"Don't you feel like breaking out or breaking us in two?"
Title: Padron Mio
Fandom: Don Giovanni (the opera)
Pairing: Don Giovanni/Leporello
Challenge/Prompt: 30randomkisses, 003. Hot
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Slash
Summary: Leporello considers himself to be one of the first to have his heart broken by Don Giovanni.
Author’s Notes: If I can write Shakespeare!fic then I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a crack at Mozart ;) You really don’t need to know anything about the opera to read this, and I mostly wrote this because the guys in the opera I went to see were really hot. So. Opera!smut. And for some reason, this was kind of madly intense to write. I think it’s the master/servant dynamic.
Notes: Don Giovanni is like Casanova, to all intents and purposes. He has seduced thousands of women etc etc. Leporello is his rather pitiful (but oh so sweet and pretty) manservant type bloke, who keeps lists of Don Giovanni’s conquests and covers for him and so on. This is set before the opera so you don’t need to worry at all about the plot (although it does end with Don Giovanni being dragged down to hell, which is always a pretty damn awesome ending in my book. Anyway.)
Working for Don Giovanni has its [few and far between] positive aspects, although more often than not it entails running down alleyways with angry fathers/husbands/brothers in hot pursuit, another woman’s innocence well and truly besmirched. Leporello is more than used to this by now, having worked for Don Giovanni all of his adult life, faithfully writing names, dates and places into battered little books of sin. Keeping records of Don Giovanni’s virile prowess, as the number of seduced women tumbles into the thousands.
Leporello considers himself to be one of the first to have his heart broken by Don Giovanni. Oh, he is not an innocent maid: promised marriage, fucked in her naiveté, and discarded before she’s even had time to pull her chemise back on. No, he and Don Giovanni have never - well - that’s not to say it hasn’t come close a couple of times, but Giovanni determinedly loves only women, and Leporello has more sense than most give him credit for.
But when it comes to the stickily uncomfortable question of why he stays with his master, Leporello has come to realise that it cannot just be because of the money. Giovanni is generous, because he likes to believe himself charitable, and so throws money around as bribery and rewards. Leporello cannot say that he isn’t grateful, that the pay compensates a little for standing outside in the rain listening to a symphony of screams come through a closely-shuttered window, but it is not the sole reason for his loyalty. It could be Giovanni’s threats of violence, his blackmail, that halfway murderous look he gets in his eyes some days, when Leporello can’t work out whether his master is even human, or taken over by the devil completely.
Don Giovanni is a rapist, a murderer, an adulterer, and a serial liar, to name but a few of his faults. Leporello knows all this. He knows.
However, Leporello uncomfortably realised a long time ago that his faithfulness is more than the money or the threats. There are times when he is unsure whether he hates Giovanni, but then there are other times, quieter times, when his master leans, half-dressed, against a wall and describes in detail the woman he loves so very much and plans to deflower that evening, and all Leporello can feel is yearning jealousy. He stands guard while Don Giovanni fucks his way through most of Europe, feeling a halfway vicarious thrill at every shriek and moan, telling himself that being in love with his unfaithful master affects nothing, changes nothing.
He prays that Giovanni never figures this out, though it’s been shown time and time again that he only sees what he wants to see. He sees Leporello as little more than his manservant, a dog to kick down and kick down again, until one day he gets bored and his eyes light up and he demands that it perform a trick. And Leporello has got so used to the dull ache that this produces that he no longer notices it. Not even when Don Giovanni is drunk on his own power, over-exuberant, describing the way he seduced such-and-such a girl, pulling Leporello in at the waist, running a finger down his cheek, tilting his chin up with a crooked knuckle, leaning in to almost give the kiss that he gave his tricked little whore without a second thought, before twirling away, laughing, throwing his velvet coat over a chair and describing her soft skin, her tight, wet cunt, until Leporello half wants to stab his master just to make him stop talking.
All he does, though, is neutrally add the girl’s name to the ever-growing list of his master’s conquests, with a congratulatory word or two, or a half-hearted reprimand that Giovanni shouldn’t be behaving like this. And Don Giovanni claps him on the shoulder and laughs and orders more wine and the cycle begins again.
They are in a little inn in the Italian countryside, currently on the run from four different angered fathers, who haven’t liked their previously virginal daughters being seduced and destroyed by a dark-haired stranger. Being stuck in the middle of nowhere like this, it’s hard to find women for Don Giovanni, and Leporello knows that it’s been a week since his master last deflowered anyone. He also knows, because he is the keeper of the records, that this is the longest Giovanni has gone without sex since he turned fifteen. Giovanni is restless, one moment violent, the next despairing, and Leporello watches his master pace and prowl and throw things against the walls in a carefully maintained silence, careful not to provoke any further mood swings. The rain patters faithfully against the roof, reminding them both just how isolated they are.
As usual, Don Giovanni turns to his favourite way to cheer himself up, if there are no women in the surrounding vicinity (which, apparently, there aren’t); drinking. He consumes vast quantities of red wine, demanding that Leporello keep pouring, until a glazed look comes over his dark eyes, and he is freer with his laughter.
“Drink with me,” he orders, and Leporello helplessly obeys, sprawled in a chair beside his master and sipping the heady alcohol, trying to keep some form of sanity because when he’s restless, Giovanni is dangerous. So very darkly dangerous.
