Work Text:
Crow's legs bracket the Guardian's own, his weight pleasant where he sits comfortably on their thighs. He smiles down at them, and for a moment they are so dazzled that is it enough to make them forget the trap they've found themself in.
But they would never dream of escaping. Not when his hands and lips trail over their skin so tenderly, the curves of his face aglow with starlight and wonder as he admires them without shame. He is blinding to look at, a vision silhouetted like an angel by the dozen flickering candle lights he had dotted around their room. They’d laughed when they’d first seen his set up, recalling a scene from the cheesy, low-budget rom-com they’d recently watched together; now it lulls them into a state of limbo, submission wrought from their stubborn nature by smoke and incense and the molten flickers of Solar Light in his eyes.
Crow’s fingers trace mindless patterns on their chest. Nails run over the mural of scars etched deep into their skin, history mapped as blemishes on its enactor. The silence is only interrupted by their quiet voices; questions and answers, a call and response.
“This must have been painful,” he murmurs, words thick with grief as he flattens his palm over a patch of roughened flesh that creeps up from their thigh. “Where did you get it?”
The answer is already on their tongue before he finishes speaking. “Nessus. Got cocky, then got thrown into radiolaria by a Minotaur. Ghost couldn’t get to it fast enough.”
He winces, nods, and moves on. His fingertips settle over another, a little smaller: three parallel streaks notched into their skin.
“And this?”
It takes them a moment. The memory is just out of reach, obscured by time and a lingering dread that words alone can't express - but then they remember. Worms squealing under their feet. Claws digging into armor, catching and pulling at ribs. Healing Light snuffed out by the hand of Darkness.
“Oryx,” they tell him, finally. It was so long ago now, when they were both different people. “Thrall, technically. Couldn’t risk bringing Ghost out. Had no time to heal properly. My Light was being… suppressed.”
Their voice is thin when they speak. As much as he wants to ask more, to find out every detail of a legendary battle he hadn't even been aware was happening, he deems it best not to inquire further. For their sake.
The ones that follow are much the same. A charred knife wound from a SIVA-infested Dreg. Wisps of black smoke clouding just under the surface, left by a Taken Centurion. Cracks like broken glass trailing across their collar, cut from Eramis’ Stasis prison. The burn of a fine rope, wound around their bicep by a Subjugator’s cruel snare.
A scar running up their throat, up their chin. An ugly thing, wide and deep and rough at the edges, carved by a ragged blade. Crow runs his fingertips along its length. He doesn't need to ask aloud anymore, just hums, and waits patiently for their reply.
But they hesitate. Crow guesses their answer before it's said aloud.
“Fikrul.”
Their confirmation makes him shudder. He kisses that line then, trailing his lips upwards until they finally meet the Wolf's, murmuring apologies into their mouth for sins that have long been forgiven.
He pulls away after a moment. Sorry as he is, his work does not stop here.
Bit by bit, Crow’s skillful hands unweave the tapestry that is the Guardian beneath him, unpicking thread by thread by thread. Some stories are forgotten, discarded, lost in the memories of everything else; others far too vivid, permanent reminders of traumas buried deep, but all of them, Crow thinks, are beautiful. All of them are knitted perfectly into the Guardian that he loves.
“What are you thinking about?” they ask when he pauses his ministrations to gaze at them in thought, unsure if they should be afraid of the answer.
“About you," he chuckles. As if he could ever be thinking about anything else right now, with his love nestled so happily beneath him. "About how strong you are. I always forget."
A smile plays on his lips as he presses a palm to the thick muscle hidden under their flesh. "If you wanted to, you could throw me off right now, couldn't you?"
They make a vague noise of disagreement. Crow smirks, leaning down until the blunt ends of his hair tickle their cheek.
“No?” he repeats, lilting his voice into a teasing tone. A pleasant heat flushes through the Guardian when he presses a feather-light kiss to their jaw. “Why? Do I make you feel weak, my love?”
Swallowing roughly, they manage to gather themself just enough to give him their answer.
“No.” They turn their face to capture his mouth with theirs. “You make me feel safe."