There was an offer in his comment, the concession to come back to Whitechapel. But the more Samuel contemplated this, the more he felt that transporting him back there and putting him through the ordeal of getting him down would take too long. His patience was running out. The knowledge that Don Juan was looking to get away sat like an itch beneath his skin. He had been too weak tonight. It did not mean that he would not gather the strength tomorrow—it might take as little as someone coming into his life who would give him a shred of what that man in his memories provided to him.

Samuel's hands uncorked the vial. It was not inherently unpleasant, mixing the substances. It was less safe, more intense, it was much less controlled and predictable. Don Juan might even like that, after all he had no problem with smoking himself into oblivion in a place like this. Their last run-in in the Orchid was vivid in Sam's mind. Why not, he thought. He had the antidote on him. Nothing would happen to Don Juan, as long as he stayed with him. No matter how far he plummeted, he would drag him out of the deep and dark before he could dissolve in it.

The dose was measured out. His hands worked from memory, he did not even need to direct them. "Open your mouth."

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   Don Juan Dempsey, Themis Lyra

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Don Juan's heart was beating faster. It was immediately clear what Griffith was doing, of course, and the dose wouldn't have been meant for him this time. Not so soon after the last one Don Juan had watched him take, and not after whatever he'd already had. How far gone was he already? He was acting entirely in control of himself — certainly far better than Don Juan, with his shaking hands and the scent of opium on his breath — but that might not mean anything, with a drug like this. It masked well. Griffith had told him that the very first night. Was Griffith close enough to sober that he'd be able to react if something went wrong?

The but in Griffith's last remark hadn't been intended to warn him off, he realized. There had never been any uncertainty in Griffith's mind about where this night was going. Maybe this was what he'd meant earlier, too, about Don Juan being the one to suffer more. Griffith had humored him his feeble attempt at independence, let him smoke his opium, but he had never intended to let him get away from this.

Maybe he'll fuck me again, Don Juan thought. A part of him wanted that. The shame that followed was pervasive and thick enough to choke out everything else he was feeling, but it was a defensable shame. If Griffith pushed him to his knees and pressed his chin down with his thumb and gave him something else he shouldn't have in his mouth then Don Juan could cling to the threadbare refrain that he'd been high and Griffith had forced him. He didn't have to own that decision in the same way that he had to own this one, because he had no excuse for this. This drug had killed him and he had tried to get away, and he didn't need it now, and there was no reason at all to take it except that it reached down into the core of him and soothed all the things that were broken.

He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue.

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   Samuel Griffith, Themis Lyra

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Don Juan immediatley did as he was told. Samuel hesitated, but not because he had qualms about what he was about to do. Don Juan still leaned against him with his back and he could not really see his face well, even though he could reach it with the dropper. He did not want to risk missing and wasting some of his valuable charge. He drew back a little. "Turn. Look at me," he told him. When he did, he saw a jumble of emotion blink through his eyes, before they focused on the dropper and became still and expectant. He carefully placed the drops on his tongue and when he saw him swallow them, something clicked back into place. Don Juan was returning to where he was supposed to be, where he needed and wanted him, and that came with a immense wave of relief; or maybe it was the first wave of the high hitting him. It did not matter. Samuel looked at him and for a moment he was grateful, even though he had not forgotten why he was forced to come out here tonight. He watched Don Juan's Adam's apple move as he swallowed again, to get all of it. When his lips parted to draw in breath, he kissed him. He tasted like bitter poison, but Samuel did not mind.

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   Themis Lyra

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Don Juan did as he was told. Griffith's eyes were unreadable with his pupils blown out, but he wasn't worried that he would withhold the concoction from him now. If he'd meant to deny him, he wouldn't have drawn it up. Too much of a risk that Don Juan would scramble for it, and it would be wasted in the ensuing scuffle.

The kiss didn't surprise him. The venue, maybe, or the timing, but not the fact of it. These were the terms of their unspoken deal, after all. Don Juan got a high he couldn't get anywhere else. Griffith got Don Juan, to do with as he pleased.

A few seconds into the kiss he had not failed to return, Don Juan bit Griffith's tongue. Maybe Griffith should have waited until he was properly high before coming to claim him.

