Breathe For You

Things I love to write:

- Well, resus, haha. But no, I tend to stick to choking scenarios, but I may whip out the occasional drowning!

- FANTASY!!! I love a choking prince or a drowning knight <333 I tend to keep it low magic, though, if any

- Power play! Half the fun for me is messing around with dynamics between the victim and the rescuer. If someone has authority over someone else you can bet I’ll torment them at least a little, haha <3

Things I will not write:

- Time called. Sorry, not my thing

- F/M female victim. Also not my thing, but I’m alright with the other way around :)

- Underage

- Gore

Things I love that aren’t resus (talk to me about them!):

- Video games (been really into Baldur’s Gate 3 and Ace Attorney for the past few years <3, always been a Stardew Valley enthusiast!)

- I’M CRAZY ABOUT ONE PIECE RIGHT NOW

- Music and poetry! I’ll share mine if you share yours :)

Neither of us make a sound, at first. The clock ticks up, ten, fifteen seconds before I begin to consider that I should speak. It’s new to me too, I don’t quite know what you want to hear yet, but talking you through it seems natural.

“You’re at twenty seconds already, you’re doing well. You’re not struggling yet, you’ve passed the point of false starts. Keep going.” I say, as calm as I can. I don’t want to scare you off. You blink, and I know you’ve heard me.

Should I wait until forty to speak again? Make it even? I can’t, I don’t want to leave you trying all alone, not when you’re so eager for me. “You’re doing well.” I repeat at thirty, watching as you shift a little on the bed, still too early for it to be anything but readjusting.

“Forty now. This is where I started to struggle, you’re already doing better than I did.” I add, as an afterthought, just for something to say. Will it help? I’m not sure, I don’t think you’re doing this to beat me. You shift again, so it must be good enough.

The seconds tick one by one, but they seem to fly by to me. Five pass in the blink of an eye, over and over, but I can’t imagine you feel the same. I’m struck, suddenly, with the sense of how slowly each one must be passing for you. “Almost a minute. You can do it, you’re okay. It’s okay.” I soothe, preemptively. I hadn’t managed much further than that myself, but I know you’ll be able to.

“One minute,” I say, watching as your brow begins to furrow a little, your torso shifting again, but this time I can see the discomfort under it. I know better than most that this isn’t easy. “You’re doing amazing. You’re doing so well for me. This is where I failed, so you’ve beaten me now, yeah? You can keep going a little longer. You’re okay.”

One ten, one fifteen. “One twenty.” I announce, leaning in a little closer. Your squirming has begun to come a bit more regularly, and I can see the way your face is turning pink in the dim lighting of your room at night. “So close to one and a half minutes, yeah? Keep going, keep going… one twenty five… one thirty. That was your previous time, can you try to keep going for me?”

Somewhere in the last ten seconds, you’d lost your loose grip on control. Did the knowledge that you’d stopped here last time hit you hard? You begin to buck a little, your back rising off the mattress and slamming back down in jerky intervals as you struggle to hold the breath trapped in your lungs, silent and determined to succeed as you fight against your instincts to show me how good you can be. I can’t stay quiet anymore, or you’ll give up too early.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, is it hard? You’re trying so hard for me, you can do it, can you make it to two? You did last time, it’s okay, I know you can. Look how beautiful you are…” I trail off as I watch the way your jerking gets stronger, more urgent as the colour of your face deepens to a darker red around the pale skin of your hand.

“One forty-five…”

Are you aware that it’s your own hand you’re holding over your mouth? You could remove it the second you wanted to, and I know you want to. It’s so easy to imagine that it’s mine. It’s captivating to watch, the way you seem to be unable to break free from your own grasp. Are you imagining that it’s mine too?

