I went to see the special theatre event broadcast of Yerma in toronto over the weekend and it was AMAZING except for the POWER OUTAGE that had the cineplex evacuating us ONE HOUR INTO THE PLAY!!!!
I CANT EXPRESS HOW AGONIZING THAT WAS OMFG
The theatre employee gave us 2 passes each for another event screening so we went downtown to another theatre which had one last final 6pm screenig of Yerma. Honestly if I hadn’t been able to see the ending… ide…
ANYWAY it was an amazing play and Billie deserves all the awards I’m so proud and in love with her <3333
Paring:Giacomo Casanova x Fanny Price Chapter: 3/? Rating:Explicit Word count: 3000 Tags: Slow Burn, Fluff, First Meetings, First Kiss, First Time, Mutual Pining, Masturbation
Summary:
When he decided to come to England, it was for the women. It wasn’t to sell the Italian dresses he didn’t make. It wasn’t to drink champagne in posh garden parties he didn’t like. It most definitely wasn’t to fall in love with a woman he didn’t want.
Tagging@timepetalscollective for the third chapter - and I am writing this much too quickly!
CHAPTER 3
The ten minutes she had given him had turned into twenty, thirty, into a full hour they had spent strolling along the white pebbled-path slithering among the gardens. They had talked. Just talked, gotten to know each other a little better. He knew she had been sent away from an impoverished home at age ten to live with a wealthy family that didn’t hold her in their hearts. She knew he was a prosperous Italian dressmaker in Venice and had come to England to sell his creations to British high-class society and enlarge his market.
He tossed a ten pound note on the counter and pointed his chin at the scantily dressed prostitute eying him with a filthy smile he answered with one of his own.
Fanny Price. She was a nice girl, he thought. No, not a nice girl. An exquisite woman. He remembered her smell, a shallow scent of summer flowers and autumn leaves, a scent that must have been but a ghost of a once powerful fragrance, probably diluted into too much cheap alcohol to make it last longer. He wasn’t one to mind a woman’s smell much - if he had, he believed the number of women he had claimed would be divided by a few digits. But Fanny smelled nice. Nothing strong, nor intoxicating. Just a subtle smell in the background that didn’t speak to him directly, just whispered quiet words of comfort and peace, a discreet companion that had followed in their steps. He had only noticed the smell when she had left at the arm of her brother.
The dark-haired woman giggled as she wrapped her legs around his hips and he sat her down on the chest of drawers in the small room. Dimly lit by a few candles, probably less clean than it ought to be, filled with the noises coming from the other rooms - sounds that would soon echo in this room from the inside. He bunched her skirt high enough, fiddled with the laces that kept his trousers tight around his waist, bit his sharp teeth into the juncture of her neck. He groaned against her ebony skin, gave his hard length a few tight pumps, and inhaled deeply just as he thrust into her. Her smell was pungent. Aggressive. A perfume to hide the lingering musk of sweat and sex she couldn’t scrub off her body between clients. He growled his pleasure through his nose, but he only breathed in through his mouth. A flicker of guilt ignited in his stomach as he rammed into her, squeezed her thighs, massaged a breast that had escaped from its flimsy prison. Guilt, because he closed his eyes, and remembered the summer flowers and autumn leaves.
Fanny. He still didn’t know why he had felt compelled to talk to her. With her cheap dress and messy hairstyle, she wasn’t like any of the women he usually chased after. It must have been her eyes. Or her mouth. Her smile.
He slipped his hands under her bottom and lifted her up from the chest, wavered back on his feet and crashed over her, they bodies collapsing on a hard mattress covered with a moth-eaten duvet. He hurried to lift her legs and lock them across his shoulders, heavy pants flowing out of his mouth, thrusting his hips harder, faster.
