Sinister - Larry Stylinson AU (part thirteen)



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: … ugh sorry this isn’t very long but it’s hard to write this

Sinister (prologue) 

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)

Sinister (part eleven)

Sinister (part twelve)


listen to this

The sun was sinking behind the roofs, the air a pleasant mixture of morning rain and an early spring wind. The balcony outside hanging over the lower street which was now coming to life with night goers. A low mingling of words floating up from below, the occasional distant beep of a car. 

Louis is leaned back in a seat with a placid grin on his face, eyes little crinkles of affection as he sips the pungent wine palmed in his hand. A subtle wrinkle of the nose and a shift in the hard metal seat, propping his feet up on the table. The sun is slicing through low grey clouds hued shades of tangerine and rose, illuminating long lines of color across the air. Louis thinks it might be the most beautiful sunset he’s seen in a while. 

He finds his gaze wandering though, slowly, from the railing to the chair diagonal of him.

In it, a boy sits, his boy. He takes a breath, finding himself studying his pretty little nose, and the subtle indent of one dimple in his cheek, his curls windswept in an agonizingly artist way painted with the hues of the sunset. 

Louis doesn’t say anything because he’s reveling in this quiet moment, but the boy looks over, his eyes slightly crinkled at the sides, so green they’re like two grassy pits, inviting and tantalizing. And Louis feels them bore straight into his soul, and so quickly as their eyes have met, it’s engulfed in an oily black smoke. His boy’s face is peeled away in flaking ashes of memory and the sun implodes in a black abyss of dread.


He jerks awake, a floundering feeling of absolute dread swallowing him whole as he realizes it was a dream. A sweat is clinging to the back of his shirt making him feel clammy and claustrophobic. He has no idea where he is at first, all he knows is that his neck feels stiff and lower back is aching.

The sleep drifts away from his eyes, and he’s greeted with white. He reaches out, pressing his hands against something cold and hard, and then he realizes he’s in the tub. 

The night before is black and distant and he doesn’t exactly know why he feels so sick until he looks down at himself. His clothes were stained in a crimson that he never wanted to see again.

Last night came back with frightening fervor, and he stiffened. 

His boy, his baby.


A stiff, shuddering cry that emanated from the very pit of his heart crawled dryly up his throat.

The blue and red lights that flashed blindingly, forever burning his retinas as they took his boy away in an ambulance. He knew it was unneeded, that he was far from this world now.

The sanitary room, the doctors informing him of things he already knew. He didn’t want to hear it, he just wanted to stay with his boy, wanted to hold his hand even if it didn’t tentatively grasp back. 

He didn’t remember much after that, somehow making it home, not wanting the comfort of a bed, he wanted cold and unwelcoming, something to deter him of comfort. 

Now his whole body began to ache, and a shaky hand rose to his mouth as it crumpled into a ragged sob. It echoed painfully about the tile, floating out about the silent flat. 

He just wants to sleep, he wanted to feel his boy’s presence wrap around him, convince him, even if only for a few minutes, that his existence is still here. 

He fumbles out of the tub, animalistically ripping his shirt over his head and pants down his legs. He deposits them in the tub before stumbling to the shower, not daring to look at himself in the mirror.

He doesn’t feign from turning the faucet all the way to the left, the water hissing with an angry steam. He doesn’t even feel it as he desperately scrubs his entire body, watching the red pool at his feet before disappearing down the drain.

He tries not to think of his room, the door closed, holding back the smell of iron and gunsmoke, but just seeing the door is enough to cripple Louis again. He can’t stay here with the constant thought of him. With the faint smell of him, the haunting laughs Louis swears he hears faintly off in some corner.

He stands in the center of the living room, one glance at the piano has him screaming with a pain that splits him wide open. His vision is blurred so thoroughly he can barely make out where he’s going. He reaches for the floor lamp blindly, ripping the plug from the socket and swinging the metal base down into the keys so hard the entire piano screams. It’s the most painful noise Louis has ever heard.

Play for me. 

Those words bore into his brain until he’s screaming and swinging the lamp down onto the keys with all of his force. One of the ivory keys splinters off, and from there, the entire face is smashed in a cacophony of angry shrill notes. 

