MUSING - Harry Styles One Shots

FETISH

Spanko!Harry x Reader

This is part one of a PATREON EXCLUSIVE. Part two is already up on my patreon. You can find the link to my patreon in my wattpad bio <3

CW: reference to/implied domestic violence (there is no actual domestic violence), spanking

There's an axiom to Harry, every time she notes him in glimpses— recherché sightings like dolphins in a boat off-coast; smooth skin clad over bulging sinew, flecked with droplets when he climbs out on the other end of the pool. A fugacious silhouette in an elevator with downcast eyes, sorting envelopes, brows crinkled—

Now, at her door frame with a package wrapped in tan parchment. He cups it in one massive hand.

It's an ironclad veracity that he wears in the breadth of his shoulders, the straight whites of his teeth.

He's handsome. Irrefutably. Clean skin with a clean-shaven jaw. A full, pink mouth with corners that cave (a polite, flimsy proxy— but it's enough for a dint to work into the smooth flesh beside the close-lipped smile he offers).

(Niceties with neighbors you don't know too well).

"Hey. Think they swapped our mail again."

His curls are wet, like he's just hopped out of the shower. The coiling just about molds the silhouette of a cherubic halo. One end, tufting over his ear, kisses at the crest of a cheekbone.

Her noisy neighbor is, to her dismay, brassbound as the walking epitome of boy next door.

Man next door.

A facsimile of a grin draws tight across her lips. Y/N takes the outstretched offering.

It's a pity that she had to call the police to his unit (for potential domestic violence, no less) a couple weeks ago, and it makes her gums itch.

Y/N likes her complex.

Thirteen floors, a nice, neat lobby with tile so sleek she can pore down at her reflection over the toes of her shoes, a swimming pool, in the shape of a lopsided C, with a slate-mounted cataract.

The walls between the units are abysmally flimsy.

Excavated. Hollowed gypsum when she raps her knuckles over random nooks (and Y/N has, shuffled margin by margin and pressed her ear to the sheetrock maniacally for confirmation, knocking wall to wall— it's all fucking thin).

And it wouldn't be as much of an issue if her neighbor wasn't so fucking loud. 

And he is. Loud. Barreling into the wafer-thin drywall behind her wrought iron headboard when the sky spits a tangerine dusk that thaws into black behind her blinds (hardly a considerate hour).

He fucks loud, and he fucks a lot. Muzzled moans— like vulgar murmurs, strangled underwater, behind the plexiglass of the shitty sheetrock partitioning their units— seep behind her skull and make her temples ache.

Forget elephants. He's a bear scraping his back against the obverse of the backsplash in her kitchen.

His magnum opus came in the shape of audible rejection on a rainy midday last month (Stop, no, and please in a dissent-rusted chain from the other side of the wall made her belly churn enough to pick up the phone).

(The miasma of the recognition clogged her throat)

("Um. I think my neighbor is— hurting someone.")