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   Themis Lyra

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He drew back and looked at him. Then he smiled at this act of defiance. Of course. Don Juan would remind him how he really felt about his "captor." He understood, really understood in this moment, that he would do him a favor if he acted his worst. It would be easier on him. It would surely be easier on Sam to keep the tangle of feelings he misplaced with Don Juan to himself. Who knew what of that belonged to whom, anyway?

"Right," he said. "Get down on the floor."

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   Don Juan Dempsey, Themis Lyra

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Don Juan felt a rush of exhilaration and couldn't tell precisely where it had come from: seeing Griffith's reaction to his mild act of violence; or hearing the command and knowing what would follow it; or the delayed effects of the opium he'd had. It was too early for it to have been Griffith's drug hitting him yet, but anything else was possible.

He held Griffith's gaze as he slid off the bench, letting his knees hit the floor between Griffith's feet. There was a thick layer of grime beneath him that would probably stain his trousers. It didn't matter; if anyone was looking at his clothes tonight it would only be Griffith while they were discarding them in the corner.

"Do you know who I am tonight?" he asked. Did Kazimir ever look at you like this?

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   Themis Lyra

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That command lit him up. He could see it in his eyes as Don Juan slid to the floor. When he brought up Kazimir, Samuel's mouth formed into a disdainful hint of a smile. "I know who you are, Don Juan," he said. "All pleasures I received from him, I gave back just as freely. You won't get that." He really did not deserve it. If Samuel were to stop supplying him with the substance, Don Juan would not care if he lived or died, he felt sure of that. He put his foot, in his leather shoe, square on his chest and pushed him back, so the table forced him to cower in a position that looked to be less comfortable and surely less dignified.

He contemplated his image for a moment. Samuel heard the rushing sound, he felt the stirring and the electricity gather around the base of his spine. It would hit him soon. The feeling mixed well with the sick excitement that pulled down his core to the base of his stomach. Don Juan was not the only incorrigible thrill seeker around. The question was only, since he seemed to be in a bitey mood, if he should let him sit around on the dirty floor until he was sufficiently intoxicated. Although there was something to it, when his eyes were clear and he tried to play up his defiance. Sam took out a cigarette. They had played through this scene before. He'd have to order a drink and chat to the barkeep to make it perfect.

"You are ashamed of what we did. You are ashamed of it when you are sober. If I wait until it hits you, would you feel less shame?" he asked.

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The kiss hadn't surprised him but the heel of Griffith's shoe did. Don Juan had expected him to be too impatient for pleasure to do anything other than the obvious. He was easily knocked off balance, prevented from sprawling backwards only by the proximity of the table, the edge of which knocked against the back of his head as he fell back towards his heels. Was Griffith just toying with him? Had the purpose of commanding him to the floor only been to prove to them both that Don Juan wouldn't hesitate to obey, that the show of defiance in the kiss had been empty? No; when he spoke again he said if I wait; it seemed clear he still intended to continue with this, or at least wanted Don Juan to think so. It was only a question of timing.

"You don't care how I feel," he said. His tone was vaguely surly, but it wasn't really intended to provoke anything; it seemed like an obvious statement of fact to him. Why would Griffith care how he felt about anything — particularly how he felt when he was sober, given that they'd made a habit of spending as little time as possible in each other's company while Don Juan was sober? "My tongue works just as well either way."

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   Samuel Griffith, Themis Lyra

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"Sure, I don't care," said Sam. It was not true. Whatever helps you sleep at night, he thought. He cared profoundly about what Don Juan felt—that did not mean that he desired him to feel comforted and good all the time. That did not mean there were no circumstances and states of feeling he would protect him from. That was a distinction Don Juan probably did not want to understand. He thought that Don Juan had a notion of himself as preferring people who bedded him very softly; people with adoring and ever-forgiving eyes that overlooked his flaws or twisted them to be endearing. Someone to be anchored to, who would renew him selflessly.

That was not the entire truth though, was it? A part of him was exhilarated by the potential of violence and debasement that "Griffith" represented. A part of Don Juan was aware of that and deeply ashamed. Yes, Samuel thought that Don Juan felt way more shame when he was sober.

