Blurryface [h.s.]

Blurryface [h.s.]

Reads 153
Votes 5
Parts 3

MatureOngoing17m

Last published Fri, Oct 8, 2021

1d fanfiction fiction harry harryedwardstyles

He's rubbing a hand through his hair, rings-covered fingers sneaking through the curls. His face is rosy, red patches dapple his nose and cheeks. The top of his ears are reddish as well, as much as I can see from under his hair. "How long have you been waiting?" I ask with a still thundering heartbeat and raised eyebrows. "For some time past. Wouldn't think that your training would be this long." He explains, releasing a faint shigh. "You know, he loves to say 'We didn't come here to play'. He's pretty dour about training." "Yeah, I could imagine." He hides his hands in his jacket's pockets, in a long fabric one. It draws the attention to the fact that the quadrille clothing is already buried in raindrops. The weather in this town is just truly abominable. I bet he'd rejoice at the warmth, just like me. A smirk passes over my face when I say, "Wanna sneak into the stadium?" ─ Cameron Voronova is a successful sprinter of her age, one with vast winnings behind her back. She gets into one of the most prominent competitions of athletics, the November Championships. Cameron travels with her coach to London for a month, where she'll toe the line with world-famous racers. At the beginning of the championships, she meets a mysterious boy in a club. Days later it turns out that he's a member of a famous band. The news is spreading and the circus begins. What if she isn't able to win the race? What if the media's pressure breaks her? What if she falls? CONTAINS MENTAL HEALTH / VULGAR LANGUAGE / MATURE CONTENT / DRUG ABUSE / ALCOHOLISM READ AT OWN RISK! STARTED: 8TH OCT 2021 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED TO @hardliquorry

All Rights Reserved

Join the largest storytelling communityGet personalized story recommendations, save your favourites to your library, and comment and vote to grow your community.

You may also like

THE DEVIL IS A GENTLEMAN - H.S

*[EDITING]* When Harry was twenty two, if a dangerously overconfident, time-hopping doppelgänger had pulled up in a freaky, rubber balaclava ('listen, mate' - hand on the shoulder and everything, like the reenactment of a cliché, time-honored rite of passage), and told him that in the very near future, his Friday nights would be indefinitely spent wearing a Greek moniker in the form of a fetishized allusion, that he'd be garbed by a latex mask to protect the sacred, fragile veil of secrecy- Well. He'd probably get a head start for padded walls and a straight jacket. Consider he was doing himself a favor with that one. But if he were told the same thing at twenty three, he'd probably choose to overlook the minor detail of reality imploding and sit back in his armchair, swirling his whiskey with excitement. Twenty three was an eventful year. He'd started casually enjoying whiskey after a long workday (honestly, a palate milestone in and of itself) and became enlightened on the fine art of tactically-applied suffering (and with it, gained a whole new appreciation for high-quality restraints). Because sometimes, a well-placed bruise and bliss just happened to go hand-in-hand. - OR the one in which there's a sex club, Greek stage names, an exploration of boundaries, an open house, a pair of dress shoes, and two evident sides to the same coin.

Content Guidelines