Her smile. Shy and embarrassed, with that twinge of cute. He had never qualified a smile, much less a woman, with that word. He liked flirtatious, eager, hungry. He liked the smiles that spoke of a desire to bend before him and surrender some dignity to him, that spoke of a need to feel him take and give, but mostly take. And he took them. He took those smiling lips, and filled their mouths, he took those women, and filled them whole. But Fanny. It was just a smile. A cute smile. And he had no desire to take that smile away from her face. Had no other desire than to see her smile again, and hear her laugh again. There had been something unfathomable about the merry song that her voice had carried to his ears when he had told her the story of the fat Italian duchess who had tripped over her coat and fell head-first into a murky pond. Some kind of innocent amusement, an almost childish glee that didn’t deprive the sound of its beauty. That didn’t deprive her of her beauty. Deep whiskey eyes that sparkled more than the most expensive of champagnes, that shone more than a scorching Italian sun at its zenith, that spoke of her joy better than her words had. And her voice…
“I not know Italian men was so…” the prostitute started to say between choked gasps as he folded tighter over her, the loud and quick slap of flesh against flesh almost drowning her words.
“Sta’ zitta, puttana,” he grunted, wiping a bead of sweat rolling down his nose on his sleeve.
“Wh…”
“Shut up,” he clarified - and he brought fingers between they bodies to rub against her bud, hoping that would be enough to steal whatever words she had left on her tongue. “When you come, say my name. Only my name. Casanova.”
Casanova. He didn’t want to be a Casanova to Fanny. He wanted to be a Giacomo. Casanova was the side of him he would keep out of her sight for as long as she would allow him to, for as long as he would be able to. He shouldn’t be scared of who he was. The life he was leading, he had chosen. He wanted the women, he wanted the sex, he wanted the freedom, sod the decency, sod the decorum, sod the rules. Nothing wrong about enjoying the simple and too-rare pleasures life brought with it, and certainly nothing wrong about sharing those pleasures with consenting women who spread their thighs and opened their mouth at any given chance. Some enjoyed strong liquor, Cuban cigars and games. He enjoyed sex. It was an addiction just like any other addiction, except sex had never hurt or killed anyone before - not to his knowledge, and most certainly not when he was in charge.
So why was he terrified at the thought of Fanny finding out about Casanova when he believed he was just as nice a gentleman as Giacomo, he could only guess. Probably because he knew she had liked him. How she had confided in him, how she had leant almost imperceptibly against him when they had sat on that stone bench under a willow tree, how her voice and smiles had grown more confident, more open, as if she already trusted him like a dear friend. She had liked him, and he had liked her. She had been honest, he had lied all along. Giacomo, the wealthy dress trader on a business trip to England. He should have been honest too.
“Casanova,” the dark-skinned woman writhed under him and he winced when her nails scraped red paths down the skin of his thighs.
Casanova, yes, the bankrupt libertine on a quest for British women to add to his prize list. That would have been honest. As honest as a slap in the face and a kick in the loins. And just as painful, because he would have had to wave his sweet Fanny goodbye. Sweet Fanny. Sweet, innocent, virgin Fanny.
His eyes shot open and he stared at the woman under him. Black eyes, black skin. He licked her calf and let the taste of her body oil fill his mouth, her strong smell invade his nose.
“Parla,” he ordered through a heavy groan, slamming his hips hard against her, chasing after a completion that wouldn’t come if he kept the fair hair, the summer flowers, the smile, the laugh and the voice in his head. “Speak. Presto, speak.”
She did. Each coarse words leaving her mouth fueled his desire, incentives that made his pleasure boil, curses that gnawed dents in the tight coil settled deep in his abdomen. He bit his tongue and stared at her face, flared his nostrils to breathe in more of her scent, and pounded into her wet heat until the ravenous waves of his orgasm finally swept it all away. It took one flutter of his eyelids. Just as his release hit. One flutter, and he saw her face, a fleeting image of fair hair, a breath of flowers, a ghost of a laugh ringing in his ears.
“Cazzo,” he moaned loudly, letting her legs fall to the side as he pushed himself away from her. “Sono fottuto.”
“No good?” she asked - and he saw the fear in her eyes that she wouldn’t get the tip she needed to live. “Again?”