There’s a manic look glittering in his dark eyes, and it’s not reassuring Leporello one bit. He attempts to sit back in his chair, wondering just why he blindly allowed his master to get quite this drunk. This is destined to end badly, awkwardly. But Leporello is trapped beneath what Don Giovanni wants, because what Don Giovanni wants, Don Giovanni fucking well gets, and there are no arguments. You submit quietly and obediently, and just wait for the madness to end. Though there are no guarantees that it even will end; at least, not any time soon.
“You know, Leporello,” Giovanni begins, a strange grin tugging the corners of his lips, stained red from wine, “There is a sad lack of company in this town.”
“But tomorrow-” Leporello starts helpfully, sitting as far back as his chair will allow.
“No,” Don Giovanni says decisively, “Tonight.”
“You’re drunk, master.”
“Very probably.” Giovanni’s smile reveals teeth, a dangerous predator. Leporello swallows awkwardly, keeping his gaze fixed on those dark, dark eyes, lit with a glow of lust and determination.
“You should get some sleep,” Leporello suggests hopefully, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks.
“Always telling me what I should do.” Giovanni shakes his head. “You’re my servant, Leporello. You should do as I tell you.”
“Master, please-”
Giovanni is leaning closer, candlelight glinting off his teeth and the curls in his hair, running a thoughtful finger down Leporello’s cheek, the skin soft as any woman’s; Leporello knows this because Giovanni has told him so before. The half-light makes Giovanni’s eyelashes cast black shadows over his face, making him seem demonic. Leporello draws in a shaking breath as Giovanni’s finger follows the line of his jaw, then up to his mouth, tracing the shape of his lips until they involuntarily open and he sucks the tip of Giovanni’s finger into his mouth. Giovanni smiles, and Leporello suddenly recognises the look in his eyes. He’s seen it directed at hundreds, thousands of women, but never at himself.
God in heaven, he thinks weakly, as Giovanni announces:
“Enough,” abruptly drawing his hand back. Before Leporello has time to wonder exactly what’s happening, Giovanni is leaning forwards, one hand tangling in the back of Leporello’s long, dark hair, hard enough to hurt, the other hand cupping his face, running his thumb along the jawline. And then he’s kissing him, deep and hard, no preamble, tasting overwhelmingly of wine. His skin is hot everywhere it touches Leporello’s, and the servant’s first instinct is to move away. But he’s pinned in the chair as Giovanni moves, knee pushing into Leporello’s thigh, the two of them balanced precariously on a chair tipping backwards, biting at each other’s mouths.
Leporello is not going to pretend that he hasn’t thought of this a hundred times these last few years, wondered how it must feel to be trapped beneath Don Giovanni, what it must be like to be seduced by him; he is not going to pretend that he does not want this. His hand comes up to press at Giovanni’s chest, feeling heat bleeding through that red shirt, and Giovanni groans softly, pushing ever-so-slightly, and the chair finally gives way, tipping them both onto the floor with a loud thump and a painful crash. Leporello thinks a leg has broken off the chair, and he can feel his back bruising from the wooden floor. Giovanni has noticed neither of these things, using the change from vertical to horizontal only to cover Leporello entirely, devouring his mouth like a starving man, fingers digging so hard into his hair that it hurts.
Leporello pushes until his master moves.
“Please,” he tries again, although he no longer knows what he’s begging for. Giovanni’s mouth is wet and red, and twists into a smug little smile, before he drags Leporello from the uncomfortable splintery floor to the scarcely softer mattress in the corner of the room, pushing him down hard enough for Leporello to lose all the breath from his chest in one mad rush.
A lot of things are suddenly becoming blindingly clear, the women who trail after Giovanni with sobs in their voices, the girls who give up a lifetime of principles with a giggle. Leporello thought that he was in love with his master before this. Now he thinks he’d die if he were dragged from his side, common sense lost from the feeling of Giovanni’s tongue drawing abstract shapes across his teeth. He thought perhaps he would manage to be immune to Don Giovanni’s all-consuming personality, but he is not. He is drowning and knows no way to save himself. Perhaps he doesn’t even want to be saved.
Giovanni tugs at Leporello’s shirt, drawing forth an unforgiving tearing sound as it is literally wrenched from his shoulders. Leporello pictures himself mending the shirt tomorrow, remembering his master’s hands on his skin with every slip and slide of needle and thread. The thought makes him feel faint and he turns his face away as Giovanni pulls his own clothing off with practised ease, burgundy-coloured shirt pooling on the floor like silken blood or split claret, yet another mess for Leporello to clean away, and he refuses to look as his master finishes stripping him, calm and frustratingly efficient. He hates Don Giovanni with a dark passion that turns into something entirely different at other times, something just as twisted, something just as precarious.
Everywhere they touch Giovanni is unbelievably hot, as though the fires of hell are written right onto his skin, flames flickering, telling Leporello where they are both going for this. But Giovanni’s teeth are biting his neck harder than is necessary and it hurts, and tomorrow his collar will hide dark purple marks, bitemarks of the devil himself. It’s a wonder his skin isn’t scorched, and Leporello wonders if maybe he is the first person to lie with Don Giovanni and know exactly who he is, know every one of his tricks. And then he wants to laugh, and does so, mouth pressed to his master’s, because he knows Don Giovanni inside out and he still lets himself fall.
