sidewalk, or some other location, courtesy of Harry’s distraction. Either way, he’s locked out. And the locksmith is seemingly in no rush to come to his rescue.

Oh, and it’s definitely about to rain. Clouds as gloomy as Harry, it’s only about to worsen as his ears instinctively perk at the hum of his neighbour's car tauntingly pulling into her driveway. He keeps his head bowed and prays by some miracle that it will turn him invisible.

But he should know that Y/n expects to be intercepted by her neighbour during her attempts to enter her home unscathed, so much so that she feels an odd sense of confusion pricking at her brain, irked that something is amiss.

To rectify that tingling sensation, she strolls right over to the barrier that separates her from her jerk of a neighbour, and heartily chuckles, tilting her chin up with amusement. And Y/n left work later than usual today, so this can only mean one thing: Harry has locked himself out.

“Not in the mood.” Harry doesn’t lift his solemn gaze, muttering it out just enough for it to echo across the way.

“Aw, did poor baby Harry have a rough day at the office?” She mocks in a sugary sweet sing-song tone seeped in sympathetic pretence.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Harry’s left arm lifts and lazily waves her off, but Y/n only inches closer, resting her forearm atop the chest-high cobblestoned wall.

“Is everyone finally sick of you?”

“Shut it.” He snips through gritted teeth.

“Don’t think I will.” She condescends, “Not when you’re in such a splendid mood.”

“You’re getting off on this.”

Harry miserably ponders aloud, finally lifting his gloomy gaze to meet her own bright, glimmering one, and it instantly proves his suspicions correct.

Now, with his stare granting her full permission to really rub it in, the corner of Y/n’s lips wickedly widens, revving up to prove him mistaken, airily shrugging her shoulders and tilting her head to the side.

“Not like you could get me off any other way.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Grouchy and greatly frustrated, with an itch to release that upset, Harry doesn't know where the hell that came from. Neither does Y/n, and though it’s enough to snatch the breath right out of her chest, she quickly retorts.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I would even consider sleeping with you.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

He cooly trails off, and Y/n can do nothing to stop her forehead from sinking with flustered bewilderment. Why in God’s name did she decide to waste her time getting annoyed with her neighbour?

“How long until the locksmith gets here?”

“Supposed to be here already.” Harry’s brows mimic her frown, and his gaze pitifully sinks to avoid hers, which is now flickering with delight.

“Aw.” She coos, “Serves you right.”

“Do you always have to be such a dick?” He groans.

“Take a look in the mirror and say that again.”

“Point proven.” Harry notes matter-of-factly.

Y/n goes quiet, and both of them revel in the brief lapse in snarkiness, while she considers what she would normally do if a neighbour was locked outside, and it would almost always result in her offering them a place to wait it out.

But Harry isn’t like her other neighbours- or any neighbour ever, she thinks. And welcoming him into her home would only provide a larger platform and an array of new things for him to judge her for. And, he sucks.

“Well, I’d invite you inside to wait it out. But, I’m having a flashback to something similar happening to me last fall…” she ponders with fauxness, “And I seem to recall how you grinned and told me to ‘enjoy the cold, sweetheart.’” Her voice deepens and weakly exudes a British accent, “So, enjoy the rain, Styles.”

Barely finishing her words before turning to leave, Harry calls out with enough cockiness to warrant her turning around to scoff directly to his stupid, perfect, soft, flushed face.

“All I’m hearing is that you pay attention to what I have to say.”

“And every time, I kick myself for even bothering.” She sighs.

But even once she’s inside and has nothing left to do but relax, a nagging feeling similar to the one she felt arriving home is making it hard for her to do anything other than think about the miserable boy sitting out on the front porch.

And the annoying guilt will not subside no matter the number of times she reminds herself that Harry isn’t nice to her- ever- and he doesn’t deserve her kindness in a time of need. Then again, her conscience is whispering that she has done enough morally-grey things for the day, and shouldn’t want to repent any more than she already will.

So that’s how Y/n wound up storming down the garden towards the peach tree, snatching the nearest one from the branch with a harsh tug, stomping back into the house, past the kitchen, down the hallway, and straight out the front door in pursuit of the cobbled wall.

Harry is still where she left him, now scrolling aimlessly through his phone, but like a bat to a firefly, his face whips up to see what his- as he sees it- cruel neighbour wants now.

She raises her arm and draws attention to the big, juicy peach cradled in her palm. His eyes widen with hungry delight- one, because he has still yet to eat, and second, he swears those peaches are so good they must be laced with some sort of sorcery.

And for a moment, Harry wonders if his neighbour is truly nasty enough to come all the way over just to taunt him with something she knows he holds dear.

Instead, she shakes her wrist as an offering, gesturing for Harry to prepare to catch it, and once he understands and raises an open hand, she perfectly tosses the fruit across the yard, straight into his ridiculously large palm.

“Thanks.” His tone is as puzzled as he currently feels. What’s the catch? But Y/n only rolls her pretty eyes and prepares to head back inside, warning,

“Shut it.”

Back in the comfort of her humble abode, Y/n sprawls out on the sofa, putting on a rerun of The Last Airbender, draping the fluffiest yellow blanket on earth around her relaxed limbs, she pulls out her phone and heads straight for her chat with loverboy, finally able to continue the conversation after a fast-paced day.

PastryPrincess: How was your day, lovely?

Loverboy: A goddamn disaster.

He replies with such haste that a jolt of fondness lurches in her chest at the foreign concept of him sitting on the other end of the line, waiting in anticipation for her the same way she does with him.

But she can’t stop the frown that scrunches her brows at the content of his message.

PastryPrincess: Grandma at it again?

Loverboy: Isn't she always?

Loverboy: And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

It’s a strange sensation when Y/n’s stomach starts to twist at the thought of her best boy having a bad day. It’s even stranger when she starts to wish she could take that strain and carry it herself.

PastryPrincess: Wanna talk about it?

Loverboy: I’m already feeling better just talking to you.

On the top step, Harry smiles down at his phone as he presses send- he indeed feels ten times lighter now that he gets to talk to his girl.

PastryPrincess: Do you say that to all of your camgirls?