"You left me!” Louis yells, his voice strained with sobs as he again slams the lamp down, the glossy black wood shattering, the strings and hammers snapping with brassy twangs. “You’re gone- oh god you’re gone.” 

His arms become heavy with dread and he doesn’t have the strength to swing anymore. 

He stumbles back, his entire body throbbing as he stares at the carnage of his beloved Steinway. 

He wants this so badly to be a dream, that at any moment he’ll jerk awake and find himself curled into his boy’s chest, feel his breath on the back of his neck. 

He crumples to the floor, his entirety trembling with no will to live. He leans his head against a snapped peace of wood from the piano, covering his mouth with a shaking hand to hold back the tremulous sobs. 

Harry, Harry..”


He doesn’t eat, doesn’t even drink although it feels his mouth is a crumbling desert. An unquenchable thirst sitting deep in his throat, and in a way, he doesn’t drink as a form of punishment to himself. 

How dare you let him do thatYou were his psychologist- his love- you’re supposed to help him from things like this. 

And for hours on end he dithers in this self-loathing because he knows that it’s right, yet so wrong. 


He is sitting on the couch, listening to the screaming silence which is broken by his ragged breaths and sobs, when he remembers he has to do something. 

The feeling of dread is ever present, sitting like a lead ball in the pit of his stomach as he reaches weakly for his phone, dialing out the number he had only called once before. 

He takes a shaky breath as the dial tone is interrupted by a cheery hello. 



As soon as he opens his door to escape the constant reminder of his boy, he is faced with one of his neighbors  He stalls, his disheveled entirety enough to cause the older woman’s already concerned expression to deepen in her wrinkles. 

"Louis?" Her voice is quiet, and the man tenses, holds everything in, "I was coming by about last night… all of the sirens and I heard a gunshot, was worried about you," she sighs.

Louis’ throat clenches, and bottom lip quivers. He nods quickly, afraid to open his mouth. “You have a young man living with you, yes?” She pauses, and studies his expression which is stiff, she can only assume yes, “I saw him out on your balcony around 4 yesterday while I was watering my plants, he was dumping something out of a box onto the street below. He was crying, and of course I was curious so I went down a while later to see what exactly it had been he had dropped…” her voice lowers sadly. Louis’ entire body is throbbing, he doesn’t want to be near anyone right now. 

"They were bullets, Louis. I d-don’t.. I’m not sure why.. I hope everything is alright. I just thought you’d like to know."

Louis’ husk of a body withstands him long enough to nod curtly to her, before he finds himself crumpling to the floor of his foyer with a realization that slaps him so hard in the face that he screams and claws at his face as his heart shatters over and over in his chest. 

His boy, his baby, had dumped the rest of the bullets because he knew Louis would try to follow after him.

He didn’t want Louis to hurt himself after he was gone.


As soon as the door to Zayn’s flat opens, Louis falls into him, grips onto his shirt as he sobs brokenly into his chest. 

"He’s gone, Zayn. I was right, but he didn’t—" his voice is swallowed by a sob and Zayn wraps his arms securely around him and pulls him into the foyer.

Somewhere in the back of Louis’ abyss of a mind, he is thankful for Zayn. He was the type of person who just silently comforted a broken heart, no need for words, just empathetic waves. 

Louis had already lost several pounds due to the emptying of his stomach every hour because of the sickening reminder, the absence of food and drink. 

Zayn offers him soup, water; anything, but Louis denies, has no appetite. Zayn knows to not push him, not now. Not when his skin is paper thin and already shredded. 


That night, as Louis enters his friend’s bathroom to go and sear himself with another skin melting shower, he removes his sterile smelling clothes and turns the tap on hot.

He tries to avoid his reflection, but one long glance sends him staring at the face of a stranger.

His skin seems ashy, dull, eyes are dark and sunken with heavy bags under them. He is unrecognizable, and it startles him more than he thought it ever would. 

One day without him and he is only a hollow casing.

As the steam begins to swallow the image, he can’t help but wonder how long it will be before there isn’t even a stranger to stare at.

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