Stupid stupid stupid.
And God, he just wants more.
Leporello spreads his legs almost desperately wantonly, thigh sliding up past Giovanni’s hip, one hand curling in Giovanni’s thick, dark hair. His master smells like he’s been bathing in wine, stained and steeped in sin, but his skin is impossibly smooth and almost burning beneath Leporello’s palm. He presses down on Giovanni’s lower back, and the man responds with a groan and a thrust against him. The movement makes Leporello’s mind go sparkling white and his hand clenches in his master’s hair so hard that Giovanni growls against his teeth.
The rain is still screaming against the roof, though Leporello can hardly hear it over his ragged breathing. His brain feels as though it’s full of fog, blood red in colour, all tangled up with that hunger in Don Giovanni’s deep eyes. It’s not even that this is a bad idea, although it is; Leporello is desperate and starving enough for any kind of touch. He knows that this is necessity, pure necessity: the lesser of two evils. Don Giovanni has never given him so much as a kind word without a sneer behind it, never given him a gift without thick strings attached, has had no qualms about setting Leporello up to be beaten half to death by the husbands of women he has seduced.
Barely able to walk, eyes swollen almost shut from bruising, curled up with cracked ribs and grazes and unbelievable pain that would last for days, if not weeks; and all Don Giovanni did was reprimand him for getting blood on his coat.
And yet there’s not one warning voice in his head, not one shred of dignity still clinging to him. Leporello sold common sense and pride and empathy and guilt a long time ago to remain by Don Giovanni’s side, and now he’s out for whatever he can get for himself. And though nothing about this situation is about him, it doesn’t matter. Don Giovanni may treat him as little more than an animal, subservient and begging to be kicked to shreds, but right now, oh he needs his tortured little manservant. There’s no one else for at least five miles willing to play the obedient whore.
Leporello digs a thumb into Giovanni’s hip, refuses to be tentative or even to think about what he’s doing, sucks his master’s cock into his mouth with determination and something approaching pleasure. The number of times he’s thought- But thoughts bear no relation to now and Giovanni is making animalistic little groans that shoot down Leporello’s spine so fast it almost hurts, and he almost chokes on the burning hot flesh in his mouth. Gleeful masochism and Giovanni’s hands fist in his hair. Leporello almost wants to bite down, to do something so viciously that his master will be forced to remember him, but he knows more than to ask for anything more than vague anonymity and a memory of something that may or may not have happened after too much wine.
Instead, he runs his tongue along the underside of Giovanni’s cock and listens to the symphony of groans this wrenches from his master’s bruised mouth. Giovanni is a greedy lover, as he is in every aspect of his life; take, take, take, but at least he’s not ashamed to admit that he’s enjoying himself. Leporello has heard these sounds a thousand times before (around two thousand if the books are to be truly believed; and they are) but now he’s the one responsible for them, and it’s almost gratifying.
He knows what’s coming. What’s expected of him. Leporello won’t begrudge either of them the chance to get on all fours, to be half suffocated by blankets as he’s fucked into woollen oblivion. Still he takes his time, exploring every vein with his tongue, taking Giovanni into his throat as far as he can without losing the ability to breathe. His master rocks his hips, saliva dribbles inelegantly from Leporello’s mouth, he doesn’t care. None of this matters, none of this will matter. It happens now and it will not be remembered again. He almost screams when Giovanni drags his hair, pulling his desperate and hungry mouth from his cock. The message is clear; Leporello swallows, tasting bitterness on his tongue.
Don Giovanni’s eyes are almost completely black, a thin sliver of something that might tentatively be brown around the edges of pupils blown open by lust. He looks more demonic than ever, hair dishevelled around his shoulders, that dangerous little smirk on his lips, the thin sheen of inebriation still clinging to him. The man is a wreck, Leporello reflects - not for the first time - but accepts two fingers pushed between his lips anyway. He feels his own cock hard and neglected against his stomach, and can’t meet Giovanni’s gaze for another moment, closing his eyes and focusing on nothing at all but his master’s unnaturally hot fingers on his tongue.
It is therefore a surprise when he is pushed onto his back again, his impatient master almost ripping his fingers from Leporello’s mouth and instead trailing them up his thigh. One of Giovanni’s knees pushes Leporello’s thighs apart, and Leporello would have done this willingly, but it makes him gasp anyway. Giovanni laughs, a strange little laugh that is both beautiful and terrifying, and his two fingers push into Leporello’s body. Leporello feels his mouth open, head tipping back against the sheet, shifting his hips in a mixture of pain and something completely different; Giovanni’s mouth against his throat mumbling nonsense into his skin; Leporello thinks that he thinks you wouldn’t treat your whores like this. Then he realises that he’s just as much a whore as the rest of them; just a different kind.