Loverboy: Only my favourite.

Favourite and only camgirl. Favourite and only woman outside of his family who treats him with unabashed tenderness.

PastryPrincess: Well, I wish I were there to help get rid of that bad mood for good.

Harry’s mind reels with the need to know what her definition of ‘helping’ is, from whispering reassurances to soft caresses to the way his stomach would clench as her lips leave sloppy kisses along his abdomen. He has to know.

Loverboy: Is that so?

Loverboy: Is this before or after you fight my neighbour?

PastryPrincess: Before. But you have to vouch for me when the courts accuse me of elder abuse.

And Harry chuckles aloud, because how much sweeter and more valiant can his online girl be? Especially when she’s offering to beat up an elderly woman in his honour.

Loverboy: Lol, she’s not actually a geriatric, you’ll be in the clear.

Loverboy: especially after I testify in your favour.

Harry hates to admit that he’s strolling down a hill towards liking this mysterious girl so much that he actually would cover for her criminal activities.

PastryPrincess: Oh, well, maybe she’s secretly into you?

PastryPrincess: After I get on my knees and thank you for getting me off the hook.

Loverboy: Trust me, she’d rather die than get near me.

Loverboy: That’s after I get on my knees and thank you for dealing with my opp.

Y/n hasn’t been this curious about well, anything, in a good while, there has to be a reason that his neighbour is treating him so unfairly… whatever she may be doing. If he’s as nice to the person next door as he is to her, this woman has to be off her rocker.

There’s always a chance that Harry isn’t as sweet as he might want her to believe, but that thought would lead to spiralling, withdrawal, and a whole bunch of other complications that Y/n refuses to deal with until proven wrong. She’s determined to embrace optimism for once.

PastryPrincess: Oh please, surely she doesn’t despise you that much?

Loverboy: I despise her, though.

Loverboy: Besides, you don’t even know if I find her attractive.

Well, you’ve got to be a ridiculously temperamental person if your neighbour hates you. Though, Y/n knows that first-hand, and it’s in moments like these that she remembers the jerk living next door. And it makes her reflect on her own situation, using Loverboy as a mirror to self-analyse her relationship with Harry.

PastryPrincess: … Do you?

Loverboy: Incredibly.

If Y/n can look past Harry’s irritating personality for long enough, she might actually acknowledge that he is indeed a beyond good-looking guy. He’s exactly what she goes for.

Loverboy: But not enough to look past how frustrated she makes me.

And then Loverboy puts it perfectly, the likelihood of her looking past Harry’s downfalls grows smaller with the changing seasons.

PastryPrincess: I get it. I have my own attractive enemy. And he makes it hard to resist an argument.

Harry’s been thinking back to last week's livestream, about how she mentioned arguing with someone, and still, he cannot comprehend what she could have done to make a person treat her that way. However, it does foster feelings of excitement at the idea of such a kind, polite person having a spicy side.

Loverboy: Feisty girl, huh?

PastryPrincess: I’m starting to think you’re just as feisty.

Loverboy: Maybe.

Loverboy: And maybe that makes us the perfect match.

Harry had settled on that conclusion after the first week of talking to her one-on-one. He’s about to wonder about the possibility of her agreement, but she beats him to it.

PastryPrincess: I already thought we were.

Loverboy: Don’t make me blush.

PastryPrincess: My new life goal is to see that in person.

Blushing pink face staring down at the phone screen, Harry takes another leap that he himself isn’t certain how to feel about.

Loverboy: I can make that happen.

PastryPrincess: I’m getting shy.

Loverboy: You? Shy?

Loverboy: Now I need to see that.

He wants to. He really wants to. But that want is still shadowed by too much doubt and scepticism to fully commit to seeing her in person. The last thing Harry thinks he should do is jump the gun, or the shark, or whatever would happen if he didn’t live up to her expectations.

PastryPrincess: Soon.

Perfect. Open-ended and enough to amplify the overwhelming anticipation of someday having the chance to see her face, to confirm how soft her skin is with tender touches, to simply be in her presence.

Loverboy: Looking forward to it.

PastryPrincess: You seriously are too sweet for this world.

Loverboy: Only when it comes to you.

That’s partially true- Harry is rather pleasant to almost everyone, even those who are not his usual cup of tea- there’s just something about his sadistic neighbour that makes it hard for him to keep a perfect streak of kindness.

And then, finally, Harry hears the distant rumbles of a van nearing his house, and when he stands to get a better look, the vibrant yellow logo stamped across the van confirms that the locksmith has arrived.

His shoulders shrink back into a stance of relief, but attempts to tense back up when he realises that he’ll have to send sorrowful departures to his girl. Always harbours a smidge of doubt that it might be the last time they talk.

Loverboy: Gotta go sort some things out. Chat soon, sweetheart?

Y/n uses his message as a sign to get up and start prepping some supper before her stomach starts singing out with hunger. But she too fears that each goodbye might be the last, and she’s guaranteed to ruminate for far too long if she doesn’t verbalise some reassurance.

PastryPrincess: Not soon enough.

🍑

Harry is humming a chipper tune as his lanky legs cheerfully stroll up the driveway, hot pink cardboard box tucked neatly in the crevice of his left arm. His cheeky style only widens when his right fist comes into contact with the maplewood door that hides what Harry imagines to be a gothic cave with viscous bats flying in every direction.

“Knockity knock!” He loudly and gleefully sings, knuckles tapping a happy little tune.

There’s an expected pause, but Harry knows she’s only been home long enough to discard her work items and if swift, a trip to the kitchen to unpack that massive paper bag filled to the brim with groceries.

And he’s spot on, which he thinks is a special talent of his when it comes to his bratty neighbour, because the door swings open with sheer aggression, exposing a very disgruntled and frowning Y/n.

She keeps the door only partly ajar in sheer suspicion of what absurd reason Harry might have for showing up on her doorstep.

“Even your knocks are annoying.”

“Nice to see you too, Sweetheart.” He jovially scolds.

“What do you want this time?”

