scars and memory
Title: Scars and Memory
Fandom, Pairing: Merlin, merlin/arthur
Rating: PG i guess. idk.
Genre: romance, slash
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were then this wouldn't need writing
Warnings: none
Short Summary: prompted by anonymous. 'merthur; scars and memories'
Notes: Rushed and unbetad. I'm terrible.
It’s a lovely contrast; white on gold. It’s pretty, it’s sublime. It’s them.
It’s Merlin’s long fingers trailing delicate patterns on Arthur’s chest. Calloused and rough, but still such a pure white.
Arthur’s chest is smoother than one might imagine (Merlin will tease him for it later. Not very manly, is it, to have a smooth chest?), and prettier too. The muscles are big and strong, and his body is so broad and powerful, but the smattering of hair is soft, and his skin is soft. It’s as though he were forged from iron and then draped in silk.
Merlin closes his eyes. He simply feels.
Eventually, the illusion of this pretty perfection is shattered. Merlin’s fingers trace the line of a thick ridge that runs across Arthur’s abdomen. Sword, years ago, some drunken idiot from the lower town.
Merlin’s brow furrows. It bled a lot, he recalls.
His fingers continue their journey, mapping out every single patch of skin, both perfect and imperfect.
A fall, two winters ago during training. No one saw, but you were still embarrassed.
Some are old, from long before Merlin came to Camelot.
Practising with Morganna as a child. She was sneaky. Got in a lucky blow.
Merlin frowns a little harder. Did Arthur tell him that? He must have. Although, it was a defeat. Would Arthur have told Merlin about being defeated by a girl? No. Definitely not.
Merlin remembers. His fingers linger on this scar, on Arthur’s hipbone, and he remembers. He can see Morganna’s determined face, he can feel Arthur’s glee. He’s winning. And then very abruptly, he’s not. She’s caught him with her knife and Merlin can feel it.
He opens his eyes. Arthur is looking at him. Staring, actually, with a half amused half scathing look on his face.
Merlin smiles, an odd sad sort of smile, before crawling back up the bed and nestling against Arthur’s chest.
He wants to know the stories of Arthur’s scars, but he doesn’t want to remember. He won’t steal his King’s memories away with a magic touch. Arthur will tell him, perhaps. He’ll draw out the map of his body for Merlin to follow later, with his fingertips.
Fandom, Pairing: Merlin, merlin/arthur
Rating: PG i guess. idk.
Genre: romance, slash
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were then this wouldn't need writing
Warnings: none
Short Summary: prompted by anonymous. 'merthur; scars and memories'
Notes: Rushed and unbetad. I'm terrible.
It’s a lovely contrast; white on gold. It’s pretty, it’s sublime. It’s them.
It’s Merlin’s long fingers trailing delicate patterns on Arthur’s chest. Calloused and rough, but still such a pure white.
Arthur’s chest is smoother than one might imagine (Merlin will tease him for it later. Not very manly, is it, to have a smooth chest?), and prettier too. The muscles are big and strong, and his body is so broad and powerful, but the smattering of hair is soft, and his skin is soft. It’s as though he were forged from iron and then draped in silk.
Merlin closes his eyes. He simply feels.
Eventually, the illusion of this pretty perfection is shattered. Merlin’s fingers trace the line of a thick ridge that runs across Arthur’s abdomen. Sword, years ago, some drunken idiot from the lower town.
Merlin’s brow furrows. It bled a lot, he recalls.
His fingers continue their journey, mapping out every single patch of skin, both perfect and imperfect.
A fall, two winters ago during training. No one saw, but you were still embarrassed.
Some are old, from long before Merlin came to Camelot.
Practising with Morganna as a child. She was sneaky. Got in a lucky blow.
Merlin frowns a little harder. Did Arthur tell him that? He must have. Although, it was a defeat. Would Arthur have told Merlin about being defeated by a girl? No. Definitely not.
Merlin remembers. His fingers linger on this scar, on Arthur’s hipbone, and he remembers. He can see Morganna’s determined face, he can feel Arthur’s glee. He’s winning. And then very abruptly, he’s not. She’s caught him with her knife and Merlin can feel it.
He opens his eyes. Arthur is looking at him. Staring, actually, with a half amused half scathing look on his face.
Merlin smiles, an odd sad sort of smile, before crawling back up the bed and nestling against Arthur’s chest.
He wants to know the stories of Arthur’s scars, but he doesn’t want to remember. He won’t steal his King’s memories away with a magic touch. Arthur will tell him, perhaps. He’ll draw out the map of his body for Merlin to follow later, with his fingertips.