Work Text:
A party, one of great opulence and glittering luxury. The ballroom swathed in a golden light that shatters brilliantly into tiny fractures of colour when it meets the crystals of the chandeliers. Music weaves through the air, a perfect harmony that wraps around the dancers, an enticing invitation you decline in favour of a drink. It’s through a towering pyramid of champagne flutes your gaze meets another and instantly, you are captivated.
Blue eyes that sparkle, brighter even, than the stars scattered in the night sky, stars that though they’re visible, you pay them no mind. How could you, when there’s magic before you that has heat blossoming along your cheeks and butterflies bursting in your belly. Perhaps you did well to dress as an angel, delicately feathered wings paired with a silk dress and diamond drop earrings that catch the light. Beauty unparalleled, the admiration of your guest is enough to convince you that you are in heaven. And though your masquerade mask shields most of your face, you’re quite certain he sees right through it. Just as you do his.
There’s little you’re certain of, but as your mother hastens you away, fate whispers a promise to meet the man dressed as a prince once again.
It’s a promise you hold on to all night. Clutched tight within your heart as you play the role of a dutiful daughter at a party that’s nothing more than a farce, a fanciful middle finger up at your father’s rivals here in Venice. The Blackwoods. Powerful in both politics and riches. Business that grants them ownership of the other half of the city. Family not unlike your own, except for a son. One you are warned against, though you cannot hope to understand the feuding. When one too many jokes at their expense ring in your ears, you excuse yourself. Chin tucked to your chest and eyes downcast, thoughts of your lost prince consume you until the party around you is nothing but a mere blur.
A hand flies out, fingers wrapping around your wrist to pull you behind the fish tank and your little gasp is muffled by the mouth pressed to yours.
“Charles!”
“Bellissimo angioletto.”
Beautiful little angel.
Charles slips off his mask, tucking it into the pocket of his prince’s costume much to your dismay. Should anyone see him here, with you, it would be the end of him. The fish tank barely conceals you, but all intentions of arguing are lost with Charles’ dominance. His mouth captures yours once more, a force behind the kiss you can’t hope to control and as always, you give in.
A heated passion overtakes you, skin scorching through the silk of your dress, you’re sure he can feel it. His fingers stroke a wet warmth between your legs, tongue coaxing your lips apart. The softest of moans catches high in your throat, head tipping back against the cool glass tank. Charles possesses a dangerous charm that’s far too alluring to ignore. Never one to treat you as fragile, you’re hopelessly drawn to his rough edges, the very ones that make you burn with desire.
“Bellissimo angioletto.”
Cocooned in his earthy, woody scent, you cling to him, nails biting into his shoulders. The prospect of being caught only heightening how dizzy with arousal you are. A shuddering whisper of his name in his ear and you can feel him throb against your slick walls and in turn, you tighten around him uncontrollably. Pleasure that sets alight every nerve in your body. Bliss that has you forgetting all the world except him.
Charles Blackwood, the son of your father’s rival. You shouldn’t ache for him so. Your body shouldn’t react so instinctively to his touch. You shouldn’t whine at the loss as he withdraws. And you certainly shouldn’t feel a fresh pulse of excitement in your core as he tucks your panties back into place. A night of festivities to return to. As if nothing happened. As if he was never here. The only evidence still seeping out between your legs.
“Bellissimo angioletto. Questa notte.”
Beautiful little angel. Tonight.
Tonight. The second promise of the evening. The second promise you hold tight to. Charles’ words a secret song in your heart. You carry it with you in a bath before bed. Smile at the butterflies that bloom in your belly as you tie the knot on your silk gown. Breathe in the cool night air out on the balcony. And it’s as your eyes barely close that a familiar husk filters through the silence.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, so that I may climb thy golden stair.”
Charles. Oh, he’s handsome as ever by moonlight. Shards of it through his hair, swimming in the depths of his eyes, slicing across the smirk on his lips. Costume long abandoned under the tree that embraces your balcony. You’re left breathless at his tousled hair and half-buttoned shirt. The gentlest of breezes ripples through the air, chestnut locks trapping a stray leaf and you pluck it with a giggle. Only for the sound to fade into a gasp. Surprise and relief all at once to finally have his hands on you once more. You never want to let him go.
“Guardami.”
Look at me.
Tremors of arousal, hot shivers of delight at the unhinged want in Charles’ eyes. How could you look anywhere else? Darkness, black lust that overpowers blue. Deft fingers that nudge your gown gracefully down your shoulders until silk pools at your feet. Possessiveness, the lick of his lips and the rough sweep of his fingers over your bared body. An angel, still, but his angel. One he would have the whole city hear screaming his name if it wouldn’t kill him. One day, perhaps. For now, the bedroom walls suffice as secret keepers.
“Bellissimo angioletto,” he murmurs with a greedy expression. “Nemmeno immagini cosa ho intenzione di farti.”
Beautiful little angel, you can’t imagine what I’m going to do to you.
Oh, Charles could have you any way he wishes and he knows it too well. All softness curling at the edges to reveal unhinged desire to make you his over and over again. Satisfied groans at how your eyes never stray from his, not even as he thrusts into you. Breathy whimpers he earns with open-mouthed kisses across your breasts. Shuddering grunts for your wrists trapped in his grip. The slick sound of your arousal with every rock of his hips. The tickle of hair that lines his navel on your clit. The hard press of his muscled chest against your pebbled nipples. Everything all the more intense because it’s Charles.
“Sto per venire. Come sei bagnata. Cazzo, come sei stretta.”
I’m close. You’re so wet. Fuck, you’re so tight.
Charles, Charles, Charles. All you know is him. All you feel is him. Obscene and passionate in equal measure at how you come apart under him, how he falls apart for you. Your fingers find his hair, tug hard as he spills into you and you whisper a cry at how your walls flutter around him. Desperate to have him in you, if only to feel full of him. Tangled in silk sheets and each other. Magic, but the spell seems to break with the bang of a fist on your door. And your heart sinks with the finality of what it means.
Kisses of haste and clothes half-scattered. Screams that beg and hands that grab. Cries that plead and escape slowly slipping away. One last kiss, it’s all the love and dominance you know from Charles. Asking through tears as he watches the guards pull you back. Ducking under the outstretched arms of your father and his outburst.
“Is this goodbye?”