There’s always something Harry needs- whether it be ingredients he forgot to replace, or questions about the ins and outs of the neighbourhood, as if she even interacts with people on purpose, or some other certainly malicious ploy to make her life that much more trialsome.

“It’s more like what you might want from me.”

“Spit it out, then.” Her eyes throb from how sarcastically they roll.

“A fancy little package arrived at my doorstep today.” Harry gears up to start a prolonged explanation,

“Thought it might be my new mop, but a box that small certainly couldn’t contain one.”

He chuckles as if Einstein himself could never be as clever as Harry himself. His neighbour groans with impatience, and Harry isn’t sure whether he finds it rewarding because it means his long-winded story is working, or if it has something to do with the way her glossy berry-stained lips part as if inviting his tongue to slip between the wishing well of her pillowy lips.

Either way, he revels in the way his guts rumble and clash against one another, needily seeking frictions of satisfaction, excitement, and anticipation, magnets merely seeking to mould together into a pulsing orb that can only be satiated by the reward Harry seeks out above all: attention from his neighbour.

And honestly, he can guarantee that attention is exactly what he’s about to receive – whether it will be positive is as likely as Harry going to space; highly unlikely. So, he braces himself for shitty impact and gets to the juicy part of his little tale.

“After checking the label, I couldn’t recall an order from such a… salacious company.”

Oh. That’s what he’s talking about. Oh, God. Y/n’s heart begins to shrivel as she remembers the cute lavender coloured sex toy she had ordered a couple of days ago, as Harry cruelly feigns shock and persists.

“And then… I looked at the order sticker and whaddaya know, it was a delivery for my dear, inconsiderate neighbour.” He theatrically gasps at his discovery.

Y/n is now faced with two options: spew a sharp string of scolding insults – perhaps throw in a light slap- or, simply play it cool. Either way she looks at it, he has a good idea of the contents of that vibrant box, and denying it would only drag this horrendous teasing on longer.

She chooses a trusty third option – diversion.

“Ordered a fancy new mop, did you?”

“Yes, and that is neither your business nor relevant to the matter at hand.”

Harry straightens his posture with a soft, sulky pout, and Y/n cannot begin to fathom how she looked over the possible consequences of taking advantage of having a personal mailman. Now he knows that she enjoys, well, sex toys.

“I get it. You have an idea about what’s in the box. What’s your plan now?”

“I’m here to offer a trade.”

He barely lets her finish. Acting like he was waiting for an opportunity to bargain with her over something he must’ve been eyeing mischievously for long enough to jump at the slightest chance to punce.

“Pretty sure withholding mail is a criminal offence.” She scowls.

“Don’t care.” He shrugs. “I’ll give it over…” a breath-hitching pause, “In exchange for a handful of peaches.”

“The peaches again?” She whines out, but a wave of sharp relief escapes her chest at the chance to rectify this nightmarish situation swiftly. “Are they that good that we have to spend the entire summer arguing over it?”

“Yes. To both of those things.”

He shrugs, shifting the villainous package in his arm, and Y/n is about to indulge in a thought of how appealing his taut arms look wrapped around a container hiding such a naughty toy, when Harry provides yet another reason to see him as satans reincarnation,

“Unless you decide to be more neighbourly and share with me.”

Yeah, right. Harry already knows Y/n is well-liked by all of their neighbours, and he has to assume that to mean she must be at least semi-nice.

“I am very neighbourly.” She huffs, arms instinctively crossing protectively across her chest.

“Can’t wait to experience that first hand.” He would. Very much. It sure would make his life that much easier.

“You won’t if you keep acting like a child.” She bursts his delusional bubble.

“Peaches or no peaches?”

“Fucking fine.”

Scoffing but growing more sour by the minute, Y/n feels her choices have dwindled to a single option, and stubborn pride won't get her out of this cringeworthy situation any time soon.

She stroppily turns on her heels and disappears into the house. With the door wider than before, Harry finally gets a look into the ‘dungeon’ that houses a certified demon. And it’s… nice. Really nice, actually.

With cosy shades of beige and brown, rustic hardwood furniture and vibrant accents of a shade of green that he recognises when looking in a mirror.

There are cute, but weird figurines and artwork scattered on shelves and side tables, poised so perfectly as if she spent hours ensuring they look like they were meant to be there all along.

In short, his neighbour definitely isn't dwelling in a dank cave, and, likely, doesn't sleep in a coffin or bathe in her victims' blood as Harry had always presumed. Still, she must be a sly succubus preying on her neighbours, feigning a sweet persona, and evidently, only shows her true colours in the presence of her chosen enemy.

Well, if Harry can’t be her friend, at least she deems him special enough to avoid sugarcoating their interactions- special enough to take minutes out of her days to mischievously scheme ways in which she can disrupt his routine.

And if it weren't such an inconvenience, Harry might even comment Y/n on her creativity, would tell her that he lives for the challenges she casts his way, that she ups his game, and how this little game of theirs has sparked an excitement within that seems to dwindle with each gruelling day he chooses to spend stressing over a job that he neither likes nor inspires his thoughts and ideas.

And then she comes back into his line of vision, her scowl still so harsh and threatening even with a hearty distance, like her shimmering squinted eyes are expelling a vibrant current of electric disdain and aims it straight for Harry’s heart.

This trade-off is certainly the fiery spark setting off an explosion of the powder keg of devious, calculated counterattacks that will cover this summer in ashy, cunning revenge.

Harry’s stomach starts to float fearfully up in search of his throat, but when Y/n begrudgingly reaches him, dainty wonven basked cradling a bushel of big, juicy peaches, the foreboding consequences to follow are a mere blip on his radar.

Arm almost shamefully extending Harry the offer, Y/n feels like her self-respect is shoved in that basket, slotted between two juicy peaches and about to be handed off to someone who will surely revel in not only her surrender, but the rewarding taste of fruit that he had played no part in growing and taking care of.

But he holds her secret hostage, and the idea of Harry ransoming her personal property for any longer is guaranteed to cause Y/n more harm than conceding a handful of her summer harvest. He could have the whole damn tree for all she cares, as long as it puts an end to this crisis.

“Here. Is this enough to satisfy you?”

“As much as you possibly could.”