He took his watch out of his pocket and looked at it. It was time to find out what could be accomplished in the ten minutes they had left until the substance pulled Don Juan under and blunted the edges.

He reached for Don Juan's face and pushed his thumb into his mouth and hooked it over the bottom row of his teeth, pressing under his chin from the other side. He pulled him forward with a decisive motion. Playing the callous villain of Don Juan's story would come easily to him. It was a performance he was made for. "The next time I ask you a question, you'll give me a straight answer," he told him. "You don't need to talk now. I know." His left hand unbuttoned his trousers. The first shiver climbed up his vertebrae. Good timing, on this one. He pressed down on Don Juan's lower jaw and grabbed the back of his head by his curls with his other hand, and he forced himself in and he kept up the pressure and kept pushing deeper, in one continuous movement. It was not the rough kind of up and down designed to maximize his own pleasure; that was entirely beside the point. This was about the impact it would have on Don Juan. His hand in the other man's hair and the muscles of his thighs and back tensed; he suppressed the sound of his breath catching. The different sensations that flooded his body compressed and expanded under his skin. I hope you choke, he thought grimly.

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   Don Juan Dempsey, Themis Lyra

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Don Juan may not have thought he was picking a fight with that response but it seemed to have angered Griffith regardless... or if this wasn't Griffith angry, it certainly felt that way. It was an angry gesture, the thumb hooked through his jaw. It had him off-balance again and he struck the ground with the heel of one hand to keep from sprawling out on the floor. He might have reeled back, struggled or bit down on the man's finger, but then Griffith spoke and his words had a chilling effect. You'll give me a straight answer.

Had he mirrored it intentionally? Had he seen that too when he went diving through Don Juan's memories? Because Don Juan could hear the echo of Hudson giving him a similar command: you need to answer me aloud. He knew what this was. He knew what sort of night he was in for. When Hudson had explained it to him for the first time he'd called it an exchange of power; an act of intimate trust. But this wasn't that. Griffith had already told him he had no intention of paying him back in pleasure. This was about power, that was true — but it wasn't an exchange. Don Juan had already surrendered his; Griffith had it all and he had none. That dynamic wasn't necessarily new tonight... but if Griffith had done that on purpose, aping that one terrible night with Hudson, then this was more than he'd bargained for.

You can't have my memories, he thought desperately. He couldn't say anything. His nose was brushing against Griffith's pubic hair and his eyes were watering as he gagged on the man's cock. He could take this indignity, but Griffith couldn't take other things from his life and recast them this way, tying them to this godawful scene. Griffith couldn't take things he was holding on to — even that night, difficult as it had been at the time, he'd worked hard to smoothe over in light of everything that had come after. He couldn't take that away now and ruin it — but who was Don Juan to stop him? He had no power here. He'd already let Griffith rifle around in his head; he couldn't be precious about his thoughts or feelings or memories now. Too little, too late.

His hands scrambled up to clutch at Griffith's fingers in his hair, trying to fight his way free of the hold — but his hands were clumsy from the opium and he couldn't get purchase. Griffith wasn't trying to get off, he recognized, he was only trying to humiliate Don Juan. It was effective. He was struggling to breathe through his nose. Every breath tasted like the other man's sweat. He felt the urge to retch but there was nowhere for anything to go. After a moment the only recourse left to him was to push his eyes up towards' Griffith's, silently pleading for mercy.

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   Samuel Griffith

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If he had seen glimpses of the night Don Juan was thinking about, Samuel did not put them together with the expression he saw in his eyes. He just knew he had found something—but that was his eerie talent, he could sniff out an emotional vulnerability ten miles against windside. He did not need to know the contents of that specific memory. Don Juan's habit to ask questions but not answer them with anything else but a show of defense, another question, or some glib, commonplace thing was known to him. He discovered that first at the dinner party and he found it grating. Commenting on it had been born out of the hunch that it would have an effect. He observed the panic in his eyes with interest. He sensed that this went deeper. The potential that he could know everything was far more useful than actually seeing every memory Don Juan held dear.

