Golden.

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: E(xplicit) WORD COUNT: 12.2k REQUESTED: yes.. a lot..

okay. after five months, here is the last part. honestly my brain is fried so i don’t really have much to say, but i really hope that it lives up to everyone’s expectations. also, not to be That Bitch but i have received probably over a hundred messages asking me when the last part would be out, so i would really appreciate reblogs and feedback now that it’s finally here! thank yew 💕

warning: this part contains mature language and nsfw content. if that makes you uncomfortable, you absolutely do not have to read! curate ur tumblr experience and all that jazz 

PART I: The Day 

PART II: The Week

~*~

Hello! Here is a simple little 3.5k fic! I thank @goldenbluesuit for hosting this spectacular fic challenge! I love what I’ve read so far and I can’t wait to keep reading. Also, thank you to @lilacobscure and @arrogantstyles for beta-ing and just being…awesome. I hope you all like it. :) 

Warnings: mention of the word bloke from a non-Brit

Annie has had it. She’s holding two of her fluffiest pillows against both of her ears and has her white noise machine droning on at full volume. And she can still hear the sultry bass of Andy Williams singing his little heart out. She can hear him as clear as day, as if he were performing his very own live concert in the corner of her bedroom. Don’t even get her started on the Christmas lights. Annie had actually gone out and bought an eye mask in order to sleep, as her windows faced the neighbors front yard where Annie’s neighbor, apparently, was the sole reason their local supermarket was sold out of blow up decorations and string lights. 

Harry Styles didn’t even have a lot of real estate to work with in terms of space. But he really made every centimeter count. One morning mid-November, whilst getting her mail, Annie counted about fourteen deflated pop-up corpses staked to the frozen ground, multiple candy canes lining his driveway that were about half the size of her, and masses of tangled lights strung up across every visible square inch of his home. If that wasn’t enough, he had a carefully crafted playlist he turned on every night at eight p.m. sharp that was approximately three hours and forty-nine minutes long before it looped back to the beginning song. She thought, fleetingly, that she should invest in ear plugs.