“One fifty, you’re so close, you’re almost there. You’re okay, it’s okay, one fifty-six…” It doesn’t look like you can hold it, and every second that you do drives me crazy. For a moment, I’m almost afraid you’re going to manage to make yourself pass out. I’ve never seen someone so desperate to do what I ask before, it almost makes me want to see how far I can push you. You asked me to be kind, though. Two is enough for today. I’ll talk you through what’s left, to make sure you stay focused. You’re so close. “Fifty-seven… fifty-eight, one fifty-nine… two minutes.”

My voice never rises, and I watch as your writhing reaches its peak and you throw yourself upright, ripping your hand away as you gasp for air, colour flooding to your face as you shake and fold over your knees. “You did amazing! You did so well, you’re so good for me. You did two whole minutes, you’re okay, just breathe. You’re okay.” I say, mindless comforts leaving me as I focus on the way your back heaves under your shirt. It’s a minute or so later before you flop back down on your back, a little smile on your face as you look up at me with wide, beautiful eyes. I think I’m all you can see, and that’s almost as nice as the rest of it was.

He stumbles as Kirk rolls his eyes, clapping him on the shoulder as he uses him as leverage to hop down from the low branch, fruit in hand. Steadying himself near instantly, he crosses his arms, and Kirk knows what that look means. That’s a Vulcan eye roll, if he’s ever seen one.

“Aw, lighten up, we’ve been here before, and everything was fine! Just don’t tell Bones, alright?”

Spock opens his mouth to argue, but the clean crunch of teeth breaking the crisp, fresh skin of the fruit has already rung out. Kirk shuts his eyes in satisfaction as he chews, a few drops of juice dribbling down his chin.

“Mmm. Man, why don’t we have stuff like this back home? Spock, you should really-”

He pauses, eyes opening again, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth as he swallows, the action causing his throat to bob a little.

The pear-like fruit drops, empty bite immediately collecting particles of stone and dirt off the flowering ground as a sticky hand flies to Kirk’s throat, his face scrunching in discomfort as he gags around the sudden hunk of fruit wedged just behind the base of his tongue.

Spock sighs, nudging the dirtied little thing away from the two of them with a polished boot. “Are you choking, Captain?” He asks, taking a step towards him even as Kirk waves him away gracelessly, wheezing. “I do not know what I expected. Protocol dictates for me to encourage the victim to cough. Your airway is only partially obstructed, continue to cough, sir.”

Kirk shoots him a clumsy thumbs up, a pink flush creeping over his cheekbones and up his neck as he continues to hack. His vision blurs a little as tears begin to gather in his eyes, Spock’s careful, alert face swimming surreally before him.

How embarrassing. He opens his mouth to try and brush the situation off, make a sly, dirty little joke that would earn him another tired sigh, but the only sounds that escape him pair with his struggling, squeaks and croaks squeezing past the lump of fruit in his windpipe. The hand not busy at his throat waves around emphatically, reaching for his stoic friend to convey his casualness. He’s totally fine. He’s barely even choking.

A hand closes around his wrist before it can land on the pressed, blue shirt, and Spock guides it away easily, his nose wrinkling in well-concealed disgust at the sticky palm, still tacky with juice.

“I predict that you are attempting to form a witty retort. I would advise you to focus on coughing instead.” He scolds, his eyes trailing over him. The hand around Kirk’s wrist remains firmly in place, an unconscious betrayal of unsettlement regarding his captain’s state. He’d tease him if he could: what a softie.

Kirk grins, sheepish, leaning forward as he gives up on talking, instead devoting all of his focus to trying to clear his airway. He won’t admit this out loud, when this is over, but Spock’s calm, collected instructions are doing wonders for his ability to keep his head on straight right now.

Even concentrating all of his efforts into coughing, the half-chewed hunk of fruit doesn’t seem to have any intentions of moving. Spock frowns, his lips tilting down in mild concern as he releases Kirk’s wrist to instead support him by the elbow. “You are doing well. You need to continue to cough. I am here to assist you, should you require it further.”