The hand that held Don Juan's jaw now angled his head and neck to make him take it as deep as he could expect, in this cramped space, where he had to push himself up a little to make the angles work. Don Juan struggled. He pulled at Samuel's hand with little effect. Then he cast up his eyes and pleaded silently, and only then, after holding his gaze for a while, Samuel relented and pulled back. He sank back onto the bench, shivering, slick with saliva that now smeared on the front of his shirt. He unbuttoned it to above the height of his navel and noticed that his hands had a light tremor. He was coming up hard but remained completely focused on the face under the table. If he looked around and thought about this, he would become aware of how degenerate they were behaving, in what an awful place.

He swallowed against his nausea. He felt unsteady, but the cold thrill that grasped his heart supplied him with all the energy and determination he needed. It was in Whitechapel in the bathroom when he pushed into his mind again that he first felt in a vague way what Don Juan wanted from him. Otherwise he might not have done it, but he had. Now he would find out what exactly ran underneath his surface. Was it as simple as a need for intensity? That was probably part of it. It certainly drove Sam towards sordid behaviors like this, but that was not the whole equation. He owned no whips and chains and blindfolds. It was not about that.

He pulled Don Juan closer by the collar of his shirt. A spell of dizziness hit him and he stopped and closed his eyes and ran his hands through Don Juan's curls while he waited for it to pass—to calm which one of them, he did not know. When he could see straight again, he motioned for Don Juan to stand up. He undid his suspenders and trousers and pulled them down. Now his body's reactions to what was happening were exposed. They barely had space to move. They were close. He could certainly see everything and he took stock of it deliberately. "Get down again," he told him.

He observed Don Juan's bare knees hit the grimy floor and he took his hands and guided them until he felt their touch, gesturing for him to get to work without giving any specific instructions, while he took the cigarette he abandoned next to the pipe. He lit it and watched Don Juan with idle curiosity, waiting to see if he would actually try to please him, or if he would refuse, or mechanically go through the motions. Sam breathed in the smoke and listened into his body. He needed a second to get more stable, before deciding in which direction to take this.

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There was a moment after their eyes met where Griffith didn't relent, and Don Juan's heart thundered. He couldn't get Griffith off when he could barely move his head at all, but he didn't know what else the man could want. His eyes remained unreadable, especially from this distance and angle. Don Juan wasn't sure how much Griffith was getting from his expression either with the way his face was contorted around his cock, but he tried to put the message in his eyes all the same: Please. I'll be good.

Maybe Griffith read that or maybe he merely bored of trying to choke Don Juan; either way he swayed backwards into the bench. There was a sickly wet noise when his cock popped free. He wasn't even fully hard, but that wasn't surprising. It had never been about his pleasure. Don Juan's head was swimming as he gasped for air. He wished he were high — the clear, exhilarating high that Griffith had gifted him, not the muddy thick high of the opium he'd smoked. He'd had a chance to tell Griffith to wait and he hadn't given a straight answer, so he supposed this was his punishment for that: Griffith making his last few minutes of half-sobriety as unpleasant as possible. Or maybe not — maybe that was over. His hands were in Don Juan's hair now. Had he decided to be tender to motivate Don Juan to behave himself from now on? The carrot and the stick?

Don Juan was wiping spit from his chin with the back of one hand when Griffith tugged him to his feet. He felt horribly exposed, even before the other man undressed him. He wished he were high already; he might not have cared. But as it was he understood the implications of this action and his stomach did an uneasy flip. Once it hit him he might not be capable of getting himself properly dressed for a while; this anchored them here in a way that Griffith merely unbuttoning his trousers didn't. The walls around them were paper, with some rudimentary noise-dampening spells but nothing particularly robust. Someone might hear — though maybe in a place like the Orchid no one was likely to care, and maybe Griffith was willing to chance that. If they were caught it would be Don Juan who had the worst of it, being the one on his knees.

But he hadn't stopped Griffith's hands and now he was standing before him, half dressed and flushing while Griffith looked at him far more closely than he was comfortable with. What was there to see? He'd already said he had no thought for Don Juan's pleasure, so he couldn't have any use for his cock, unless that had been a feint. The thought occurred to him that Griffith wanted to hurt him and was sizing him up to find the best location... and though he had no particularly strong evidence of this hypothesis, it was not easily dismissed once it had taken hold of his mind.