Harry reaches out his free hand and wraps his fingers around the thin handle with a greedy grasp, and he can feel the reluctant tension as his neighbour weakly resists the handover.

“I’d think twice before spewing such nonsense.” She chides, and it feels personal.

“Oh, so you can be nice… to some people.”

Harry keeps his promise and offers up the little box that has single-handedly caused enough shame to keep Y/n huddled up in her room, hidden under her bed sheets, curtains shut until further notice.

“Literally everyone but you.”

His neighbour snatches the box with the reflex skills of a frog's tongue, and Harry chuckles heartily.

“That hurts my feelings. And here I am being such a helpful neighbour, delivering your package straight to your front door.”

“You’re a saint. Thanks for this complete inconvenience.”

With the box back in her possession, Y/n’s anxious shame evaporates and turns to steamy displeasure, brows sunken and scornful. Harry feels nothing but the high of another successful inconvenience.

And now that he’s privy to how she chooses to spend her downtime, he has enough ammunition to last well past the festive season.

“Hey, if it weren’t for me, who knows how you’d be spending your Friday nights.”

The wicked grin that widens gleefully at the baffled parting of his neighbour's glossy lips and widened doe eyes is sadistic and begs the question, how much does Harry truly know?

“Get fucked.” Her body writhes, voice rising an octave with venomous suspicion.

“No trouble there, sweetheart.”

Harry chuckles with a casual shrug, and Y/n resists the urge to snatch the peaches back and slam the door in his face, too fixated on the cryptic prediction of what her Friday evenings might entail.

He’s halfway down the driveway when she snaps out of her stewing uncertainty for just long enough to call out a final demand- well, final for the time being.

“I want the basket back!”

Pointed stare sending vengeful lasers at its target, his middle back, before pulling the door

shut with unnecessary strength, a smidge of satisfaction stirring at the resulting slam.

Sock-clad feet stomping up the slippery hardwood staircase, Y/n heads straight for her bedroom, tossing the mocking pink package across the carpet with shameful spite and dramatically flopping face-first onto the neatly made bed.

Forehead pressed woefully into the sheets, her arm flails around in search of her phone, and when she finally retrieves it, she shifts her body sideways and unlocks the adorable lock screen of her ‘highly favourable’ kitty, heading straight for the app she finds herself checking more and more these days.

Clicking on the familiar black and white icon, the chat opens, and her thumb clumsily types out a message.

PastyPrincess: It’s official. I have a true enemy.

Loverboy: Welcome to the club, angel. I’ll take good care, ‘nd show you the ropes.

🍑

[Eep! Hope you like it! Gimme more suggestions of what you'd like to see in part three!]

Taglist: @gem1712 @mellamolayla @ellastyles13 @teenwolf9-1-1lover @cherreigh @mads3502 @lizsogolden @natyk @mothersversiononly @hannah9921 @harryswifeyyyy @rpwprpwprpwprw @cowboylikeliv @angeldavis777 @daphnesutton @ellamariee @magicalmorg @sunflowervol2007 @stylesftcher @iguessyourejustwhatineeded @mema10 @maddiesalvatore1839 @aoxetic @this-is-tiny-mia @gem1712 @pops234

#messyemmy talks 🐈‍⬛

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messyemmy · 2 days ago

Text

Bad Neighbours: Two. (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.

Part One | Other Writing

🍑

It’s nearing midnight when Y/n’s eyes can no longer stand the sleepy stinging, and her eyelids droop in a desperate bid to embrace slumber.

And her body has been begging for sleep for at least an hour, but it simply pales in comparison to what she dismisses it for: clutching her phone tight in her palm, heart eyes beaming at the screen, desperately waiting for the next buzz to indicate loverboy has sent a message.

When he does respond, it’s so worth it, and it proudly reinforces her determined artillery to challenge the battle of slumber further- to defy it until loverboy himself indicates departure.

And he’s leaving very little chance for her to change her mind; his responses are almost instant, and she melts into the fantasy of his gaze glued to the screen, similar to her own.

Loverboy: I saw a golden retriever on my way to work today.

Loverboy: Made me think of you.

Y/n’s legs excitedly curl into her side, toes wiggling with glee. She can’t type fast enough- and definitely can’t do it without correcting several errors.

PastryPrincess: You think about me, do you?

Loverboy: Stop being silly.

Loverboy: I think about you all the time.

And her skin is searing beneath the silky sheets, exhaustion and endearment swirling together into an uncomfortable current that tingles up the marrow of her bones.

PastryPrincess: Well, loverboy, that sentiment is mutual.

Loverboy: What do you think about?

PastryPrincess: Thinkin’ bout what you might be wearing right now, aha.

PastryPrincess: I think about you whenever I watch Dragon’s Den, and whenever Pink Floyd comes on, when I see a video of pets reuniting with their owners, and so on.

Loverboy: Just an oversized t-shirt and some lacy red panties…

Loverboy: You sure know how to make a man blush.

PastryPrincess: Send proof, or I won’t believe it.

Loverboy: You’ll have to come over and see for yourself.

And he’ll make sure that not only does his terrorising neighbour hear how good his girl makes him feel, but the entire neighbourhood, for that matter.

PastryPrincess: Drop the addy.

Loverboy: Gonna sweep me off my feet?

PastryPrincess: Well, now that you’ve figured out my plan, I’ll have to return to the drawing board.

The thought of meeting the mysterious man behind the screen- what he looks like, sounds like- is both terrifying and extremely enticing.

Loverboy: I’d happily wait a lifetime.

Harry would. He thinks he would wait an eternity, and whatever comes after that. It feels as daunting as it does thrilling, like it could morph into something more, and he knows for certain that with each word, the branches of fondness begin to flower sweet summer fruit, fuzzy skins hiding thick, gooey syrup akin to what Harry knows to be love.

PastryPrincess: Tryna make me blush, now?

Loverboy: Proof or it didn’t happen.

Perhaps that feeling is what lets her guard down long enough for her fingers to whisper out her deepest secret and press send.

PastryPrincess: I think I’d like to meet you someday.

Loverboy: I’d like that, too.