It’s unexpected, when Giovanni shifts so that Leporello’s legs can fall over his shoulders, thrusting almost unforgivably hard into his lax body. He wasn’t expecting his master to fuck him face-to-face, it leaves him breathless for a moment, trapped and unable to move from the angle Giovanni has him at. It’s too hard and too fast and too rough and it hurts, God it hurts, but then he never expected any different and their skin is slick with sweat everywhere it meets. Giovanni’s hands are clenched in the sheet on either side of Leporello’s head and they are making too much noise, and there’s an almost teasing friction from Giovanni’s chest against his cock, every time he thrusts.
Leporello clenches his eyes shut when his mouth is caught in another unforgiving open-mouthed kiss; he tastes wine and salt and pure white lust. He feels as though he is being split in two, but he wouldn’t stop for the world and as he shifts his hips slightly, just enough, every time Giovanni thrusts into his body, a crackle of sparks slips up Leporello’s spine and it’s almost enough to make the aching pain into something different, something worthwhile and clinging onto. He is bent almost double under the weight of his master and it’s true that by now neither of them can last long. Leporello knows that Don Giovanni can last for the longest possible time, when he feels inclined to; but Leporello is not a lover and barely a friend, and this is a matter of convenience and nothing more. Part of Leporello, in spite of the agony every time Giovanni moves, in spite of the fact that he feels faintly ashamed at the way he’s whimpering against his master’s lips, wants to keep this moment for ever. For it to last and last and last.
Don Giovanni comes with a hot, wet spill inside him and Leporello turns his face away, biting his mouth together as a groan is dragged from inside him, feeling his own release spurt between them. For a beautiful, whispering moment of silence, they lie, and listen to the rain keeping its vigil. Leporello almost wants to laugh; for once, he is not the one out there in the downpour waiting beneath a window for his master to finish with some young lady whose name neither of them will remember in two days’ time. For once, he is the one twisted in the bed with the notorious Don Giovanni; it’s a surreal enough thought that he feels momentarily dizzy, struggling to breathe, still crushed beneath Don Giovanni’s weight.
They start laughing simultaneously, seemingly unable to stop, though Giovanni is unbelievably drunk and Leporello is very possibly insane; coarse, desperate laughter, and when Giovanni abruptly pulls out and lies back, Leporello gasps, and shivers at the sudden rush of cold on his skin. He moves to get up, and is dragged back, his master’s hand firm on his waist. His instructions are clear, and although it’s more than Leporello intended, he obediently lies still beside his master. Giovanni is half lying on top of him, pulling the scratchy, thin blanket over them both. It isn’t at all cold, though; Giovanni’s unnatural body heat, like lust bubbles permanently beneath his skin just waiting to explode, keeps them both warm.
Leporello almost suffocates, but when he tries to move, his half-asleep master clenches a firm, if sweating, hand around his hip, curled up behind him and a thigh crushing Leporello’s, preventing him from getting up. He can feel Giovanni’s release trickling down the back of his thighs, an uncomfortable but surprisingly gratifying feeling, and realising that there is no way out of this, sleeps.
When he finally awakes, dawn is poking honeyed fingers between the shutters and it is still raining, though more lightly now. Don Giovanni has rolled away, onto his back, and Leporello is still naked and now cold. Staring at the walls, rendered grey by a lack of light - even the candles have burnt down, probably a blessing - Leporello comes to the bitter realisation that this will change nothing. His master will contentedly return to seducing impressionable women, and Leporello will return to recording his exploits with obsessive accuracy, and occasionally begging Don Giovanni to stop his womanising ways before he gets them both killed.
Don Giovanni will not remember this; and if he does, he will pretend that he does not. He has fucked Leporello so hard that it hurts to move but in spite of this all will be as though this never happened.
Leporello glances over his shoulder, shivering a little at the chill in the air, and watches his master sleep, looking completely detached. He feels a little ashamed, unable to stop traces of what have I done from creeping into his mind and taking root. He suddenly remembers naked young girls waking alone in a tangle of white sheets. Two thousand broken hearts. Don Giovanni will never love anyone and they will all pay for being foolish enough to hope otherwise.
He moves from the mattress, feeling ache screaming through his whole body, semen dried stickily to his thighs and chest. With a sigh, Leporello moves to the small bowl and jug of water set aside for washing purposes, and cleans himself quickly and awkwardly, all the while watching his master sleep, sprawled on his back and apparently unconcerned with all that happened last night. Leporello knows that Don Giovanni will not wake before at least noon; he drank enough last night to render him incapable of waking up for hours. Leporello dresses; then, as an afterthought, lays his master’s clothes over the undamaged chair, brushing dust from them with practised ease.
They must leave today. Resume the normal routine. Leporello has enough sense to know that this is not the beginning of something new, a change to their relationship; but he also has the cold, dreadful knowledge that this is not the last time this will happen. And he is shamed by the flicker of hope that rises in his chest when he thinks of this possibility. So. It is important that they find women - any kind of women, Don Giovanni is far from fussy - to distract his master, while Leporello breaks a little more at each assignation. It is their routine. It is what they have both come to expect.
Anything different will be disturbing, and things are complicated enough without adding this into the equation. Leporello knows, deep inside, that he would not want things any different. To be torn apart over and over; it hurts, but he’s afraid of what could happen if he asked for anything more.
A sudden thought occurs to Leporello, making a rueful, acidic little smile twist momentarily across his face. He scrambles through their bags for the latest book containing Don Giovanni’s list of conquests, and spends a moment adding his own name to the end.