He was on his knees again. Griffith had put one of his hands in place and Don Juan's grasp closed automatically, stroking while he desperately tried to think his way out of this. He didn't want to be hurt and he didn't want a repeat of what had just happened a moment ago. Escape was impossible, of course — maybe not physically, maybe if he got his clothes back on and bolted Griffith wouldn't bother to fight him, but psychologically it was pointless. If he tried to run now that would only make it worse for him next time — and of course there would be a next time. Of course it had been foolish to think he could stop. He had to own that decision; there had been no reason to take it, and he had, and was there anyone to blame for his current predicament except for himself?

The only real option was to try and keep Griffith distracted. If he was focused on his own body he wouldn't have time to think about how to humiliate Don Juan... or so the theory went. To that end, stroking him wasn't the right approach — Don Juan could get him off too fast, and after he came there would be no recourse left for him. Don Juan glanced at Griffith — looking at his cigarette, not even at the man with his hand around his cock — and took him back into his mouth.

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MJ made this <3

Samuel put his head in his hands, elbows propped up on the table. The cigarette hung from his lips. It drew a faint and glowing dot in the dark. He felt every cell of his body flood with exhilarating, sickening poison. He drew in a shaky breath. There was a faint ringing in his ears and a white fluttering in the space behind his eyes. It was strong. Maybe stronger than advisable. He barely felt what Don Juan was doing between his legs in the dark; he more felt his blood rush, rush alongside him to ascent until he was hard in a way that hurt, that was really almost unpleasant. He shifted uncomfortably on the threadbare bench and looked to Don Juan. The man looked frightened. His dark eyes were drawn tight around the edges, his mouth a thin line. Samuel put his hand lightly on his neck, under his jaw, and felt his heart race. "You needn't be quite as afraid," he said, and to him his voice sounded slightly smudged at the edges of his words. "You've been in way more danger with me," he added, and noticed it was unclear if his phrasing referred to the fact that Don Juan had survived death alongside Samuel, or that he was not so low in his graces that he was scheming how to really hurt him now, or that while the Orchid was no good place to stay in this state, it was also not the worst.

Samuel seemed to have lost a snippet of a moment, it was just gone. The next thing he knew was the feeling of Don Juan's mouth. He felt that. He leaned back and let his head fall back and looked at the tattered drapes under the ceiling through half-closed eyes. Don Juan knew what he was doing. He was also holding back. Afraid that this would be over too quickly and he out of use before he got high? He did not need to worry so much. Despite the way sensations mutated and multiplied under the influence of this substance, it took, at least for Samuel, a lot of work to actually get somewhere. He did not tend to get off with ease, in any case, and also sober, unless under certain circumstances.

He put a hand back in Don Juan's hair while he let the sensation he gave him roll over him and mix with the tizzy of signals in his body. He did like the feel of these curls. He took out his watch. Approximately five minutes left. With gentle pressure against his forehead, he stopped Don Juan. "Come up to me," he said.

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Griffith's comment about danger brought to mind a shark fin in the waters. The danger was no more real because it was visible and felt, but god, Don Juan wished he were high already. Nothing would be any better, but everything would feel better, and at the moment that was the highest hope he could aspire to. Not to be removed from danger, but to be freed of the dread that came with it. At least they seemed to have settled on an occupation that could reliably fill the remaining minutes. Don Juan wouldn't have claimed to be enjoying this, but it was a known quantity. Griffith had leaned his head back and put one hand in Don Juan's hair. His cock was fully erect but Don Juan didn't think he was in any danger of orgasm yet; there was no accompanying tension in his hips, no sense of anticipation in the rest of his body yet. So this was fine, and he could do this for however long it took for the high to hit... except then Griffith stopped him.

He didn't want to stop and didn't want to change his position — trading a known quantity for an unknown one — but he didn't have other options. These were the terms of their latest agreement, the silent one made in glances a moment ago: Don Juan had promised to behave, to be subservient to Griffith's directions.

He reluctantly pulled back from Griffith's lap and tried to get back into the space he'd originally held on the threadbare bench. He felt exposed again, exposed and ridiculous with his pants still caught around his shoes like a pair of shackles, and tense with anticipation.

