Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The blindfold slides over your mask easily, pressing it snugly against your face. There's a comfort you find in the darkness.  It allows you to surrender more easily, to lose yourself in the sensations Cirrus exposes you to.

He leads you forwards, gloved hand tight around your upper arm through your cloak. You're nude beneath it. It's something that Cirrus increasingly favors. You suspect that he likes the vulnerability, the easy access, and most of all - the discrepancy between your two attires.  His narrow, tall, fully covered frame is a sharp contrast to your blemished and exposed one. You stumble a little as you walk, bare feet catching a little on the uneven stones beneath them. There's the sound of a door opening and shutting and you can tell by the resonance of your footsteps and air on your skin that you've been led to a small room. He stops and you do as well, shifting your weight nervously.

"Kneel."  A command you're familiar with. As you do so, you're relieved to find soft, folded fabric on the floor before you. 

He steps close enough behind you that you can feel his shins through your cloak at your back. 

"Every time you're bare before me, you shrink beneath my gaze. You try to hide yourself from me."

He stoops, sliding the cloak from your shoulders so it pools around your legs. He crouches behind you, one knee coming to rest next to your ankle. You shiver a little in the cool air, the only heat coming from the cradle of his thighs at your sides. 

"What is it, that makes you reach so eagerly for your clothes when I allow you to wear them? Do you feel unworthy of my attention?"

So that's what this is about. You feel grateful that your mask conceals the way your face twists. It's your skin. From forehead to sternum, you're speckled with blemishes. Red, painful ones that ache and throb beneath the safety of your clothes. Unblemished sections are marred with scars, pitted and uneven. 

"I should think it's obvious," you mutter, tilting your chin down towards your chest. His gloved hand makes you jump as he rests at the top of your thigh.

"Indulge me."

"I hate my skin. It makes me feel gross, I don't know." Your words rush from your lips, hissed out with a sharp exhalation of breath. He places his other arm around your bare waist, encircling you in his arms. "Nothing I do changes it. At least here in the marketplace I'm free from unasked-for, misinformed advice that doesn't work."

“Your skin?” His gloved hand slides down to rest on your sex. Not moving - just there, a firm pressure. His other draws the blindfold from your eyes and you shudder. There you are, kneeling in front of a full body mirror. The light of torches in the sconces on either side fully illuminate your body, each inflamed spot on your skin casting shadows. Cirrus’ mask glints above your shoulder, his mouth slightly downturned. You turn your head away from the sight, hands balling into fists at your side. You feel disgusting. You no longer feel the chill of the room. Instead, there’s a fire in your skin– one of shame, humiliation, and arousal.

A firm hand in your hair wrenches your gaze forwards again. You flinch, eyes squinting shut. His voice is soft and dangerous in your ear.

“Look at yourself.” 

In spite of his grip on your head you manage to shake it a little, scalp burning in his tight grip. He lifts the firm, tantalizing pressure on your groin, only to bring his palm down harshly in a stinging slap. You gasp, eyes flying open. Denying him is only delaying the inevitable. His hand soothes the skin, rubbing softly. Blood beats fiercely in your skin, singing with desire. A reward for obedience.

Both of you look at the reflection. He nearly envelopes you, dark shoulders and shining hair visible over your masked head, one hand still relentlessly moving against your heated sex. The blemishes that spatter your skin are inescapable. Your hips rock into his hands, seeking the friction he provides. 

“Does the moon itself not have a surface that is rough and cratered? A face that shines so brightly despite the ridges that cross it?”

“Yes,” you admit, voice quiet.

“Do those imperfections block the light from the sky? For years, scholars have pondered those markings. Depicted them in art, spent hours examining the topography so it can be mapped… wondered at their complexity and beauty.”

You sag in his hold, losing yourself in the commanding tone of his voice. A sermon just for you. You don’t agree with him, privately. How can you see your acne as something beautiful? But you’ll let him tell you, cant your hips into the sweet pressure of his palm, the sinful way his fingers press into your flesh. You don’t have to believe him to–

But that friction is gone and your hips circle uselessly, stuttering in the air. A whine escapes, high-pitched in the quiet room.

“We’ll stay here until you can see it, my star. Until you can say it about yourself, until you see what I see. A shining example of the moon’s beauty, tumbled from the heavens and lost beneath the earth.”

Chapter Text

These days, it’s often that you end up in Francesco’s bed. Tangled in the sheets with him, giggling and breathless, hands spanning each other's bodies. Teasing such pretty sounds from his lips. You much prefer to go to his lodgings. After all, he has the money to shell out for the high thread count sheets. 

It’s on one of these evenings that the two of you lay side by side in his bed, fingers loosely intertwined. He’s nude except for his mask and sheet that drapes around his lean hips. He looks like he fell out of a Renaissance painting . The room is cozy, lit by the cool tones of glowworms that cast delicate shadows through the transparent canopy around the bed. You’re still in your clothes, rumpled and a little damp from sweat. His thumb rubs absentmindedly along your hand.