He’s earned that much.
Fandom: Don Giovanni (the opera)
Pairing: Don Giovanni/Leporello
Challenge/Prompt: 30randomkisses, 003. Hot
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Slash
Summary: Leporello considers himself to be one of the first to have his heart broken by Don Giovanni.
Author’s Notes: If I can write Shakespeare!fic then I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a crack at Mozart ;) You really don’t need to know anything about the opera to read this, and I mostly wrote this because the guys in the opera I went to see were really hot. So. Opera!smut. And for some reason, this was kind of madly intense to write. I think it’s the master/servant dynamic.
Notes: Don Giovanni is like Casanova, to all intents and purposes. He has seduced thousands of women etc etc. Leporello is his rather pitiful (but oh so sweet and pretty) manservant type bloke, who keeps lists of Don Giovanni’s conquests and covers for him and so on. This is set before the opera so you don’t need to worry at all about the plot (although it does end with Don Giovanni being dragged down to hell, which is always a pretty damn awesome ending in my book. Anyway.)
Working for Don Giovanni has its [few and far between] positive aspects, although more often than not it entails running down alleyways with angry fathers/husbands/brothers in hot pursuit, another woman’s innocence well and truly besmirched. Leporello is more than used to this by now, having worked for Don Giovanni all of his adult life, faithfully writing names, dates and places into battered little books of sin. Keeping records of Don Giovanni’s virile prowess, as the number of seduced women tumbles into the thousands.
Leporello considers himself to be one of the first to have his heart broken by Don Giovanni. Oh, he is not an innocent maid: promised marriage, fucked in her naiveté, and discarded before she’s even had time to pull her chemise back on. No, he and Don Giovanni have never - well - that’s not to say it hasn’t come close a couple of times, but Giovanni determinedly loves only women, and Leporello has more sense than most give him credit for.
But when it comes to the stickily uncomfortable question of why he stays with his master, Leporello has come to realise that it cannot just be because of the money. Giovanni is generous, because he likes to believe himself charitable, and so throws money around as bribery and rewards. Leporello cannot say that he isn’t grateful, that the pay compensates a little for standing outside in the rain listening to a symphony of screams come through a closely-shuttered window, but it is not the sole reason for his loyalty. It could be Giovanni’s threats of violence, his blackmail, that halfway murderous look he gets in his eyes some days, when Leporello can’t work out whether his master is even human, or taken over by the devil completely.
Don Giovanni is a rapist, a murderer, an adulterer, and a serial liar, to name but a few of his faults. Leporello knows all this. He knows.
However, Leporello uncomfortably realised a long time ago that his faithfulness is more than the money or the threats. There are times when he is unsure whether he hates Giovanni, but then there are other times, quieter times, when his master leans, half-dressed, against a wall and describes in detail the woman he loves so very much and plans to deflower that evening, and all Leporello can feel is yearning jealousy. He stands guard while Don Giovanni fucks his way through most of Europe, feeling a halfway vicarious thrill at every shriek and moan, telling himself that being in love with his unfaithful master affects nothing, changes nothing.
He prays that Giovanni never figures this out, though it’s been shown time and time again that he only sees what he wants to see. He sees Leporello as little more than his manservant, a dog to kick down and kick down again, until one day he gets bored and his eyes light up and he demands that it perform a trick. And Leporello has got so used to the dull ache that this produces that he no longer notices it. Not even when Don Giovanni is drunk on his own power, over-exuberant, describing the way he seduced such-and-such a girl, pulling Leporello in at the waist, running a finger down his cheek, tilting his chin up with a crooked knuckle, leaning in to almost give the kiss that he gave his tricked little whore without a second thought, before twirling away, laughing, throwing his velvet coat over a chair and describing her soft skin, her tight, wet cunt, until Leporello half wants to stab his master just to make him stop talking.
All he does, though, is neutrally add the girl’s name to the ever-growing list of his master’s conquests, with a congratulatory word or two, or a half-hearted reprimand that Giovanni shouldn’t be behaving like this. And Don Giovanni claps him on the shoulder and laughs and orders more wine and the cycle begins again.
They are in a little inn in the Italian countryside, currently on the run from four different angered fathers, who haven’t liked their previously virginal daughters being seduced and destroyed by a dark-haired stranger. Being stuck in the middle of nowhere like this, it’s hard to find women for Don Giovanni, and Leporello knows that it’s been a week since his master last deflowered anyone. He also knows, because he is the keeper of the records, that this is the longest Giovanni has gone without sex since he turned fifteen. Giovanni is restless, one moment violent, the next despairing, and Leporello watches his master pace and prowl and throw things against the walls in a carefully maintained silence, careful not to provoke any further mood swings. The rain patters faithfully against the roof, reminding them both just how isolated they are.
As usual, Don Giovanni turns to his favourite way to cheer himself up, if there are no women in the surrounding vicinity (which, apparently, there aren’t); drinking. He consumes vast quantities of red wine, demanding that Leporello keep pouring, until a glazed look comes over his dark eyes, and he is freer with his laughter.
“Drink with me,” he orders, and Leporello helplessly obeys, sprawled in a chair beside his master and sipping the heady alcohol, trying to keep some form of sanity because when he’s restless, Giovanni is dangerous. So very darkly dangerous.
