starry eyes ✮ slashers.

chapter 019.

nineteen. stay down, stay away, stay safe.

Harry parades back into the home proudly, blood on his suit that makes Lyra's Stomach churn. As he slowly removes his mask, his gaze is cold and distant and she looks away, she wants Tom back. He doesn't say a word, jaw clenched as he observes her intently, not yet noticing Brahms struggling with himself in the room's corner.

Brahms' rage boils within at the mere sight of the miner. His hands curl into fists, shaking intently as he forms all the clear thoughts he possibly can in his mind. They all tell him to attack.

It takes only a moment for Brahms to move swiftly, throwing his body into Harry's, erratically jabbing him with his fists. The two fall against the wooden floorboards with a hallow thud and Lyra scrambled up from her position on the bed.

"Stop, fuck sake." Lyra curses when they pay her no attention. Harry's gloved fingertips near the handle of his pick-axe as Brahm's hands are curled around his throat. Lyra winces in preparation before she kicks the weapon away, bringing it into her own hands.

It's so much heavier than she'd anticipated and she weakly raises it, inhaling a shaky breath.

"Brahms. If you don't get off him, I'll stab you through the foot with this damn thing." Despite her uncollected appearance, Lyra's voice is stern enough to make Brahm's grip loosen. Harry's murderous, once more but the sight of her holding his weapon of choice lulls his anger gently to being dormant.

"Hurt me?" Brahms asks in his high voice and Lyra frowns sympathetically at the boy's distress. He was only trying to protect her, Harry had hurt her, so why was he in the wrong?

"No, sweetheart. Just let him go, please." Harry let's out a quiet grunt at the endearing term she'd used towards Brahms. The childlike boy rose from the ground, shuffling slowly to the doorway, feeling unwanted.

Lyra watches with a sad smile, promising to comfort him later, but right now, she had a homicidal miner to deal with.

"Sorry." Harry begins, pushing the door far enough for it to fall closed. He towers over her once more, and Lyra moves the weapon behind her, thinking he's reaching for it. The man chuckles, dry and unsettling. "You look hot with my axe." He tells her, his voice higher in roughness like Tom's is. He's switching, she realises with a small smile.

"Did you kill him?" Tom shrugs, allowing Lyra to reach for his mask, carefully removing it. It takes a moment for him to ponder his question, having blacked out in rage and now changed personalities. It felt like lifetimes ago.

Tom's neck has faint bruising from Brahm's attack and Lyra's fingers brush it gently.

"Stu was unharmed. Billy was destroyed." Tom answers simply, feeling as though even that description didn't bring justice to how brutally he'd harmed the boy. He didn't stay for his last breaths, so truthfully he couldn't answer whether he'd died, but it was pretty easy to assume he had.

"Okay." Lyra shows no signs of care. She doesn't want him to see her disappointment, he did what he thought was right, he protected her. She just wished he'd held her in his arms rather than killed a man. But that isn't who he is, she knows that.

Tom draws closer to her and Lyra drops the pickaxe out of forgetfulness with a loud thud. He glances towards it for only a moment before his attention is back to her, his gloved finger tracing the small cut across her skin.

Was that him? Was it Brahms? He inhaled sharply at the thought. She'd been marked, it wasn't him he was sure of it, he'd rendered her unconscious but he hadn't drawn blood. He'd never draw blood from her.

His hand traces its way down to her throat, taking a light grip of it and nudging her closer. Lyra swallows thickly, Tom feeling the flesh of her neck quiver under his gaze and he grins.

"You gonna comfort the crybaby?" He asks, craning his neck to whisper his taunts across her lips, "Or can he wait while I fuck you?" The word is so much harsher than the rest of his vocabulary and Lyra's lips part in surprise.

Brahms isn't in her mind, only Tom as he successfully suffocated everything present in her thoughts besides himself. His grip on her neck tightens ever so slightly and she lets out a small sound of praise.

He has his answer.

Her nails weave across the soft skin of his shoulders and Tom can't help but smile at their harsh shade of red. She's perfectly presented to him, every aspect of her begging to be adored.

Her flawless strawberry scented skin, softer than the finest velvets. He doesn't think he'll ever tire of how it feels against his. He falls into eternal bliss beneath her.

His touch is rugged, death trailing her skin in pursuit of his calloused palms, but she thinks he's perfect. His cheek brushes against hers, the short hairs prickling her skin as his lips pull at her neck.

His eyes regard her with nothing but adoration, her skin consumed by a comfortable glow in his presence. She hopes she never has to face the cold found in his absence.

He's gentle, treating her like she's an angel who'd fallen into his palms, gracing his life with exquisite temptations and the sweetest love one can give.

His hand forces her to lean against him, tangled in her hair to keep her close as their hips rasp together. His pale pink lips consume hers, savouring every hitched breath, every light moan that escapes her.

It's all for him.

She sinks further onto him, an ethereal wave of pleasure shooting across his body. His head lulls back into the bedsheets, a low groan of praise leaving his body. Lyra's palms are pressed against his chest, guiding herself against him. She'd never felt so good in her life.

He can't take it any longer, the passive, loving pace they'd set. There's an ache in his gut, setting his skin alight, burning and urging him to do more, to please her better.

Lyra's eyes fly open when she's rolled over, the cold sheets on her back making her instinctively arch, meeting his penetration deeper than ever. She whines gratefully at the feeling, meeting Tom's determined eyes.

He lifts her calf's to rest over his shoulders, a hand around her neck as a warning to keep her in that position. He hovers above her, a chain around his neck hanging loosely, dangling above her.

He slides deeper, only once, free hand gripping the headboard with a guttural exhale. She feels so good.

Lyra's bottom lip is tucked between her teeth as she watched the man above her, setting his pace, thrusting in and out with more passion than she had while she'd ridden him.

"Feel good?" He asks, she nods hastily, biting back her noises of affirmation as her mind finally falls to Brahms. Poor boy, she hopes he can't hear them.

A rough thrust draws her back to Tom as though he could feel her thoughts slipping away and he leans upwards, watching his own hips dive to meet hers.

Lyra's stomach swirls in pleasure, her skin heating, her mind hazy. He grows faster with each passing thrust and each time feels better than the last. Their eyes meet and there's a clench in Lyra's gut that grows increasingly tender until Tom's palm presses flush against her Stomach.

She closes her eyes in bliss as their lips collide in one final moment as she comes undone. Writhing beneath him, Tom lets out a groan as she clenches her thighs together, her lips parted in ecstasy. It's enough to envelop him into orgasm, his body not expecting it so soon.

He pulses inside of her, jamming himself further, erupting a gasp from her. He rests his forehead against her chest, his orgasm buried deep within her, thoughts of nothing but her intoxicating scent.

"What if you get pregnant?" Tom grumbles, realising what had happened once his thoughts gained clarity. Lyra bites her lip at the question, a solemn mood overtaking the pleasure she'd felt.

"I won't."