Larry Stylinson One Shots | boyxboy

Guns 'n knives

Being a genius has its perks. Mostly. Best grades at school. No studying for tests and homework – what even is studying? But there are different types of geniuses. The brain, the muscles, the charmer, the computer freak and stuff like that. And if you stick out of the mass just enough, you get picked out and become special education to be some kind of a secret agent. Not the one in a suit (mostly) but the one in ripped jeans and low collared shirts with bloody fists and blood stains all over you face and clothes.

Your body is your weapon. Your mind your defense. You have to analyze every single detail of your surroundings. In a flat a wrong placed mug can be a hint that something is off. A different smell (because some people are just so dumb and use strong smelling aftershave or perfume) or a cracking noise. You have to train not to be overwhelmed with feelings like anger or fear, not to be overwhelmed by pain. You have to keep on fighting even with a broken wrist or a deep cut.

There are many accusations that are kind of secret. Getting money, killing someone who knew too much, or doing missions for the politicians. Having something to come home to always was a risk. Not only for you but also for the one waiting. For the one you loved. They were your blind point. Your weakness.

So; the perfect fighter was someone who didn't have anything or anyone left.

Like Louis. He lost his family when he was just a toddler. He didn't remember a single bit but he wakes up at night with nightmares about flames and screams coming out of exploding buildings. So he might remember a little bit down there. But the thing is – there wasn't someone left who could be his weakness. There was enough hate towards people who didn't help, who burned the building, everyone. He was good with knives, had to be – somehow even he had to survive.

At a young age of thirteen he already had a small collection of different knives. Different situations require different knives. And he knew how to use them. How to make little cuts that were nothing serious but could bleed like hell. How to make deep slashes that would kill you further or later. He learned it on the streets. He learned it because he had enough cuts, he lost count. He knew how to sneak away and never be spotted by anyone. He was a sharp shadow. A slashing shadow.

So it was no surprise when he got picked up at an early age of sixteen. Black car with dark windows waiting outside his school. Men in dark suits with glasses and stern expressions taking him away to a big complex with dark windows and white walls, white floors and everything just white and looking pure. But Louis learned fast that this innocent look was nothing else then a mask. In this building everybody was a killer. Everybody had blood on their hands at some point.

Louis got recruited. He got trained. He got drilled. He worked out. He perfected every single knife technique and he became a fox. Sneaking in, getting information and killing from inside.

Till the age of twenty he looked like a twink. Some innocent little boy who wouldn't harm a thing. So it was his job to get to the big ones. To talk his way to them with long lashes fluttering and a slight blush on his high cheekbones, blue eyes big and pleading to get something they were more than willing to give him. And he always got his way. After mere 5 minutes his chinos and white polo shirts were soaked in blood and his angelic looking face had dark red stains all over it, making him look like a nightmare.

A beautiful nightmare if you asked Harry. Harry had gotten recruited with thirteen. Young age for sure. But hell of a killer. To watch someone shooting his family down in front of him dulled him and young Harry grabbed the killer's gun, pointed at him and killed him with a single shot between the eyes. Perfect shot really. Just a few minutes later he got picked up with a black van and promises to be taken care of. And they did. He got the best education when it comes to using guns. He always had a gun on him. In the waistband of his jeans, in a holder around his chest or where ever. With fifteen he could kill someone with a blindfold over his eyes. He relies on his ears, knowing how far someone was away, how tall and how fast moving someone was. And then he shot. One shot directly between the eyes.