There’s a manic look glittering in his dark eyes, and it’s not reassuring Leporello one bit. He attempts to sit back in his chair, wondering just why he blindly allowed his master to get quite this drunk. This is destined to end badly, awkwardly. But Leporello is trapped beneath what Don Giovanni wants, because what Don Giovanni wants, Don Giovanni fucking well gets, and there are no arguments. You submit quietly and obediently, and just wait for the madness to end. Though there are no guarantees that it even will end; at least, not any time soon.
“You know, Leporello,” Giovanni begins, a strange grin tugging the corners of his lips, stained red from wine, “There is a sad lack of company in this town.”
“But tomorrow-” Leporello starts helpfully, sitting as far back as his chair will allow.
“No,” Don Giovanni says decisively, “Tonight.”
“You’re drunk, master.”
“Very probably.” Giovanni’s smile reveals teeth, a dangerous predator. Leporello swallows awkwardly, keeping his gaze fixed on those dark, dark eyes, lit with a glow of lust and determination.
“You should get some sleep,” Leporello suggests hopefully, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks.
“Always telling me what I should do.” Giovanni shakes his head. “You’re my servant, Leporello. You should do as I tell you.”
“Master, please-”
Giovanni is leaning closer, candlelight glinting off his teeth and the curls in his hair, running a thoughtful finger down Leporello’s cheek, the skin soft as any woman’s; Leporello knows this because Giovanni has told him so before. The half-light makes Giovanni’s eyelashes cast black shadows over his face, making him seem demonic. Leporello draws in a shaking breath as Giovanni’s finger follows the line of his jaw, then up to his mouth, tracing the shape of his lips until they involuntarily open and he sucks the tip of Giovanni’s finger into his mouth. Giovanni smiles, and Leporello suddenly recognises the look in his eyes. He’s seen it directed at hundreds, thousands of women, but never at himself.
God in heaven, he thinks weakly, as Giovanni announces:
“Enough,” abruptly drawing his hand back. Before Leporello has time to wonder exactly what’s happening, Giovanni is leaning forwards, one hand tangling in the back of Leporello’s long, dark hair, hard enough to hurt, the other hand cupping his face, running his thumb along the jawline. And then he’s kissing him, deep and hard, no preamble, tasting overwhelmingly of wine. His skin is hot everywhere it touches Leporello’s, and the servant’s first instinct is to move away. But he’s pinned in the chair as Giovanni moves, knee pushing into Leporello’s thigh, the two of them balanced precariously on a chair tipping backwards, biting at each other’s mouths.
Leporello is not going to pretend that he hasn’t thought of this a hundred times these last few years, wondered how it must feel to be trapped beneath Don Giovanni, what it must be like to be seduced by him; he is not going to pretend that he does not want this. His hand comes up to press at Giovanni’s chest, feeling heat bleeding through that red shirt, and Giovanni groans softly, pushing ever-so-slightly, and the chair finally gives way, tipping them both onto the floor with a loud thump and a painful crash. Leporello thinks a leg has broken off the chair, and he can feel his back bruising from the wooden floor. Giovanni has noticed neither of these things, using the change from vertical to horizontal only to cover Leporello entirely, devouring his mouth like a starving man, fingers digging so hard into his hair that it hurts.
Leporello pushes until his master moves.
“Please,” he tries again, although he no longer knows what he’s begging for. Giovanni’s mouth is wet and red, and twists into a smug little smile, before he drags Leporello from the uncomfortable splintery floor to the scarcely softer mattress in the corner of the room, pushing him down hard enough for Leporello to lose all the breath from his chest in one mad rush.
A lot of things are suddenly becoming blindingly clear, the women who trail after Giovanni with sobs in their voices, the girls who give up a lifetime of principles with a giggle. Leporello thought that he was in love with his master before this. Now he thinks he’d die if he were dragged from his side, common sense lost from the feeling of Giovanni’s tongue drawing abstract shapes across his teeth. He thought perhaps he would manage to be immune to Don Giovanni’s all-consuming personality, but he is not. He is drowning and knows no way to save himself. Perhaps he doesn’t even want to be saved.
Giovanni tugs at Leporello’s shirt, drawing forth an unforgiving tearing sound as it is literally wrenched from his shoulders. Leporello pictures himself mending the shirt tomorrow, remembering his master’s hands on his skin with every slip and slide of needle and thread. The thought makes him feel faint and he turns his face away as Giovanni pulls his own clothing off with practised ease, burgundy-coloured shirt pooling on the floor like silken blood or split claret, yet another mess for Leporello to clean away, and he refuses to look as his master finishes stripping him, calm and frustratingly efficient. He hates Don Giovanni with a dark passion that turns into something entirely different at other times, something just as twisted, something just as precarious.
Everywhere they touch Giovanni is unbelievably hot, as though the fires of hell are written right onto his skin, flames flickering, telling Leporello where they are both going for this. But Giovanni’s teeth are biting his neck harder than is necessary and it hurts, and tomorrow his collar will hide dark purple marks, bitemarks of the devil himself. It’s a wonder his skin isn’t scorched, and Leporello wonders if maybe he is the first person to lie with Don Giovanni and know exactly who he is, know every one of his tricks. And then he wants to laugh, and does so, mouth pressed to his master’s, because he knows Don Giovanni inside out and he still lets himself fall.