“Vesper – I have something I’ve been wondering about.” His voice is tentative, like he’s worked up the courage to ask. 

“Hmm?” you mumble, cosy in the relaxed afterglow.

“Well, you – you never seem to take your shirt off when we’re together, and…” You turn towards him and he’s reddening, lip caught between his teeth as he pauses. Each time he’s tugged at the buttons of your shirt before, you’ve bent towards him, used your tongue and teeth to suck kisses into the skin of his neck until he’s gasping and distracted, fists holding tight to the fabric instead of trying to remove it. It’s been a pretty effective strategy at keeping your clothes on.

“You’re that eager to get my clothes off? Been fantasizing what I look like, undressing me with your eyes?”

Though you can’t see his expression clearly, you know he’s leveling you with a glare. “Stop it! I’m trying to ask you something.” 

He rolls to face you; fingers still laced with yours. Serious for a moment. “Is there something you’re insecure about? Because – well, I wanted to say that you don’t have to be worried around me. I won’t judge you. We-we could even turn the lights off, if it would make you feel more comfortable.”

You sigh. You are insecure, to tell the truth. Your entire torso and face are specked and pockmarked with scars, left over from years of acne. Blemishes still dot your skin, scattered between the fading marks. It’s easier to keep your shirt on so you can just focus on being in the moment with him. You lay there quietly, thinking it over.

“If you’re not comfortable changing things, we don’t have to, I promise! I just noticed that you always leave it on, so…”

“Whatever you’ve imagined I look like in that pretty head of yours, I won’t measure up.” 

You can feel his alarm just as much as you can hear it. Francesco shoots up onto his elbow, propping it under him like he wants to leap into the air. “What?! Y-You don’t have to worry about that!” He’s fumbling, stumbling over his words in his haste. “I’m sure that you look amazing! You’re strong, you’re– you’re so good at kissing, your voice is really hot…I– Please, let me convince you.”

You think about it. You’ve thought about taking your shirt off in front of him before, and maybe even your mask as well. But shyness and shame has always stalled your hands. It’s even harder when you can see him, how golden and resplendent he is, perfect and princely. It makes your own imperfections seem even more unattractive. “Ugh, I don’t know. My skin’s pretty bad, Francesco. I don’t have a great complexion.”

He slumps back down on the bed, thinking it over. “When I was younger, I used to play in a garden with another boy. It was a big, beautiful one – with thick walls of stone and flowers that crept up them. We’d be out there every day, running around and playing games. But as we played together that year, I noticed he changed a little bit.” Francesco’s hand is so warm in yours. “He got freckles in the light, as the summer went on. I hadn’t seen that happen before, so I asked him what they were. Where his spots came from. He told me each one is a kiss from the sun.”

It’s just like Fran to explain it so romantically. “Yeah, well… I think freckles are a lot cuter than what I have going on,” you say hesitantly. You’re scared. Scared that all his giddy affection will shutter when he sees you, that his face will fall. The thought is nearly unbearable. But at the same time, he’s been so brave with you. Never afraid to let you see his most vulnerable parts. Shy and blushing at times, yes– but he’s always running forwards, trusting you to see him through. Maybe you can be brave too. 

“Fine, I’ll take it off.”

“You don’t have to! If you don’t want to, really–”

“No, I think it’s a good idea.” And before your courage fails you, you sit up and unbutton your shirt, pulling it over your head.

“ Wow ,” he breathes.

“Yeah, it’s that bad.” You're already turning away from him, flushing. 

“No!! Vesper, wait!” he sits up as well, sheet crumpled in his lap. His hands catch you by your shoulders, steadying you. “You look amazing .”

“I don’t know about that.” All the bravado and confidence you usually show him has fallen away.

“How do you not see it??” Though Francesco has his mask on, you can feel his gaze sweep over you, looking at you with reverence. “All the marks are just a part of you! When I look, I can see the tone of your arms, the way your skin glows in the light, where your heart is…” One of his hands slides up to cradle the side of your neck. “Your muscles, the way they flex as you move… the shape of your waist, the feel of your skin…” 

“I wish I didn’t have them. That I just looked… normal .”

“How can I convince you that I don’t see them that way?” He smooths his hands across the span of your shoulders gently. “That they add to how you look… like sprinkles! Or confetti!”

“Fran, they’re not confetti!” You’re flustered, torn between affection and years of shame that still weigh you down. 

He shifts in your direction, straddling your hips and lowering you down onto the mattress. “Let me show you,” he breathes, stooping towards your chest. His lips press against your skin, warm and affectionate. Peppering you with tiny kisses, one for each of the marks that pepper your skin. You giggle. 

“It tickles!”

“Shh,” he whispers, mock seriously. “I need to focus for the treatment to work.”

And as his mouth traces your body, again and again, you think you understand. How kisses from the sun could mark skin.