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messyemmy · 17 days ago

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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 · 18 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!]

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