Stupid stupid stupid.
And God, he just wants more.
Leporello spreads his legs almost desperately wantonly, thigh sliding up past Giovanni’s hip, one hand curling in Giovanni’s thick, dark hair. His master smells like he’s been bathing in wine, stained and steeped in sin, but his skin is impossibly smooth and almost burning beneath Leporello’s palm. He presses down on Giovanni’s lower back, and the man responds with a groan and a thrust against him. The movement makes Leporello’s mind go sparkling white and his hand clenches in his master’s hair so hard that Giovanni growls against his teeth.
The rain is still screaming against the roof, though Leporello can hardly hear it over his ragged breathing. His brain feels as though it’s full of fog, blood red in colour, all tangled up with that hunger in Don Giovanni’s deep eyes. It’s not even that this is a bad idea, although it is; Leporello is desperate and starving enough for any kind of touch. He knows that this is necessity, pure necessity: the lesser of two evils. Don Giovanni has never given him so much as a kind word without a sneer behind it, never given him a gift without thick strings attached, has had no qualms about setting Leporello up to be beaten half to death by the husbands of women he has seduced.
Barely able to walk, eyes swollen almost shut from bruising, curled up with cracked ribs and grazes and unbelievable pain that would last for days, if not weeks; and all Don Giovanni did was reprimand him for getting blood on his coat.
And yet there’s not one warning voice in his head, not one shred of dignity still clinging to him. Leporello sold common sense and pride and empathy and guilt a long time ago to remain by Don Giovanni’s side, and now he’s out for whatever he can get for himself. And though nothing about this situation is about him, it doesn’t matter. Don Giovanni may treat him as little more than an animal, subservient and begging to be kicked to shreds, but right now, oh he needs his tortured little manservant. There’s no one else for at least five miles willing to play the obedient whore.
Leporello digs a thumb into Giovanni’s hip, refuses to be tentative or even to think about what he’s doing, sucks his master’s cock into his mouth with determination and something approaching pleasure. The number of times he’s thought- But thoughts bear no relation to now and Giovanni is making animalistic little groans that shoot down Leporello’s spine so fast it almost hurts, and he almost chokes on the burning hot flesh in his mouth. Gleeful masochism and Giovanni’s hands fist in his hair. Leporello almost wants to bite down, to do something so viciously that his master will be forced to remember him, but he knows more than to ask for anything more than vague anonymity and a memory of something that may or may not have happened after too much wine.
Instead, he runs his tongue along the underside of Giovanni’s cock and listens to the symphony of groans this wrenches from his master’s bruised mouth. Giovanni is a greedy lover, as he is in every aspect of his life; take, take, take, but at least he’s not ashamed to admit that he’s enjoying himself. Leporello has heard these sounds a thousand times before (around two thousand if the books are to be truly believed; and they are) but now he’s the one responsible for them, and it’s almost gratifying.
He knows what’s coming. What’s expected of him. Leporello won’t begrudge either of them the chance to get on all fours, to be half suffocated by blankets as he’s fucked into woollen oblivion. Still he takes his time, exploring every vein with his tongue, taking Giovanni into his throat as far as he can without losing the ability to breathe. His master rocks his hips, saliva dribbles inelegantly from Leporello’s mouth, he doesn’t care. None of this matters, none of this will matter. It happens now and it will not be remembered again. He almost screams when Giovanni drags his hair, pulling his desperate and hungry mouth from his cock. The message is clear; Leporello swallows, tasting bitterness on his tongue.
Don Giovanni’s eyes are almost completely black, a thin sliver of something that might tentatively be brown around the edges of pupils blown open by lust. He looks more demonic than ever, hair dishevelled around his shoulders, that dangerous little smirk on his lips, the thin sheen of inebriation still clinging to him. The man is a wreck, Leporello reflects - not for the first time - but accepts two fingers pushed between his lips anyway. He feels his own cock hard and neglected against his stomach, and can’t meet Giovanni’s gaze for another moment, closing his eyes and focusing on nothing at all but his master’s unnaturally hot fingers on his tongue.
It is therefore a surprise when he is pushed onto his back again, his impatient master almost ripping his fingers from Leporello’s mouth and instead trailing them up his thigh. One of Giovanni’s knees pushes Leporello’s thighs apart, and Leporello would have done this willingly, but it makes him gasp anyway. Giovanni laughs, a strange little laugh that is both beautiful and terrifying, and his two fingers push into Leporello’s body. Leporello feels his mouth open, head tipping back against the sheet, shifting his hips in a mixture of pain and something completely different; Giovanni’s mouth against his throat mumbling nonsense into his skin; Leporello thinks that he thinks you wouldn’t treat your whores like this. Then he realises that he’s just as much a whore as the rest of them; just a different kind.
It’s unexpected, when Giovanni shifts so that Leporello’s legs can fall over his shoulders, thrusting almost unforgivably hard into his lax body. He wasn’t expecting his master to fuck him face-to-face, it leaves him breathless for a moment, trapped and unable to move from the angle Giovanni has him at. It’s too hard and too fast and too rough and it hurts, God it hurts, but then he never expected any different and their skin is slick with sweat everywhere it meets. Giovanni’s hands are clenched in the sheet on either side of Leporello’s head and they are making too much noise, and there’s an almost teasing friction from Giovanni’s chest against his cock, every time he thrusts.