His ribs begin to ache from the force of his efforts, lungs working overtime as he tries to gasp around the obstruction in his throat. It… it feels like it should have been out by now. His fingertips are starting to buzz at his collar, tingling a little as his attempts at clearing his airway yield no results. Kirk croaks loudly, attempting to speak again, and feels something shift awkwardly in his trachea at the rush of air it requires. Suddenly, it’s a lot harder to cough. Still, he continues to try, mildly embarrassed by the situation he’s managed to find himself in.

Spock waits a few long moments, the hand under Kirk’s elbow squeezing softly in an attempt at encouragement, but the lack of progress is becoming harder to ignore. He steps neatly around his captain, switching their positions to stand behind him, and lays the hand not occupied with supporting him on his back.

“Captain? Enough time has passed that I am concerned that your coughing is unproductive. May I assist you?”

Kirk nods, clumsy, the hand at his throat twitching as the strain of his furious gasping and the pressure building in his skull eat viciously at his composure. His other hand, held out awkwardly after Spock had let go of his wrist, reaches behind himself to fist in Spock’s shirt. This time, the other makes no move to stop him.

He feels Spock return the nod more than he can see it, and beneath his growing urgency, the action strikes him as an oddly notable one. Surely, he knows that Kirk can’t see him from here, it can only be for self-soothing. Irrational and human. It would make him grin, had there not been a hunk of alien pear wedged in his damn windpipe.

Any and all contemplation of Spock’s complexities fly out the window as the first hard blow of the man’s hand slams between Kirk’s shoulder blades, rattling his spine in a way that hardly feels natural for a human body. There’s barely a moment to recover before there’s another, and another. Four. Five.

Spock’s face appears in his peripheral vision as his first officer tilts around to check on him.

“Is it out?”

Is it? Kirk tries to take a breath, and his eyes fly open in genuine, full blown panic as the miniscule amount of oxygen that he’d been able to squeeze in a moment ago fails to reach his spasming lungs. He shakes his head a wild, desperate no.

He’s spun back around instantly, the hand on his back slamming between his shoulder blades another five times, even harder than before. Nothing.

It’s only for a moment, but it’s impossible to miss the way Spock freezes near-imperceptibly when Kirk is pressed up this closely against him.

“Sir? I am executing the next step.” He says, loudly, although there’s no longer any noise from Kirk to speak over.

Arms wind their way around his torso, a hand flatting against his stomach to brace him steadily against Spock’s chest as the hand coming away from his elbow leaves him teetering off balance for a brief moment. They form a fist above his navel, repositioning a little, before his world explodes in a sharp burst of force just below his ribs.

His eyes bug out of his skull, jaw dropping as he struggles to orient himself against the onslaught of abdominal thrusts, each one harder than the last, squeezing the sheer life out of him with each attempt to target the air in his lungs.

“Cough…” He thinks he hears, muttered somewhere behind him as his stomach is pumped over and over again, although it seems equally likely that he’s just hearing things now. This is how his story ends. The youngest captain in Starfleet history, taken out by the hardest goddamn heimlich maneuver of all time.

Cold, dusky blue rapidly settles over Kirk’s skin, the concentrated, mottled colour spreading outward across his face from his lips in leaching tendrils. The world is beginning to spin.

He twists his hand out of Spock’s shirt, no doubt leaving behind sticky stains, and it shoots up to join the other as he begins to claw at his throat in earnest, gagging soundlessly as his feet nearly leave the ground with each violent thrust. His lips and chin are slick with drool, spilling over as it pools and pools in his mouth with no way to go down, flooding the opening between the back of his throat and the obstruction, sealing off any possible remaining cracks through which he would be able to wheeze in slivers of air.

His ribs creak dangerously, but his lungs remain frenzied, fluttering and jerking aimlessly as he suffocates in Spock’s arms. It’s not coming up.

It’s hard to focus on anything anymore, save for the unrelenting way he’s being manhandled by his own subordinate, and the way his vision is slowly darkening around the edges.

