Don Juan did look a mess. Wouldn't stop you, he thought. Maybe it was something in Griffith's tone as he said it, or maybe it was that they'd lingered in this position too long for Don Juan's thoughts not to turn that direction. If he looked down he would have been eye-level with Griffith's naked cock, after all. There was something oddly gratifying in the idea that for all his messiness Griffith would be undeterred — that Don Juan could sully him by association.
He didn't pay any mind to the remark about secret lives. The most recent dose was starting to hit him, and riding that up felt far more important. He started to close his eyes to focus on just that sensation, but then suddenly Griffith had his hands on his face, pulling him to his feet. He his eyes went wide with surprise and then — well, he ought to have expected that. His fault, really, for having asked the question. He ought to have remembered that Griffith always gave him what he asked for.
Flickers of memory and thought bubbled up in his brain, detached from any context. Trying to hold his hands steady while he wrote a letter to Hudson, pretending he was busy that night so he wouldn't have to admit he was going through withdrawal. The moment on the first night with Griffith where he'd hesitated before opening his mouth. The not-memory of the things he'd been prepared to do when he found Griffith again and begged for more. Taking his shoes off at the edge of Lough Corrib in December and thinking maybe I'll get frostbite. Were these things Griffith had gone looking for, searched around in his brain to find? They shared a theme, but maybe that meant nothing. Maybe if someone knocked over a container of thoughts in Don Juan's mind, desperation would always be what spilled out across the floor. Whether Griffith had done it purposefully or done it thoughtlessly or whether it had just been a twist of circumstances, with the next dose hitting his body the impact was the same: he felt just as he had in all those disparate moments. He was desperate, full of it; he could feel it choking his lungs and oozing through his pores. He wanted, and wanted, and wanted — anything that could shift him out of this, anything that could shake him loose.
He gasped and half-choked on the air and thought for a mortifying split-second he might cry, or at least that when he next spoke his voice would be raw with the threat of it. The drug caught him; he was still climbing on the latest dose and it wasn't going to let him collapse, though it did nothing to help the mania that had gripped him, the itch below his skin. It would help to be touched, but he needed more than just Griffith's hands on his face. He needed to be submersed in something, to drown himself. He needed to lose himself for a second and hope that someone else emerged on the other side, someone who didn't have this ache.
He shifted his weight and tilted his hips differently, which was enough to shake his trousers down to his ankles. He stepped out of them and closer to Griffith, and didn't look away. He didn't say anything but he didn't think he needed to. Griffith had just been in his head; he knew what Don Juan was thinking, feeling. Even if he didn't, the hunger was in his eyes. The invitation was clear.
He didn't pay any mind to the remark about secret lives. The most recent dose was starting to hit him, and riding that up felt far more important. He started to close his eyes to focus on just that sensation, but then suddenly Griffith had his hands on his face, pulling him to his feet. He his eyes went wide with surprise and then — well, he ought to have expected that. His fault, really, for having asked the question. He ought to have remembered that Griffith always gave him what he asked for.
Flickers of memory and thought bubbled up in his brain, detached from any context. Trying to hold his hands steady while he wrote a letter to Hudson, pretending he was busy that night so he wouldn't have to admit he was going through withdrawal. The moment on the first night with Griffith where he'd hesitated before opening his mouth. The not-memory of the things he'd been prepared to do when he found Griffith again and begged for more. Taking his shoes off at the edge of Lough Corrib in December and thinking maybe I'll get frostbite. Were these things Griffith had gone looking for, searched around in his brain to find? They shared a theme, but maybe that meant nothing. Maybe if someone knocked over a container of thoughts in Don Juan's mind, desperation would always be what spilled out across the floor. Whether Griffith had done it purposefully or done it thoughtlessly or whether it had just been a twist of circumstances, with the next dose hitting his body the impact was the same: he felt just as he had in all those disparate moments. He was desperate, full of it; he could feel it choking his lungs and oozing through his pores. He wanted, and wanted, and wanted — anything that could shift him out of this, anything that could shake him loose.
He gasped and half-choked on the air and thought for a mortifying split-second he might cry, or at least that when he next spoke his voice would be raw with the threat of it. The drug caught him; he was still climbing on the latest dose and it wasn't going to let him collapse, though it did nothing to help the mania that had gripped him, the itch below his skin. It would help to be touched, but he needed more than just Griffith's hands on his face. He needed to be submersed in something, to drown himself. He needed to lose himself for a second and hope that someone else emerged on the other side, someone who didn't have this ache.
He shifted his weight and tilted his hips differently, which was enough to shake his trousers down to his ankles. He stepped out of them and closer to Griffith, and didn't look away. He didn't say anything but he didn't think he needed to. Griffith had just been in his head; he knew what Don Juan was thinking, feeling. Even if he didn't, the hunger was in his eyes. The invitation was clear.
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3