He presses send with a haste that should invoke shame but only works to reassure the girl behind the screen- and a couple of metres away- he has no clue how soothing his words are- how they warp her anxiety up in a blanket of reassurance and seem to be the final encouragement she needs to drift off into unconsciousness.

PastryPrincess: But for now, I’m losing the war on sleep and fear I must surrender.

But he doesn't want to say goodbye- never does. Harry can only hope that she feels as reluctant, that it might pain her to part ways. And god, he hopes she falls asleep in anxious anticipation of speaking to him first thing after waking up.

Loverboy: Sleep tight, princess.

PastryPrincess: I'll see you in my dreams, loverboy.

And, she’s selfishly plucked from that simplistic fantasy by the deviously sinister sound of static emitting from the walkie-talkie, soon followed by the sly whispers of her neighbour.

“Pspspsps.”

It worked out better than he had believed it would, allowing Harry precious hours of sleep he had permitted the morning sun’s rays to steal, and now that he shuts the blinds, he doesn’t think he could ever go back.

He almost told her on a couple of occasions, right before the sound of her scoffing, ‘I told you so’, shut him up on the spot.

So here is, trying to lure away his neighbours’ chunky ginger cat, to convince the little guy to betray his very doting and beloved owner in favour of good head scratches and his secret stash of “kitty treats.”

“Pspspsps.”

Sudden static across the old-school device alerts Harry that he’s been caught in the act, again. What was that pseudo-grandma doing up at this late hour anyhow?

“Stop that right now. Over.”

She scolds, voice gravelly with sleep, and Harry’s heart betrays him with a sympathetic squeeze at the thought that he might have woken her up.

“No idea what you’re talking about. Over.”

His smile is so wide it surely hurts, and he stumbles out of the bathroom into the bedroom in lazy pursuit of his warm, welcoming mattress.

“You’re abusing walkie-talkie privileges. Over.”

“Didn’t know there were rules. Over.”

He waits to be reprimanded, and when the line is void of silence for long enough that Harry considers she might have disappeared, he tries again.

“Pspspsps.”

“Harry, I’m warning you. I’ll turn this thing off. Over.”

Yep. She’s still there, sleepy and disgruntled, but not enough to prevent her from demanding that he respect their most passive form of communication.

“Okay, okay! I’ll find another way… Over.”

That is not respecting the walkie-talkie rules... Whatever they may be. Nor is it acknowledging the ridiculous fact that Harry is overtly attempting to steal her fur baby, again.

“Get your own cat! Over.”

Sure, he could do that. But Harry really, really likes the chunky, fluffy ginger boy who makes biscuits on his chest and once, even slept under the covers with him.

He considers starting up another useless argument, but tiredness looms with a harsh reminder that the meeting he’s been stressing about is first thing in the morning.

So Harry chuckles under his breath and pompously convinces himself that he’s doing a kindness to his sleepy neighbour whilst switching off the light and slinking beneath the silky sheets.

🍑

And, man, Harry has been having a rough day from the minute he realised he had forgotten to pick up more coffee beans and could no longer enjoy a morning cup before work.

So, he rushed through his routine, forgot to put on his lucky ring, waited in line for far too long at the local cafe and was subsequently seconds away from being late for his meeting.

Surprisingly, the lack of lunch helped him get through his work with little distraction, and he actually got to leave earlier than most days. Mood on the mend, he sang along to his favourite playlist and took the scenic route home.

Humming a tune on his stroll up the driveway, Harry aimlessly searches his pockets for his keys.

And then his bag, and then his briefcase, and then his limbs are bending and fumbling about in his car.

Still unsuccessful, he thinks he must have left them at the office and quickly calls his secretary. But she searches, and double-checks, and they’re nowhere to be found.

She's home later than usual, and on the odd occasion that that happens, Harry has never waited around for her arrival. This can only mean one thing: Harry has locked himself out.

“Not in the mood.” Harry doesn’t lift his solemn gaze, muttering it out just enough for it to echo across the way.

“Aw, did poor baby Harry have a rough day at the office?” She mocks in a sugary sweet sing-song tone seeped in sympathetic pretence.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Harry’s left arm lifts and lazily waves her off, but Y/n only inches closer, resting her forearm atop the chest-high cobblestoned wall.

“Is everyone finally sick of you?”

“Shut it.” He snips through gritted teeth.

“Don’t think I will.” She condescends, “Not when you’re in such a splendid mood.”

Finally lifting his gloomy gaze to meet her own bright, glimmering one, and it instantly proves his suspicions correct as he miserably and bewildedly remarks,

“You’re getting off on this.”

Now, with his stare granting her full permission to really rub it in, the corner of Y/n’s lips wickedly widen, revving up to prove him mistaken, airily shrugging her shoulders and tilting her head to the side.

“Not like you could get me off any other way.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I would even consider sleeping with you.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

He cooly trails off, and Y/n can do nothing to stop her forehead from sinking with flustered bewilderment. Why in God’s name did she decide to waste her time getting annoyed with her neighbour?

“How long until the locksmith gets here?”

“Supposed to be here already.” His brows mimic her frown, and his gaze pitifully sinks to avoid hers, which is now flickering with delight.

“Aw.” She coos, “Serves you right.”

“Do you always have to be such a dick?” He groans.

“Take a look in the mirror and say that again.”

“Point proven.” Harry notes matter-of-factly.

Y/n goes quiet, and both of them revel in the brief lapse in snarkiness, while she considers what she would normally do if a neighbour was locked outside.

And it would almost always result in her offering them a place to wait it out.

“Well, I’d invite you inside to wait it out. But, I’m having a flashback to something similar happening to me last fall…” she ponders with fauxness, voice deepening and weakly exuding a British accent, “And I seem to recall how you grinned and told me to ‘enjoy the cold, sweetheart.’ So, enjoy the rain, Styles.”

Barely finishing her words before turning to leave, Harry calls out with enough cockiness to warrant her turning around to scoff directly to his stupid, perfect, soft, flushed face.

“All I’m hearing is that you pay attention to what I have to say.”

“And every time, I kick myself for even bothering.” She sighs.