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   Themis Lyra

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He looked at him climbing back onto the bench, his shirt only half hanging over his exposed sex, looking boyish and ridiculous. Sam got his shirt out of the way and he touched him, he put one hand under that shirt, where his heart beat heavily. His heart. He thought that their silent agreement meant too little. His hold over Don Juan was not strong enough to guarantee his peace of mind. It needed to be absolute in a way that was impossible. He wanted to write himself on the inside of his skull like he did with his creations. He wanted his love for the sake of possessing it. He wanted to excise the festering old thorns of his own past out of his heart, somehow, through Don Juan's destruction. It was entirely irrational and insane. There was no sense to it. Don Juan would fight him tooth and nail. He did not like Sam; it was doubtful if "Griffith" was even a real person in his eyes. But it seemed impossible to stop.

"Listen—" he said, and he grabbed him by the collar. He followed him into the corner of the booth, to where he tried to retreat. "—I resent that I want you, as much as I am sure you despise me. But let's not forget: You asked me to fuck you. Then you—" he resisted the urge to shake him, suddenly he was chock-full of anger, "—you run away, but it's a farce. You leave me tied up in it. You think this is too shameful?" He got a hold of his hips and pulled them towards him. "I was in your head. I know what you are really like."

He thought that Don Juan wanted him to think that he was not enjoying any part of this, that he was not getting the least bit out of it. It was not their first ride though, Sam had already gotten an impression of what elicited reactions out of Don Juan. He would see, anyway. "Let's give you one more thing to be ashamed of, before you will be freed of caring. And you can pretend there is no part of you that wants it." The last bit of space between them vanished, it was dark, he could feel the other man writhe under him and there was a brief struggle to get him into a position where what he was threatening him with would even work.

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   Don Juan Dempsey

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Content Warningsexual assault / trauma

There was a rush of activity and Don Juan thought he'd done something to make the other man angry again, but then he realized that it wasn't exactly anger, for all it was intense. Griffith had his hand under Don Juan's shirt, pressed up against his breast, and it seemed not-impossible that he might dig his fingernails into Don Juan's skin... but with the intention of getting that much closer to his pounding heart, not of trying to draw blood. His eyes were black and burning. Don Juan wanted to look away, but pressed back into the corner like this with Griffith's fist around his collar he could barely move at all. And anyway, even if it were possible to avert his eyes, Griffith would have found a way to punish him for that. There was no escape.

Don Juan's eyes as he watched Griffith were wary, frightened, but as the man spoke his cheeks took on a deep flush. Griffith was right. Don Juan didn't remember the night well enough to know what words they had exchanged before the deed, if any at all, but he knew that he hadn't been unwilling. He was complicit in the guilt and shame here, and he was doing nothing to get himself free of it now; he'd taken another hit tonight when he hadn't had to. He'd even thought about the potential for Griffith forcing himself on Don Juan before he'd done it and that hadn't stopped him, so he was complicit in the last little scene as well for all that it had frightened him in the moment.

Speaking of frightened — Griffith grabbed his hips and Don Juan lost the capability for self-reflection. The sudden force of it had him off balance again and his back hit the wall behind him, which meant when he instinctively tried to scramble backwards there was nowhere to go. Everything felt very close. He clawed at one of Griffith's hands but his fingers were still clumsy, and Griffith was probably stronger than him regardless. He put one hand on the man's chest to push him back — forgetting in the heat of the moment his silent promise to behave — but this only served to make him feel more compressed, because Griffith wasn't budging. This felt invasive in a way nothing else had so far tonight, and it had everything to do with that last sentence he'd growled as he'd tugged Don Juan towards him: I know what you are really like. Don Juan did not want to be known. He didn't want Griffith in his head any more, and he didn't want him in his body, though he thought he didn't know what he could possibly do to stop him on either account at this point.

"Stop," he said, desperate — but hushed, because raising his voice would have drawn attention to their booth and Don Juan couldn't risk being found like this by a stranger. "Please —" you can pretend, Griffith's words were echoing in his head while the man's hands pulled at his body, and Don Juan was squirming but there was no space to get anywhere, no chance of getting away. "— please."

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   Samuel Griffith

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