Sinister - Larry Stylinson AU (part eleven)



Louis Tomlinson spent two long years recovering from the most traumatizing night of his life. But when he receives something from the person responsible for his terror, he’s afraid not only for his life- but for his heart. 

WARNING includes smut, rape, murder, and other dark matters that may be disturbing

A/N: sigh this fic is going to kill me

Sinister- Part One

Sinister- Part Two

Sinister- Part Three

Sinister- Part Four

Sinister- Part Five

Sinister- Part Six

Sinister- Part Seven

Sinister- Part Eight

Sinister- Part Nine

Sinister- Part Ten


Niall Horan has been in the LPD for 4 years, and he’d like to think he has authority. He likes to think that he’s done a lot of crime fighting and stopped tragedies from occurring, but in reality, he hasn’t. He hadn’t even faced something like this ever, in his life, and he’d like to think he wish he never had to in the first place.

As soon as the two are loaded into the back of the cop car, Jefferson is driving off, and Niall is left standing on the side of the road to wait for the coroner, and the investigative services.


They arrive some ten minutes later, and the officer is trembling, clenching his teeth as he leads them through the forest to the cave where ten bodies lie, stiff and mutilated. He informs them on how he believes it’s the serial killer Harry Styles’ other victims. 

Somewhere distantly, as he watches mindlessly the scene be taped off, he hears the lowered chatter of disgust. 

He follows it and by some unknown force has enough guts to poke his head into the cave, the vile stench of rotting flesh is offensive, and he covers his nose with the crook of his elbow. 

There’s only one body left now, as the rest of the skeletons have been removed back to the coroner’s truck. A tall and slim women with black hair pulled back in a slick bun glances over at him. A solemn look is engraved into her irises, and she glances back down at the young girl. She’s leaned sideways against the cave wall, as though for support. Her eyes are closed peacefully in contrast to her bruised and beaten body. Her head is lolled at an awkward angle and Niall has seen at least enough movies to know her neck is snapped. 

Tears lean heavily at the backs of his eyes, “How old?” His voice wavers, as though he’s not really sure he wants to know. 

"Seven, probably." The coroner says quietly, as she kneels down to study her bloodied scalp. The frays of hair left are matted down with dried blood and Niall is positive he’s going to be sick. "From the deterioration I’d say she’s been dead no longer than 2 years. I’ll have to get her back to the lab to see a more specific date…" her voice trails off as she stands again, shrugging her coat tighter around her. 


Louis is trembling, a whole body tremor that has even his teeth chattering. He’s sat in a small holding cell inside the LPD Station, and next to him in another cell is Harry. 

The boy’s breath is coming out in short tremors with his sobs, his hands gripped on the bars and head leaned between them. He’s whispering incoherent words, his face flushed with his tears, eyes squeezing shut with watery rims, his chin puckered from a scowl that looks like it might not ever leave his face. 

Louis doesn’t know what to feel, doesn’t know if he should trust him anymore, if he’s telling the truth. He’s past the point of numbness; in a lucid state where he feels like he’s out of his body, staring down at himself with a condescending look. You shouldn’t have ever taken him in. Biggest mistake of your life. 


He bows his head in his palms because he realizes it really is. 


He laughs wetly into his palm at the sudden realization of it all. 


Harry was a monster, he always will be, and he ruined his life. He was a schizophrenic child molester and murderer that couldn’t be fixed. The past three weeks had been a lie, had been a shroud of deceiving hope. Harry would never be a kindred soul, would never be a domestic husband. 


Louis’ heart nearly breaks in his chest, trying to suppress his broken sobs as he shakes his head trying to force those thoughts out of his head. 


Yet you still love him. His subconscious barks at him, laughs as though he’s never been more disappointed in himself. 


He can’t even look at the boy anymore without feeling this horrible engulfing sensation of guilt and pity, and he rubs his hand down his cheek to try and dry his overflowing eyes. 


"Louis," his voice whimpers across the cell to him, boring holes into the man’s heart. He doesn’t look up, keeps his face in his palms, "Louis," he cries desperately again, "I didn’t d-do it, I didn’t— you know me—” 


"No, I don’t. I don’t know you, Harry." Louis says flatly, so flatly in fact that when he looks up from his palms, Harry’s face contorts into a neutral look of disbelief, his eyes watering with hurt, and Louis feels his chest tighten even more. 


Louis feels the abyss before him grow, and it’s whispering, taunting him, begging him to drop down into it.


He’s leering over the edge, peering into the oily blackness in his mind when another voice breaks the silence. An angry and frustrated voice. 


"For fuck’s sake Niall, you can’t arrest these people without a warrant. You’re lucky I’m not suspending you," a short man squawks loudly as he makes his way to the holding cells, his face red, "You’re free to go. But that doesn’t mean you’re not going to be called in for questioning either."


The secure sound of the bolt being unlocked on Louis’ cell is enough to bring him to his feet, and he catches the short man shooting a despairing look at Harry, his eyes gleaming with hatred as he unlocks his cell. 





It’s three hours before Louis finally returns home, after having the police escort him back out to Harry’s mother’s for his car. He doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want to walk through the door to face a monster.


So he sits in his car, staring out the windshield at the side of his flat until he’s counted 348 bricks. That’s enough, he thinks. 


When he enters the flat, he is faced with the sound of shattering glass and hysteric sobbing. He winces, standing wrought iron in the entry.


"They’ll be coming back soon, Doctor Tomlinson," Harry screams, his voice strains with a mocking tone, an I told you so tone, “They’re coming for me.” 