“Captain, cough! Cough!” Comes right in his ear, tone unfamiliar in its urgency. Spock doesn’t panic. It seems he’s given up on the idea of switching between back blows and abdominal thrusts altogether. Kirk almost wishes he’d switch back between them, just so his poor stomach could get a break. He doesn’t wish anything after that, head lolling forward on his chest as the world goes dark.

Sound returns to him first, almost before he even manages to suck in a desperate, violent gasp, hacking up a storm in the relative quiet little rainforest. It’s only a soft ringing in his ears, at first, but as each breath he takes invigorates his frantic heart, everything begins to flood back to him. Hands release his face, his nose tingling as though suddenly lacking in contact with something. There’s a similar, hollow feeling around his lips.

“God, Spock, did you kiss me?”

He gasps out, his voice coming out as more of a rattle than anything. The burning rawness in his throat is beginning to feel more like swelling.

He blinks his eyes open, raising his head a little as he hears a scoff, and is met with the sight of Spock’s head above his own, looking down at him with wide, shiny eyes, obsessively vigilant.

“No, sir, I only performed rescue breaths. You will be pleased to know that I only had to do the procedure twice before you began to breathe on your own.” He attempts to bite back, but even half-conscious and gasping for breath, Kirk can hear the tremor in his voice.

He can’t be bothered to call him out on it right now. Kirk closes his eyes again, letting his head fall back against the ground. It comes as a bit of a surprise when it connects with something much warmer, and much less unyielding. Something that feels suspiciously like Starfleet issued pants.

Hypoxia taken care of, he takes a moment to assess himself. Sore, swollen throat, likely irritated due to the wretched alien pear. An exceptionally sore stomach, so tender that his bruised back seems like nothing at all in comparison. Surprisingly, no chest pain. Spock must’ve been able to dislodge the fruit soon after he’d lost consciousness, if he hadn’t required a direct heart massage. At least he won’t have to explain that to Bones once they manage to find their way back aboard.

A hand strokes through his hair so suddenly that it startles him out of his categorizing. His mind goes blank as it sweepy his sweaty bangs away from his forehead, where they’d fallen out of their careful swept style.

“You’re okay, Jim. Breathe. You’re going to be okay.” Spock breathes out, so softly that Kirk is not entirely certain that he was meant to hear it at all.

“Of course. Is that why you pouted over it like that?”

He rolls his eyes as he chews, tampering his nervous energy with a gentle little kick to Kent’s leg across from his under the shared table.

“Oi. Spoiled little brat.”

The smooth tip of a polished shoe slides up under the hem of his dress pants in retaliation, lightly caressing the skin of his calf, and the gasp that punches through his chest is sharply cut off by the sudden presence of expensive, half-chewed ribeye teetering awkwardly in his windpipe.

Immediately, he hunches over, eyes watering as he begins to hack over the table, back heaving with each rough wheeze for air. Kent’s eyes are heavy on him, blinking languidly as he continues to watch him, making no move to get up and pat his back.

“Cover your mouth when you’re coughing.” He scolds, easily, nose wrinkled in disgust when Victor brings his streaming gaze up to him.

His hand comes up, obediently, napkin held loosely to his mouth to retch into. He can feel it at the back of his throat, just a little more–

The shoe, inching higher and higher, ghosts ever-so-slightly against the space between his legs.

“GKK!”

As suddenly as it had started, the coughing stops. His eyes shoot open, dilating as his fork clatters loudly on his plate, the sound echoing through the makeshift backroom. He’s choking.

“It’s a shame, you know. I’ve never known them to make mistakes like that. A new chef, perhaps? One who has yet to pick up on your… particularities?” Kent rambles, leisurely, leaning his head on his hand as he brings his elbow up to rest on the edge of the table.

Admittedly, the cook on his steak is no longer Victor’s prime concern.