And the annoying guilt will not subside no matter the number of times she reminds herself that Harry isn’t nice to her- ever- and he doesn’t deserve her kindness in a time of need.

Then again, her conscience is whispering that she has done enough morally-grey things for the day, and she really can't afford to add another repentance to the list.

So that’s how Y/n winds up storming down the garden towards the peach tree, snatching the nearest one from the branch with a harsh tug, stomping back into the house, past the kitchen, down the hallway, and straight out the front door in pursuit of the cobbled wall.

Harry is still where she left him, now scrolling aimlessly through his phone, but like a bat to a firefly, his face whips up to see what his cruel neighbour wants now.

She raises her arm and draws attention to the big, juicy peach cradled in her palm. His eyes widen with hungry delight- one, because he has still yet to eat, and second, because Harry swears those peaches are so good they must be laced with some sort of sorcery.

And for a moment, he wonders if his neighbour is truly nasty enough to come all the way over just to taunt him with something she knows he holds dear.

“Thanks.” His tone is as puzzled as he currently feels. What’s the catch? But Y/n only rolls her pretty eyes and prepares to head back inside, warning,

“Shut it.”

PastryPrincess: How was your day, lovely?

Loverboy: A goddamn disaster.

But she can’t stop the frown that scrunches her brows at the content of his message.

PastryPrincess: Grandma at it again?

Loverboy: Isn't she always?

Loverboy: And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

PastryPrincess: Wanna talk about it?

Loverboy: I’m already feeling better just talking to you.

On the top step, Harry smiles down at his phone as he presses send- he indeed feels ten times lighter now that he gets to talk to his girl.

PastryPrincess: Do you say that to all of your camgirls?

Loverboy: Only my favourite.

Favourite and only camgirl. Favourite and only woman outside of his family who treats him with unabashed tenderness.

PastryPrincess: Well, I wish I were there to help get rid of that bad mood for good.

Loverboy: Is that so?

Loverboy: Is this before or after you fight my neighbour?

PastryPrincess: Before. But you have to vouch for me when the courts accuse me of elder abuse.

And Harry chuckles aloud, because how much sweeter and more valiant can his online girl be? Especially when she’s offering to beat up an elderly woman in his honour.

Loverboy: Lol, she’s not actually a geriatric, you’ll be in the clear.

Loverboy: especially after I testify in your favour.

Harry hates to admit that he’s strolling down a hill towards liking this mysterious girl so much that he actually would cover for her criminal activities.

PastryPrincess: Oh. Well, maybe she’s secretly into you?

PastryPrincess: After I get on my knees and thank you for getting me off the hook.

Loverboy: Trust me, she’d rather die than get near me.

Loverboy: That’s after I get on my knees and thank you for dealing with my opp.

PastryPrincess: Oh please, surely she doesn’t despise you that much?

Loverboy: I despise her, though.

Loverboy: Besides, you don’t even know if I find her attractive.

And it makes her reflect on her own situation, using Loverboy as a mirror to self-analyse her relationship with Harry.

PastryPrincess: …Do you?

Loverboy: Incredibly.

If Y/n can ignore Harry’s irritating personality for long enough, she might actually acknowledge that he is indeed a beyond good-looking guy. He’s exactly what she goes for.

Loverboy: But not enough to look past how frustrated she makes me.

And then Loverboy puts it perfectly, the likelihood of her looking past Harry’s downfalls grows smaller with the changing seasons.

PastryPrincess: I get it. I have my own attractive enemy. And he makes it hard to resist an argument.

Loverboy: Feisty girl, huh?

PastryPrincess: I’m starting to think you’re just as feisty.

Loverboy: Maybe.

Loverboy: And maybe that makes us the perfect match.

Harry had settled on that conclusion after the first week of talking to her one-on-one. He’s about to wonder about the possibility of her agreement, but she beats him to it.

PastryPrincess: I already thought we were.

Loverboy: Don’t make me blush.

PastryPrincess: My new life goal is to see that in person.

Blushing pink face staring down at the phone screen, Harry takes another leap that he himself isn’t certain how to feel about.

Loverboy: I can make that happen.

PastryPrincess: I’m getting shy.

Loverboy: You? Shy?

Loverboy: Now I need to see that.

PastryPrincess: Soon.

Loverboy: Looking forward to it.

PastryPrincess: You seriously are too sweet for this world.

Loverboy: Only when it comes to you.

Loverboy: Gotta go sort some things out. Chat soon, sweetheart?

PastryPrincess: Not soon enough.

🍑

Harry is humming a chipper tune as his lanky legs cheerfully stroll up the driveway, hot pink cardboard box tucked neatly in the crevice of his left arm. His cheeky smile only widens when his right fist comes into contact with the maplewood door that hides what Harry imagines to be a gothic cave with viscous bats flying in every direction.

“Knockity knock!” He loudly and gleefully sings, knuckles tapping a happy little tune.

And Ha spot on, which he thinks is a special talent of his when it comes to his bratty neighbour, because the door swings open with sheer aggression, exposing a very disgruntled and frowning Y/n.

She keeps the door only partly ajar in sheer suspicion of what absurd reason Harry might have for showing up on her doorstep.

“Even your knocks are annoying.”

“Nice to see you too, Sweetheart.” He jovially scolds.

“What do you want this time?”

“It’s more like what you might want from me.”

“Spit it out, then.” Her eyes throb from how sarcastically they roll.

“A fancy little package arrived at my doorstep today.” Harry gears up to start a prolonged explanation,

“Thought it might be my new mop, but a box that small certainly couldn’t contain one.”

He chuckles as if Einstein himself could never be as clever as he. Neighbour groaning with impatience, Harry isn’t sure whether he finds it rewarding because it means his long-winded story is working, or if it has something to do with the way her glossy berry-stained lips part as if inviting his tongue to slot between the wishing well of her pillowy lips.

And honestly, he can guarantee that attention is exactly what he’s about to receive – whether it will be positive is as likely as Harry going to space; not great odds. So, he braces himself for shitty impact and gets to the juicy part of his little tale.

“After checking the label, I couldn’t recall an order from such a… salacious company.”