“No, it’s not you, bella,” she shook his head as he reached inside his pocket to take out another note. “There. Go. Grazie.”
He waited until she was gone to lock the door and divest himself of the clothes he hadn’t managed to take off, damp with sweat and more wrinkled than they were supposed to be. It fell at his feet. A light pink lily she had picked up in the gardens and given him with a smile, proud to have thieved it from a bed of flowers. He remembered it was a symbol a devotion, though he doubted she was aware of the fact when she had tucked it behind his ear, pretexting its colours matched the one of his ribbon rather well. He remembered it was also a symbol of death. That flower bore way too deep and eloquent meanings he didn’t want to dwell on in that moment. He put the lily atop the pile of fresh clothes he had retrieved from his bag and fled in the modest bathroom, dipped his too tall body in the water of the rudimentary tub. The wood felt viscous under his skin, the water felt too cold, the soap smelled of rotten earth, but still. It was nice. He closed his eyes, and he saw her again.
“Who are you?” he murmured to himself before he submerged his head between his knees.
***
“Who is he?”
She blushed a little and whacked his arm when she realized he was wiggling his eyebrows and grinning from ear to ear.
“An Italian dressmaker, or so he told me,” she sighed, the way their joined hands were swinging back and forth as they walked losing a bit of its fervour. “I know he goes by the name of Giacomo, but he wouldn’t tell me his full name.”
“Italian? Careful there, Fanny,” her brother warned her with a tut. “I have heard of Italian men, they don’t have the best reputation around.”
“Well, he was nice,” she shrugged, discreetly hiding the lily she’d been holding between her fingers in a fold of her tunic. “He was more of a gentleman to me than you could ever be to any woman, if you must know.”
“Did he try to kiss you?”
“For Heaven’s sake, William, he didn’t even try to hold my hand. We just sat on a bench and talked. As friends. That man must be riding his horse on a path of gold and diamonds. He sold a dress to Lady Edwards for a hundred and twenty pounds, can you imagine?”
“What does this have to do with being just friends?” he raised an eyebrow, helping her to lift her dress when they reached a thin stream of water hidden among the blades of grass.
“He,’ she continued as she hopped over the stream, “was obviously looking for a British wife to invest part of his fortune. With me, the best thing he can spend his money on is a village corner shop that sells rags. Open your eyes, William. I know you want me to find a good man, but Giacomo is exactly the kind of man I cannot have. I appreciate your faith in me, but I’d appreciate it more if you didn’t try to feed me dreams. I have dreams of my own, and they don’t involve money or social rank, thank you.”
“Fanny, you know I just want your happiness,” he smiled, poking her rib with a fingertip. “And from where I was standing, believe me, that Giacomo really seemed to want more than a friendship with you, gold or not. You want to know the best?”
“What, he came to ask you for your blessing?” she groaned, swatting his hand away from her.
“No, no he didn’t. I wouldn’t have given it anyway. No, the best thing was… That was the first time I saw you smile since Edmund left for Peterborough. And that Italian tailor smiled more than you did. That has to mean something, hasn’t it? Did he want to see you again?”
The small blush tinting her cheeks turned to a full fire of red that swallowed her face at the unexpected question. She nibbled her lip to hide her smile, and realized her brother might have been right about the smiles. The more she thought of Giacomo, the brighter it grew. Still, she believed she had a chance with him just as much as she had a chance at becoming Queen of the country. He was not yet a friend, but he would probably be if they kept meeting. He was not yet a potential husband, but he would probably never be even if they kept meeting. She was Fanny price. Just Fanny Price. He was Giacomo. Kind, handsome, and offensively rich Giacomo. She had learnt a long time ago it was no use building fantasies on mere wishful thinking. She wasn’t even tempted to imagine what could happen beyond the day that would follow. She knew there would be more smiles, because he could make her smile like no one else. More laughing, because he was good-natured and accessible enough to enjoy his humour and farces. But no more wild heartbeat in her chest and knots in her stomach. No more lies in her head. That day, she had let herself believe because she had been caught off-guard. The day later, she would be prepared.
