Love Thy Neighbour *editing*

"This isn't your garden; it's mine." (edited)

This is NOT a One Direction fanfiction; rather than being disappointed when you work it out halfway through, I'll just stop you here and let you in on it! :)

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Chapter 1 :“This isn’t your garden; it’s mine.”

 The cat was yowling.

The alarm clock beside my bed glowed intrusively as I peeped out from under my pillow.

1:00 AM.

Moonlight streamed in through the gap in the curtains, casting a strip of light across the blankets on my bed. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been lying there, conscious of the racket caused by our moggy, but my hopes of falling asleep were beginning to dwindle somewhat. In contrast, the house seemed silent; obviously my brother and mother could sleep through the noise.

Why we’d even got a cat in the first place was beyond me, but if it kept on like that, I’d have it stuffed above the mantelpiece. Oh, yes; in my penguin patterned pyjamas and piggy slippers, he was about to realise he was making a powerful enemy. My footfalls rang out through the silence of the house as I made my way down the stairs, unruly bed hair flopping over my face.

The clock in the living room ticked innocently as I flipped the latch on the French doors, letting the cool autumn air assault my face as I slipped outside. It rippled through my thin nightwear, causing a chill to run up the back of my neck.

However, any thoughts of coldness evaporated from my mind as the sounds of muffled, laboured pants echoed up from the bottom of the garden. Eyebrows raising up under my fringe, I picked up the first thing that came to hand; the shovel that had lain discarded since my brother decided that digging to Australia was far more effort than it was worth, and raised it over my left shoulder. I crept over the neatly cut lawn, the darkness covering my every movement, making my way towards the moans coming from behind the large oak tree.

"Oh, Niall, don't stop!"

It was me who stopped; dead in my tracks with the spade held high over my head and a disgusted expression on my face.

Someone was having sex. Someone was having sexual intercourse in my garden. Someone was copulating under my tree.

I didn't know whether to turn around, go back to bed and let them get on with it, or ask them politely if they could take it somewhere else. There were several things to weigh up; going back to bed and feigning ignorance in the morning when my mother discovered anything left behind seemed to be a safer option.

"What the hell are you doin’ in my garden?" His voice, deep, brooding and very Irish, rang out in the darkness, making me jump slightly. Great; now I’d have to say something.

"Your garden?" I squeaked. “This isn’t your garden; it’s mine.”

"Nah, number 11, Franklin Drive," the man said matter-of-factly. A loud groan escaped from his partner’s lips. "That's my house."

"You’re in the wrong garden!” I blurted out, perturbed by the entire situation. “Number 11 is next door!”

A moments’ silence.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," I grumbled.

"Well, now that that's cleared up," he said brightly, "could you piss off and leave us alone; it's not a spectator sport."

I gaped at the trunk of the tree, behind which the pair seemed to have just started up again. Of all the things to happen-

"Or you could join in, darlin’?"