“And then… I looked at the order sticker and whaddaya know, it was a delivery for my dear, inconsiderate neighbour.” He theatrically gasps at his discovery.

She chooses a trusty third option – diversion.

“Ordered a fancy new mop, did you?”

“Yes, and that is neither your business nor relevant to the matter at hand.”

“I get it. You have an idea about what’s in the box. What’s your plan now?”

“I’m here to offer a trade.”

He barely lets her finish. Acting like he was waiting for an opportunity to bargain with her over an item he must’ve been eyeing mischievously for long enough to jump at the slightest chance to punce.

“Pretty sure withholding mail is a criminal offence.” She scowls.

“Don’t care.” He shrugs. “I’ll give it over…” a breath-hitching pause, “In exchange for a handful of peaches.”

“Yes. To both of those things.”

“Unless you decide to be more neighbourly and share with me.”

Yeah, right. Harry already knows Y/n is well-liked by all of their neighbours, and he has to assume that to mean she must be at least semi-nice.

“I am very neighbourly.” She huffs, arms instinctively crossing protectively across her chest.

“Can’t wait to experience that first hand.” He would. Very much. It sure would make his life that much easier.

“You won’t if you keep acting like a child.” She bursts his delusional bubble.

“Peaches or no peaches?”

“Fucking fine.”

Scoffing but growing more sour by the minute, Y/n feels her choices have dwindled to a single option, and stubborn pride won't get her out of this cringeworthy situation any time soon.

With cosy shades of beige and brown, rustic hardwood furniture and vibrant accents of a shade of green that he recognises when looking in a mirror.

There are cute, but weird figurines and artwork scattered on shelves and side tables, poised so perfectly as if she spent hours ensuring they look like they were meant to be there all along.

And if it weren't such an inconvenience, Harry might even commend Y/n on her creativity, would tell her that he lives for the challenges she casts his way, that she ups his game, and how this little game of theirs has sparked an excitement within that seems to dwindle with each gruelling day he chooses to spend stressing over a job that he neither likes nor inspires his thoughts and ideas.

This trade-off is certainly the fiery spark setting off an explosion of the powder keg of devious, calculated counterattacks that will cover this summer in ashy, cunning revenge.

Arm almost shamefully extending Harry the offer, Y/n feels like her self-respect is shoved in that basket, slotted between a bunch of juicy peaches, about to be handed off to someone who will surely revel in not only her surrender, but the rewarding taste of fruit that he had played no part in growing and taking care of.

“Here. Is this enough to satisfy you?”

“As much as you possibly could.”

Harry reaches out his free hand and wraps his fingers around the thin handle with a greedy grasp, and he can feel the reluctant tension as his neighbour weakly resists the handover.

“I’d think twice before spewing such nonsense.” She chides, and it feels personal.

“Oh, so you can be nice… to some people.”

Harry keeps his promise and offers up the little box that has single-handedly caused enough shame to keep Y/n huddled up in her room, hidden under her bed sheets, curtains shut until further notice.

“Literally everyone but you.”

His neighbour snatches the box with the reflex skills of a frog's tongue, and Harry chuckles heartily.

“That hurts my feelings. And here I am being such a helpful neighbour, delivering your package straight to your front door.”

“You’re a saint. Thanks for this complete inconvenience.”

With the box back in her possession, Y/n’s anxious shame evaporates and turns to steamy displeasure, brows sunken and scornful. Harry feels nothing but the high of another successful inconvenience.

And now that he’s privy to how she chooses to spend her downtime, he has enough ammunition to last well past the festive season.

“Hey, if it weren’t for me, who knows how you’d be spending your Friday nights.”

The wicked grin that stretches gleefully at the baffled parting of his neighbour's glossy lips and widened doe eyes is sadistic and begs the question, how much does Harry truly know?

“Get fucked.” Her body writhes, voice rising an octave with venomous suspicion.

“No trouble there, sweetheart.”

Harry chuckles with a casual shrug, and Y/n resists the urge to snatch the peaches back and slam the door in his face, too fixated on the cryptic prediction of what her Friday evenings might entail.

He’s halfway down the driveway when she snaps out of her stewing uncertainty for just long enough to call out a final demand- well, final for the time being.

“I want the basket back!”

Pointed stare sending vengeful lasers at its target, his middle back, before pulling the door shut with unnecessary strength, a smidge of satisfaction stirring at the resulting slam.

Clicking on the familiar black and white icon, the chat opens, and her thumb clumsily types out a message.

PastyPrincess: It’s official. I have a true enemy.

Loverboy: Welcome to the club, angel. I’ll take good care, ‘nd show you the ropes.

🍑

[Eep! Hope you like it! Gimme more suggestions of what you'd like to see in part three!]

132 notes · View notes

messyemmy · 5 days ago

Note

hey love, do you have a masterlist ? i just stumbled upon grapejuice and it was amazing !! i’d love to read more of your writings ♥️

MESSYEMMY'S MASTERLIST

Hi my darling! Thank you so much! I'm also gonna link all of the Harry writing I published back on my old account 💞

Masterlist (2015 - ).

🤭🍒 newest to oldest 🐞🌻

smut [💋] fluff [🌷] angst [❤️‍🔥] mix [🫧]

[Other Masterlists] Grapejuice 🍷 Dad!Harry 🧸 Trophy Series 🏆Blurbs 🍉

✨Series:

Grapejuice - Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four (ongoing.) 🍷

Extras: Little Angel-Only Freak (Halloween) / Green-eyed Monster (Prompts)🍷

In which Harry is Y/n's younger brother's best friend and she refuses to see him as anything other than a child.

Unrequited Love - Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four (fin.) ❤️‍🔥

In which Y/n has been in love with Harry for as long as she can remember- he just happens to be thicker than a batter of pancakes.

✨One Shots:

Baby Fever [Dad!harry] 🌷

In which Harry really wants to start a family.

Red Herring ❤️‍🔥

In which Harry is an extremely petty assassin.

Worst Wingman 🫧

In which Harry seems to love sabotaging dates.

Newborns [Dad!harry] 🌷

In which Harry has underestimated how much his life is about to change.