“He invited me,” she mumbled uneasily, fiddling with the fake ring around her middle finger. “Tomorrow, middle of the afternoon. Probably to another tea party.”
“Ah, see?” William smiled - and she had to roll her eyes at the excited pride in his voice.
“Because he doesn’t know anyone and didn’t want to go alone,” she added with a shrug. “William, please, don’t make it what it isn’t. Look at what stands before you, look at where Giacomo will see me tomorrow, and tell me he will not want to run away from this chaos. At Mansfield Park, with a nice dress, I might have had an opportunity like I had with Mr. Crawford. Here, in Portsmouth, there is nothing for him to find. Especially not someone like me.”
“Fine, I won’t annoy you any longer with Giacomo,” he nodded before he pressed a tender kiss on her temple. “But should anything happen, remember I want to meet him first. He can be rich and noble, but that doesn’t make him a good gentleman for my sweet sister.”
***
Sweet Fanny. He wasn’t rich, nor noble, and he most definitely wasn’t a good gentleman for such a delicate woman. But he wanted to believe. Believe she would see him for who he was, for Giacomo, and forgive him for his sins and his lies. Forgive Casanova. He wasn’t ready to ask for forgiveness, and he wasn’t ready to let Casanova go. Yet.
He blew out the quivering flame of the candles and slipped under the thin cover.
He could have gone downstairs to pay for another prostitute, but he had spent all his money already, both the savings he had brought in his luggage and the notes he had tricked that man into giving him for a smile. He could have ignored it altogether and slept through it, if that face didn’t haunt him everytime he closed his eyes. He had faced this situation many times before and dealt with it easily, quickly. This time would be just as easy, if not more, but it wouldn’t be quick. He didn’t want it to be quick.
He snatched a rag from the bedside table, trailed his fingers down his naked torso under the cover, stopped when they reached the coarse hair at the juncture of his legs. He just wanted to make sure guilt wouldn’t crush him. He brushed a fingertip against the base of his hard length, thought of her face, of the breasts he imagined to be firm and responsive under his hands, and let a groan roll up his throat. No guilt. Of course, he wouldn’t feel guilty. That desire might have been the only truth he allowed himself to confess. The only truth he knew he couldn’t feel guilty about, because it was pure, honest, fierce. He, Giacomo, desired Fanny. It wasn’t Casanova who wrapped his hand around his erection and teased his head. It was him. Just him. He smelled the summer flowers again, saw her smile, heard her laugh. He let his pleasure build, slowly, gentle strokes when he was used to hard squeezes, sensual and erotic images of an almost fully clothed Fanny when he was used to unimpassioned sexual pictures of faceless women spreading their legs, a simmering passion in his loins when he was used to a roaring fire. Soft gasps and words he wished he would get to whisper in her ear one day, when he was used to loud and animalistic groans and grunts. It had been a long time since he’d really enjoy masturbating, even longer since he’d made it last long enough for his erection to grow almost painful. Shots after shots of heat rushing through his blood, brought by thoughts and feelings all aimed at the fair-haired woman he had met that day, until it became to much.
He splayed his rag over his stomach and set his imagination free. His fingers pumped harder, faster, gathering his moisture so the hot and hard friction wouldn’t hurt as much. He dared to imagine the tip of his tongue lapping at her nipple through that beige dress and a raspy grunt fell from his lips. His hips rutted, once, twice, his back arched from the bed, and for the second time that day, he thought of Fanny Price as he released his passion over his fingers and his rag.
He made a quick job at wiping the evidence of what he thought to be a mere infatuation that would die soon enough. But then he turned on his side, nestled his face in the uncomfortable pillow, and he smelled the summer flowers again.
“Who are you?” he whispered in the dark, eyes wide-open captivated by the curls of blond hair and the smile that floated before the window. “What have you done to me, Fanny Price?”
