(TW: Vivid reference to self-harm; shame)
Arthur had never mentioned Merlin’s scars.
They were faded, but Merlin knew they were still perfectly visible. They were still very much there, and if he was honest, maybe they still screamed a little too loudly; visual reminders that enjoyed mocking him, even after the number of years that had passed since he had painted his skin with them.
If he was honest, maybe he still thought twice before stripping down around anyone else, even after all this time. If he was honest, maybe the marks on his legs had prevented things from moving forward with Arthur for longer than Merlin cared to admit; too afraid of watching Arthur’s eyes trail down his body and zero in on past failures, laid right out on his skin like an essay of reasons Arthur shouldn’t want him.
That hadn’t happened. In fact, the first time Arthur’s hands had dragged at his clothes until there was nothing but heat left between their bodies, nothing had happened at all except Arthur pressing him down into the sheets and mumbling filthy promises mixed with loving endearments until Merlin had lost himself completely in a rush of ecstasy.
But even now, Merlin couldn’t help waiting for it. Every time they fell into bed together, every time Arthur licked and bit his way down Merlin’s body, every time Arthur’s hands skated along Merlin’s thighs—Merlin would hold his breath, just for a few seconds, and wait. Wait for Arthur to pull away in disgust and shock, wait for him to yank his hands away from Merlin’s skin as if it had burned him.
But today, just like every other day, Arthur only held him close like he always did as Merlin came, shuddering against him, wrapped in the fine sheets of Arthur’s bed as soft morning light danced across the surfaces of the room. (It was a Saturday. Arthur was a fan of morning sex on Saturdays, and Merlin was a fan of spending Friday nights at Arthur’s.)
(Read at AO3)