Ray of Sunshine [Grumpy!H] ❤️‍🔥

In which a very grumpy Harry meets Y/n and she seems unwilling to humour his attitude.

Friday Nights [Dad!harry] 🌷

In which Harry cannot wait home to see his two favourite girls.

Silver Screen (Film Festival) 🫧

In which Harry finds out he isn't the only one who hates mingling.

Routines [Dad!harry] 🌷

In which harry wakes up to the sweetest surprise.

Afterparties on Tour [Italy!Harry] 🌷

In which Love on Tour is ending and Harry really needs to tell Y/n how he feels.

Masks On 💋

In which Harry visits a fancy sex club where everyone is wearing masks and zero clothing... and then he meets Y/n.

Run-Ins / Run Ins: (again)🌷

In which Harry tries to brave a heat wave, and Y/n's dog knows just the thing to help him.

Bronze is Better (BRITS) 🫧

In which Y/n tries to thank Harry for his kind gesture, but he's a tad preoccupied.

Going for Gold (GRAMMYS) 🫧

In which Harry and Y/n have a meet-cute on the red carpet.

Slow Motion (Song Request) 🌷

In which Harry has been patiently waiting for Y/n to accept her feelings for him.

Teasing Tactics 💋

In which Harry has marvellous hands, and Y/n can only resist so much.

All I Want ❤️‍🔥

In which Harry and Y/n had a hasty break-up, but drunk Harry can't quite keep away, and sober Y/n seems to feel the same.

Heart Out 💋

In which Harry and Y/n are friends with benefits but she desperately needs a date to her ex-boyfriend's wedding.

Counting the Minutes 🫧

In which Harry walks in on his best friend naked hehe.

Eighteen 🌷

In which Harry has literally been in love with Y/n since they were eighteen years old.

Medicine 🫧

In which Harry and Y/n have an interesting relationship; this is what happens when they reunite.

She Way Out 🫧

In which Harry is the lead singer of grungy-band White Eskimo, and Y/n shows up at the local bar.

Nobody Compares 💋

In which Harry and Y/n have been flirting the entire tour and things get heated at the release party.

Sex Toys 💋

In which Harry and Y/n are best friends and he happens to stumble upon her drawer of goodies.

✨Blurbs / Suggestions:

#24 - Ballroom Dancing 🌷

#1 - Seated at a Wedding 🌷

#37 - It's not what it looks like 🫧

#60 - Marry me 🌷

Soft/Shy Harry 💋

Neighbour Harry 💋

Sex With Harry 💋

💕 All writing published on this blog @messyemmy [as well as on my other blog @cheap-packof-cigarettes] are of my own creation. I do not give permission for any of my work/pieces to be copied, reposted to this or other sites (AO3, Wattpad etc.), or copied and pasted into AI generators (ChatGpt, Meta AI etc.) My pieces are also protected, and copyrighted under my Wix blog [The Online Archives ©]. All images are not mine unless stated otherwise- credit to the rightful owners. Thank you for visiting my blog, I hope you enjoy, lovelies! 💕

#harry styles x reader #harry x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles masterlist #harry masterlist #harry styles one shot #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #elioslover masterlist #harry styles blurb #harry styles x you #messyemmy writing

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messyemmy · 5 days ago

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Hi could you please give me the link to neighbor Harry part 1? Thanks

Here you go lovely! X

#messyemmy asks 🐈

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messyemmy · 6 days ago

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pls!!!! i’m dying for more bad neighbours

I'm so happy to hear that!! Shouldn't be much longer before I post the full part- but in the meantimeeeee, here's the preview!

#harry styles fic #messyemmy asks 🐈

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messyemmy · 6 days ago

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Bad Neighbours Pt2 Preview! Harry Styles fic

Here you go my lovelies!

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.

🍑

“Here. Is this enough to satisfy you?”

“As much as you possibly could.”

Harry reaches out his free hand and wraps his fingers around the thin handle with a greedy grasp, and he can feel the reluctant tension as his neighbour weakly resists the handover.

“I’d think twice before spewing such nonsense.” She chides, and it feels personal.

“Oh, so you can be nice… to some people.”

Harry keeps his promise and offers up the little box that has single-handedly caused enough shame to keep Y/n huddled up in her room, hidden under her bed sheets, curtains shut until further notice.

“Literally everyone but you.”

His neighbour snatches the box with the reflex skills of a frog's tongue, and Harry chuckles heartily.

“That hurts my feelings. And here I am being such a helpful neighbour, delivering your package straight to your front door.”

“You’re a saint. Thanks for this complete inconvenience.”

With the box back in her possession, Y/n’s anxious shame evaporates and turns to steamy displeasure, brows sunken and scornful. Harry feels nothing but the high of another successful inconvenience.

And now that he’s privy to how she chooses to spend her downtime, he has enough ammunition to last well past the festive season.

“Hey, if it weren’t for me, who knows how you’d be spending your Friday nights.”

The wicked grin that widens gleefully at the baffled parting of his neighbour's glossy lips and widened doe eyes is sadistic and begs the question, how much does Harry truly know?

(For all of my sweethearts who asked to be on the taglist- don't worry, I gotchu, you'll be tagged on the full part 2! If you wanna be added, drop me a message! - Emmy xo

#harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #harry x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles concept #harry styles fic rec #harry styles imagines #harry styles smut #harry styles writing #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles oneshot

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messyemmy · 6 days ago

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Preview for Bad Neighbours??? 🥰

#messyemmy talks 🐈‍⬛#bad neighbours harry styles fic

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messyemmy · 9 days ago

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can’t wait for part two i’m sooooo excited

Eeep and I can't wait to share it with you guys! There's gonna be a looooot of bickering and very confusing new thoughts and feelings 🤭

#messyemmy asks 🐈

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messyemmy · 9 days ago

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is part two of bad neighbours coming soon?? <333

It is! Do yall want a sneaky preview? 🤭💞

#messyemmy asks 🐈

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messyemmy · 11 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!!]

#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 · 15 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 · 16 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!!]

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messyemmy · 17 days ago

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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 · 17 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!!]

450 notes · View notes