“Well? Use your words. You’re not a child.” Kent drawls, tilting his head delicately to the side, as though the situation is somehow unclear to him. It isn’t. Despite his relaxed posture, his gaze follows Victor’s every movement, eyes trailing over his form, taking in the darkening of his complexion, the rocking, the silent heaving of his chest…

Hands slam down on the table, shaking the wooden surface and causing the cutlery to clang against it again as Victor begins to panic. Kent narrows his eyes, tutting sharply at him, disappointment audible in the way he sucks his teeth. “Don’t cause a scene, now. This is a fine establishment. You wouldn’t want to disturb the other patrons, hm?”

Clumsy, shaking hands fly to his throat, clutching frantically at his windpipe as he tries to work out the obstruction, rocking back and forth in his chair as the pressure in his chest begins to build, unhindered. His wide eyes remain locked on the man in front of him, mouth opening as though to croak out a soundless plea for assistance. The sight of the deep flush that has begun to creep lower and lower over Victor’s face, trailing down his neck in pretty blush is what ultimately makes Kent sigh, holding up a palm in resignation: posed to command.

“Enough of this. You’ve stolen enough of my attention, have you not? Cough it out.”

Victor tries. He tries. His tongue slips between his open lips, hanging out of his mouth pathetically as he bends over the table, his arm coming down from his throat to fold over his seizing stomach as it contracts, over and over with the force of his silent coughs. Nothing. His hands slams down on the table in front of him again, in fists this time, harder than before.

“What did I say? I’m not enough for you? You need the whole restaurant to watch?” Kent taunts, warning plain in his tone, leaning his elbows on the table and sliding his glass of water towards him with two lazy fingers. “I told you to cough it up. You’re not being very obedient today.”

Hands shoot out to grab the glass like it’s made of gold, but the mouthful he gulps down makes it no further than the back of his throat before it’s coming back out again, cascading over his chin and down his throat, over his Adam's apple, bobbing repeatedly, desperately… his eyes bug out of his skull in pure, wild panic. He can’t swallow, can’t cough, can’t breathe. The glass falls back, slipping through uncoordinated, wet fingers to make contact with the tablecloth as his hands flounder again. After a moment they find his chest, pounding gracelessly between his heaving lungs, but the hunk of meat caught stubbornly in his throat isn’t going anywhere.

His only hope at clearing his airway on his own spent, bloodshot eyes come back up to plead with his sardonic lover. Pathetic, jerky spasms contract fingers that alternate between slamming frantically at his sternum and reaching behind himself to gesture at his back, begging for help. Dim lighting dampens the ease of visibility, but the hint of purple beginning to splotch over the deep red is plain enough.

Clearly, it’s not that Kent fails to understand the request for help as he shakes his head, leaning back in his chair, arms settling over his chest in disapproval. Just that it won’t be so freely given.

“You haven’t been very good tonight. You can do it yourself.”

Admittedly, this throws him for a loop. The hand gesturing helplessly at his back stalls a moment, before hesitantly attempting to reach further over his shoulder. He twists at the waist, seeking leverage to knock the luxurious indulgence out of his trachea, folding over himself as his trials fail: the intrinsic need to obey warring with the physical inability to.

His only hope watches his efforts with a gleam in his eye, amusement threatening to break through his unaffected veneer. Thoroughly defeated, Victor gags around a sharp spasm that overtakes his throat, body jerking and convulsing as he overbalances and tips dangerously over the side of the chair.

Considering the state he’s in, it’s a miracle he catches himself. Ashamed at his categoric failure to help himself and lightheaded from the prolonged lack of oxygen, tears finally spill over his brimming waterline, slipping down his cheeks and rolling past his jaw, gathering at the base of his throat in glistening little pools.

In one last pitiful attempt to garner aid from his lover, he mimes towards his stomach, quivering under his dress shirt as he fights to hold back the contractions that threaten to overpower the trembling muscles of his diaphragm. Chair legs creak as he throws his weight back and forth, rocking deliriously with nothing else to do, eyes saucers in his head as he whimpers and cries as miserably as one can without the ability to make any sound.

