Midplay ::: Larry Stylinson ✔

Chapter 8

A/N

NOBODY NOBODYY IS LISTENING TO ME NOBODY NOBODYYY IS LISTENING TO ME

I'm sorry I'm obsessed with Calamity. I literally just listened to it ten times. BNKNOIH

Sorry that I haven't updated in a while I have been using my free time by trying to figure out how to take my contacts out. I hate them. Get them out of my eye. I literally can't. 

If you haven't read Unbelievers you need to. Read it right now. I'm not kidding. Read it. (Actually you should read this first and then you should read Unbelievers)

✨✨✨✨✨✨Take me to the Candy shop ✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Uh Chile Anyways so, Vote and Comment!

Warning: Mentions of homophobia and abuse

Disclaimer: When the f-slur is used in this writing, it is only for the purpose of portraying a fictional character, or a version of the person made up purely from my mind. I would never use this word is real life, as homophobia is absolutely disgusting, so please understand that the use is purely for the story line and character portrayal.

Harry POV

Well that's something I'm gonna regret later.

That's what I thought after I climbed over Louis earlier. I couldn't have been more right. 

Stupid, stupid Harry. Its not like I actually have any feelings for him, I just haven't had a good fuck in a while is all. I guess it sounds rude when I put it that way, but its true.

Its not like either of us have feelings for each other, either. Well, except for if hate counts.

Despite my hate for him and regret of what I did, I can't get his lips out of my mind. They would probably feel good around my-

I shake my head as my face crumples in disgust. I try my best to put a wall up around those thoughts. I don't need to be getting hard while I'm in my bedroom. Especially because of Mike. I know I would get a beating from that.

Mike is my step-dad, and a homophobic piece of shit. An alcoholic piece of shit, too. Most of the time I just get with boys to piss him off. Usually, he won't hurt me when my mom is around. Usually. Other times, he'll beat her until she can't stop him from beating me screaming that I am a fag and that I'm disgusting. Then, he'll beat me too as my mom is left to watch, unable to help me. The fits are even worse when he's drunk.

I lift up my shirt to glance at the remaining bruises that litter my body. I wince as I gently graze my fingers over my hips. My ribcages are swollen and small black and blue marks litter my chest. I wish I could tell someone besides Niall, who promised he wouldn't tell anyone until I'm ready. 

I wish someone would just lift up my shirt and see my pain, and ask me who did this to me. I wish I had the strength and confidence to tell them. I wish there was a person who would hold me in their arms and sing me to sleep. They would cuddle me and comfort me and whisper that they love me. That's just another of my fantasies. 

Fantasies don't come true. Fantasy, its exact definition being, the faculty or activity of imagining things, especially things that are impossible or improbable. My mind fantasizes. It doesn't stop until my head is filled with possibilities and outcomes in situations or dreams that are impossible or improbable. 

I hope off the corner of the bed where I was sitting and pulled on a gray beanie to go with my black skinny jeans and white band tee. I slipped on a pair of boots and reached into my backpack for a piece of gum. Once I am situated, I slide on my backpack and open my door slightly, peeking to make sure that Mike isn't in the hallways. The hall is completely empty, all of the doors shut, and lights out.