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“Hold still, lamb,” Sasha murmurs; gaze fixed on the point of torn flesh; tweezers–-surgical grade steel, not silver-–working free a tiny fragment of the unwanted metal carefully. Lykos hisses, and Sasha can feel him tensing under the hand the writer has settled on the man’s other shoulder. “Only one more,” come the writer’s next words; hand on shoulder rubbing gentle circles with fingertips for a moment before steadying once more and pressing firmly to hold Lykos relatively in place as the thin metal tweezers dip back down into the wound. A groan of pain, this time, and Sasha makes a soft, victorious sound as the last piece of silver blade comes free.
Setting tweezers aside, Sasha reaches for the alcohol and a cloth; soaking the later with the former just enough that it’ll be of use. “Gonna hurt again, sweetheart,” he says softly, dipping to press a kiss to the top of Lyk’s head, “just breathe through–-done in a mo’, I promise.” Lykos nods; exhales, and leans forward just slightly; silent permission to continue before he actually speaks.
“Just do it, Sash,” the man says–-and Sasha hums an affirmative; is gentle even still when he presses the cloth to the wound marring his lover’s skin. Lykos groans, tensing impossibly beneath Sasha’s hand–and Sasha tries to be quick about it; dabbing presses to let the alcohol permeate the cut appropriately. As he works, he whispers soft-–more to himself to Lyk, a quiet string of desole, desole that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing until Lykos manages a quiet pained “hey–-shut up."
Sasha’s mouth snaps shut-–he doesn’t feel bad, persay, more slightly stupid; he pulls away the cloth and feels Lykos relax under his touch. He says nothing more; squeezes the man’s shoulder with the hand remaining there, and reaches for the salve and gauze and tape; cloth slicked with blood and abandoned by the wayside in favour of gentler things. The salve is spread on carefully, and Sasha presses gauze to the no-longer-bleeding wound with a firm touch; taping things into place and murmuring a soft "done.”
Lykos sighs heavily before turning around; hands automatically finding Sasha’s hips as he looks up at the man quietly for a moment. Sasha-–he’d been worried, and Lykos knows as much. Sasha will likely never stop worrying, and the demon probably knows that too–seems to, because every time he comes home like this, the light in his eyes is softer when he looks at the writer.
“’M glad you’re okay,” Sasha murmurs; fingers automatically slipping into Lykos’ hair gently and stroking there, “thank god for Donovan, aye?” Lykos, to his credit, only laughs quietly and shakes his head–Sasha catches his words as they leave his mouth, and closes his eyes as a wry smile tugs at his lips, just in time to hear Lykos speak.
“God doesn’t have anything to do with the ducklings, Sash,” he says, all mirth and bass in the air, “or me, actually.” Sasha chuckles quietly; dips to press a kiss to his lover’s forehead, and curls his fingers into dark hair when Lykos simply presses closer as the writer stands; face against Sasha’s abdomen and hands shifting to settle instead at the taller man’s back. “I’m always okay, by the way,” he adds against the cotton of Sasha’s shirt, “don’t worry-–hey, don’t-–Sash, c'mon."
Sasha can’t help it, honestly-–because Lykos is actually a huge liar, and he loves the man dearly. "Always is a term used very loosely here,” he manages between a gale of soft giggles, “no--one in this house is always okay, and we both know it.” As if to add to the conversation, Milo-–ever present on the third blade of the ceiling fan–meows quietly; clearly agreeing with her owner as to the state of everyone in the household. “See? Milo agrees. You gonna fight her on this?” Sasha asks, clear tease present in his voice.
A muffled sort of mumble regarding how much of a little shit Sasha is comes from where Lykos is hiding against him–-which only makes Sasha’s laugh continue; soft and musical in the air. “I love you,” he says after a moment; amused but honest nonetheless, “so very much.” Lykos is smiling again–Sasha can feel it, and his fingers card slow through thick curls; other hand settling palm--soft against the back of the other man’s neck; not holding him there but just settling as a gentle sort of ground for the both of them.
“Love y’ too,” come Lyk’s next words–-and Sasha smiles, even though Lykos can’t actually see him. Every time the man says those words–-or any variation of, really-–a sort of curling contentment wraps around the writer’s heart and holds there; all careful and protective and definitely the most accurate type of truth there is. Lykos pulls back a moment later, to look up at Sasha, and skies meet oceans as the man standing teases a curl back from Lyk’s forehead gently.
“C'mon, lamb,” Sasha says then, tipping his head vaguely towards the door to the hall, “come lie around with me, yeah? We can watch somethin' 'nd y'can pretend t'not fall asleep on me.” Lykos must be used to it by now, this whole Sasha knowing him far too well business; he scoffs nonetheless, nodding as Sasha pulls back and he works himself into standing with a quiet groan.
The bedroom isn’t far off-–couch wouldn’t work, after the day Lyk has had, and the fact that Sasha plans to lay all over the guy. Up the stairs in silence, and Sasha strips the shirt off of his own body as they pass through the doorway to the bedroom; a cooler, quieter part of the house full of muted colours and soft glows from lights and candles perpetually going when he’s in the room regularly. Inked skin comes into the quiet light, and piercings shine vaguely as Sasha all but flops on the bed; waits for Lykos to do away with cellphone and keys and all things uncomfortable to lay around with.
They configure themselves dead centre, as per usual, and Lykos-–usually on his back–-ends up on his side instead; all soft smile with the usual edges of fire when Sasha curls up against him; warm and present, and settles a hand at the demon’s lower back. There’s a kiss there, after a moment of simply looking at one another-–Sasha shifts into it first; soft flicker of tongue against the man’s bottom lip that leads to a deeper thing. Not nearly pressing to a point of passion-–more a quiet sort of intimacy, and Sasha feels with every inch of his body just how wholly and immovably in love with Lykos he is.
“Taste like toothpaste,” Lykos murmurs against Sasha’s mouth–-and Sasha, really, cannot pass up such a glorious opportunity. He grins, playful, and presses that much closer-–mostly so that Lykos can’t shove him away and groan into a pillow about how much of a dork his lover is.
“Really?” comes the mumble back; quiet and clearly about to deliver something incredibly ridiculous. “Isn’t that minteresting?” Sasha chuckles softly when Lykos groans anyway; and the demon pulls back to laugh, because Sasha really is an idiot-–but he's his idiot, and that somehow makes up for the horrible puns.
Lyk’s hand brushes hair out of Sasha’s eyes, and Sasha–-lord, he’s so caught up in the other’s laugh; the weight and sensation of fingers on his skin that he can scarcely breathe for a moment. Lykos looks vaguely concerned–-but Sasha shakes his head, kisses him slow again, and entwines their fingers as he speaks. “Got all caught up in you again, dear heart,” he says-–so soft, so quiet that it’s like a secret between them. Lyk’s gaze softens further, and there are only tiny flames now as he nuzzles against Sasha, brushes noses against one another.
See, that’s the thing about being in love–-it tends to pull away pain of knife-wounds; take away the sharp edges and fire in one’s eyes. It makes everything soft and warm and welcoming–-and Sasha, with his free hand pressed comfortably over the beating of Lyk’s heart, has never, until he met this man, felt more welcome in his entire life.