Louis doesn’t say anything, instead, he just stares at the boy who fists a glass vase sitting on the counter, and hurls it across the room to smash into the wall next to the man’s head. He barely flinches before closing the door fully behind him. 


"Coming for me after everything I did, after I raped all of those people and murdered them, slaughtered them." His voice is slurred and rushing together in a sort of manic noise, his hands trembling as they repeatedly slap the sides of his head and grip into his curls as he cries. Louis can tell he’s going into mental overdrive. 


He also realizes that he forgot to give him his medication this morning. 


Yet, he still stands there, staring at the boy who is pacing around the living room covered in little glimmers of shattered glass. Harry’s sobbing seizes with a choked noise as he rushes towards Louis, raising his hands above his head.


"Say something!" He roars, looming over him, his tear reddened face inches away from the man’s seemingly neutral expression. 


The air is hissing in tension, a fuse about to blow, as Louis stares at the boy glaring down at him with these watery eyes filled with confusion, and suddenly, he’s not afraid of him anymore.


So he shoves him as hard as he can, shoves him away from himself and he storms across the room, “You want me to say something Harry?” He yells, “You want me to say something? Well I’ll tell you something, you disgust me. You are a sick, untreatable schizophrenic who rapes children and murders them.” His voice comes out in a rush of fury and rage. 


Harry’s expression has changed entirely, to one of shock and disbelief.


And hurt. 


His eyes are wide, so wide you can see the white on all sides of his irises; and they’re pooling with tears. His swollen lips parted, eyebrows scrunched up as though he’s never heard anything more upsetting in his entire life.




"—Yet I’m still in love with you,” Louis’ voice breaks with a tired sigh, “I’m trying to figure out exactly what it will take for me to not, and I- I shouldn’t.” He shouts, shaking his fists because he’s more frustrated than he ever has been in his entire life. 


Silence fills the room, and Louis can see Harry’s jugular pulsing erratically with that horrified look on his face.


And suddenly, all he wants to do is kiss him.


So he finishes the distance between them with three long steps and wraps his arms around his neck as their lips meet with a crash. Harry instantly softens against the man, who he wraps his long arms around, pulling him impossibly closer. 


He tastes like the salty tang of tears, and Louis finds himself crying as well, as their mouths open in a slow tangle of emotion, lust, and love. 


Louis idly realizes how enormous this all has gotten, how Harry was just once one of his patients at Violet Quarters. 


He decides that the universe works in very different, unusual ways. 


They are kissing so fiercely, that Louis is caught in some sort of trance when Harry pulls away gently, breathing heavily into his mouth, when he says the words he never expected. 


"Make love to me."


A sob gets stuck in Louis’ throat as he leans up on his toes and kisses him, soft and slow. 


It’s soft and slow still, how Louis brings the boy to his room, all sweet kisses and gentle touches. And Harry is crying so hard through their lips that it breaks Louis’ heart over and over until he thinks it’s become dust in his chest. 


He’s straddling Harry on the bed now, pressing wet kisses down his neck, whispering incoherent nothings in between breaths as he helps the boy out of his clothes and proceeds to kiss him everywhere, starting from the base of his jaw, traveling down his torso, over his raised hipbones and down across his thighs.


Harry’s moans are wet and desperate, his eyebrows knitted together and eyes squeezed shut because he’s not used to being so exposed, so submissive. 


Louis leans back and studies the boy’s long, pale body in the dim light flooding in from the window. Studies the jagged scars from razors across his lower stomach and tops of his thighs. His eyes come to a rest on the long, thick puckered scar running from his collar bone down across his heart to the top of his ribs.


He reaches for it, tentatively, tracing it lightly before leaning down. He presses more kisses along it because he knows it was a ragged suicide attempt. A desperate attempt to escape whatever mess he was in. 


Louis leans up and disposes of his clothing as well, lowering himself to lay on top of the boy, commencing in their soft and slow kisses. His hands traveling up Harry’s sides, raising chills as he plants them loosely in his curls.




"Harry," he says, as they take a breather, close to each other, their lips brushing, "I love you." 


His voice is quiet, a whisper of utter care, as though those words are too fragile to say too loud, as though they might shatter. 


Harry’s face puckers with more tears as he leans his head up off the pillows to kiss him again. 



And when Louis is situated between Harry’s thighs, preparing the boy for an intrusion of his wrecked innocence. He’s cooing how much he loves him as he gently pushes into him, his hands traveling up and down the boy’s long torso as he rocks into him, his breath catching in his throat as Harry reaches out to grip the sheets, his back arching up off the bed with a broken moan. 


His face scrunches up in discomfort as Louis’ pace quickens, but then melts away into a sort of two sided ecstasy. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he whimpers out, so innocent and exposed rather than the hard and rough fucks. 


Louis leans down, continually rocking into him, pressing more kisses against the boy’s open mouth. “I love you, Harry.” He says again, louder this time. 


He grips the boy’s thighs as the pool of heat grows and he presses his forehead against his, rolling his hips upward until Harry’s moans turn into the absence of breath and squeaking whimpers. 


They finish in unison, Louis with two powerful, upward thrusts and a shuddering groan, and Harry with his back arching, toes curling and a quiet sob. 


Louis collapses on top of the boy again, kissing him over and over, until the world was blurred mass of tears and Harry is sobbing again, his hands trembling as the grip onto the back of Louis’ neck. 


Louis chants over and over, again and again, until he’s sure the words sound like they were meant to be said at this moment, to this person.


“I love you, Harry, I love you so much.”

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    On thee downside, I threw up at the beginning of this. On the upside, I claimed to be sick, and now I don’t have to go...
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