Leporello clenches his eyes shut when his mouth is caught in another unforgiving open-mouthed kiss; he tastes wine and salt and pure white lust. He feels as though he is being split in two, but he wouldn’t stop for the world and as he shifts his hips slightly, just enough, every time Giovanni thrusts into his body, a crackle of sparks slips up Leporello’s spine and it’s almost enough to make the aching pain into something different, something worthwhile and clinging onto. He is bent almost double under the weight of his master and it’s true that by now neither of them can last long. Leporello knows that Don Giovanni can last for the longest possible time, when he feels inclined to; but Leporello is not a lover and barely a friend, and this is a matter of convenience and nothing more. Part of Leporello, in spite of the agony every time Giovanni moves, in spite of the fact that he feels faintly ashamed at the way he’s whimpering against his master’s lips, wants to keep this moment for ever. For it to last and last and last.
Don Giovanni comes with a hot, wet spill inside him and Leporello turns his face away, biting his mouth together as a groan is dragged from inside him, feeling his own release spurt between them. For a beautiful, whispering moment of silence, they lie, and listen to the rain keeping its vigil. Leporello almost wants to laugh; for once, he is not the one out there in the downpour waiting beneath a window for his master to finish with some young lady whose name neither of them will remember in two days’ time. For once, he is the one twisted in the bed with the notorious Don Giovanni; it’s a surreal enough thought that he feels momentarily dizzy, struggling to breathe, still crushed beneath Don Giovanni’s weight.
They start laughing simultaneously, seemingly unable to stop, though Giovanni is unbelievably drunk and Leporello is very possibly insane; coarse, desperate laughter, and when Giovanni abruptly pulls out and lies back, Leporello gasps, and shivers at the sudden rush of cold on his skin. He moves to get up, and is dragged back, his master’s hand firm on his waist. His instructions are clear, and although it’s more than Leporello intended, he obediently lies still beside his master. Giovanni is half lying on top of him, pulling the scratchy, thin blanket over them both. It isn’t at all cold, though; Giovanni’s unnatural body heat, like lust bubbles permanently beneath his skin just waiting to explode, keeps them both warm.
Leporello almost suffocates, but when he tries to move, his half-asleep master clenches a firm, if sweating, hand around his hip, curled up behind him and a thigh crushing Leporello’s, preventing him from getting up. He can feel Giovanni’s release trickling down the back of his thighs, an uncomfortable but surprisingly gratifying feeling, and realising that there is no way out of this, sleeps.
When he finally awakes, dawn is poking honeyed fingers between the shutters and it is still raining, though more lightly now. Don Giovanni has rolled away, onto his back, and Leporello is still naked and now cold. Staring at the walls, rendered grey by a lack of light - even the candles have burnt down, probably a blessing - Leporello comes to the bitter realisation that this will change nothing. His master will contentedly return to seducing impressionable women, and Leporello will return to recording his exploits with obsessive accuracy, and occasionally begging Don Giovanni to stop his womanising ways before he gets them both killed.
Don Giovanni will not remember this; and if he does, he will pretend that he does not. He has fucked Leporello so hard that it hurts to move but in spite of this all will be as though this never happened.
Leporello glances over his shoulder, shivering a little at the chill in the air, and watches his master sleep, looking completely detached. He feels a little ashamed, unable to stop traces of what have I done from creeping into his mind and taking root. He suddenly remembers naked young girls waking alone in a tangle of white sheets. Two thousand broken hearts. Don Giovanni will never love anyone and they will all pay for being foolish enough to hope otherwise.
He moves from the mattress, feeling ache screaming through his whole body, semen dried stickily to his thighs and chest. With a sigh, Leporello moves to the small bowl and jug of water set aside for washing purposes, and cleans himself quickly and awkwardly, all the while watching his master sleep, sprawled on his back and apparently unconcerned with all that happened last night. Leporello knows that Don Giovanni will not wake before at least noon; he drank enough last night to render him incapable of waking up for hours. Leporello dresses; then, as an afterthought, lays his master’s clothes over the undamaged chair, brushing dust from them with practised ease.
They must leave today. Resume the normal routine. Leporello has enough sense to know that this is not the beginning of something new, a change to their relationship; but he also has the cold, dreadful knowledge that this is not the last time this will happen. And he is shamed by the flicker of hope that rises in his chest when he thinks of this possibility. So. It is important that they find women - any kind of women, Don Giovanni is far from fussy - to distract his master, while Leporello breaks a little more at each assignation. It is their routine. It is what they have both come to expect.
Anything different will be disturbing, and things are complicated enough without adding this into the equation. Leporello knows, deep inside, that he would not want things any different. To be torn apart over and over; it hurts, but he’s afraid of what could happen if he asked for anything more.
A sudden thought occurs to Leporello, making a rueful, acidic little smile twist momentarily across his face. He scrambles through their bags for the latest book containing Don Giovanni’s list of conquests, and spends a moment adding his own name to the end.
He’s earned that much.