Kent sighs. He’s never been able to resist his antics for long.

“You need the heimlich? Go on, then.”

In retrospect, this was foreseeable, but the growing pressure in his skull is easy to blame in robbing his rationality: a neat excuse to ignore the fuzziness settling over him that has very little to do with his physical predicament. Unconsciously, the blubbering pauses, making way for his fists to settle on his belly, giving one uncertain, experimental thrust, almost as though expecting the action to fail.

His lover grins. “Good. Looks like you can still listen.”

Warmth floods through him so quickly that the obstruction in his throat is nearly momentarily forgotten. He’s good. He's doing something right, and the breathless haze clouding over his eyes is suddenly indistinguishable from the one that overtakes them when they’re pressed together, creasing their silk sheets. When he gets to be good.

Leverage. He needs leverage, needs to generate enough force to force his uncooperative lungs to cough. His fists sink frantically into his belly over and over again, energy renewed by the desperate urge to please, and the opportunity to do so. Every few sharp thrusts, he tips his chin to look up at the man in front of him: a dog, eager to check if its master is following.

He can’t say how long this goes on for, swept up in his attempts and the moment, but at some point, between pleading glances up at him, Kent vanishes from his spot across the table. There’s barely a moment for Victor’s chest to seize in panic before he reappears, sliding over around its surface to settle beside him. An elegant fist finds its way to press up against the edge of the table in front of the choking man.

“Well? I thought you wanted me to pump your belly, no? Go on, pet.”

Victor leaps, starving, practically throwing himself on top of it as he wastes no time indulging himself, pumping his belly against this lifeline with all the force his body can muster. Each thrust, unprecedentedly reinforced by the leverage the barrier provides, forces meager, pitiful croaks to squeeze through his blocked throat, coaxed louder and louder as Kent, smirk glued to his face, tilts his fist up carefully mid-thrust to angle it up into his diaphragm.

Greed gets the better of him. Lurching with far too much force, he slips, falling forward, his chest slamming flat against the surface of the table, narrowly avoiding his forgotten plate. The force of his landing squeezes a loud “HKK!” from his lungs, as though winded, had there been air to knock loose. It’s the loudest sound he’s managed since he’d first inhaled his dinner.

Kent hums in approval, low and quiet. The hand not serving as a makeshift brace comes up to thump heavily between his shoulder blades a couple of times, taking the opportunity as the expanse of his back presents itself so readily.

Stumbling back upright, Victor prepares to position himself back over his fist, when footsteps, separate from their own little scene, suddenly sound in the other room, loud enough that their destination is immediately obvious as their sanctuary. Between one blink of teary eyes and the next, Kent is back in his chair across the table, procuring a napkin to reach out and swipe at the mess of Victor’s face and neck: the water, the tears, the drool that had, at some point, spilled over his lips and begun to mingle with the other trails tracing down his chin and throat.

“Behave now, pet.” He warns, darkly, folding the napkin back up to hide the freshly ruined cloth, replacing it at his side.

A familiar polished dress shoe, the very same catalyst of the evening’s entertainment, slides up under the table to settle on Victor’s stomach, ankle flexing lazily as it begins to pump slowly into his belly, low and deep.

“And don’t drool on these. They’re Italian leather.”

─────── ─────── ───────

The heavy curtain draws back for a moment, falling loosely into place as their waiter steps inside to join them in their little nook, eyes fixed on the notepad in his hand.

Patiently, Kent sits, forearms resting on the tabletop before him as he flexes his ankle harder and harder against Victor’s trembling stomach.

When the man looks back up, it’s to a handsome couple on a lavish date.

A shoe digs into his gut sharply and Victor struggles to keep his composure, plastering an awkward, shaky smile to his face.

“Good evening.” Kent offers, swiftly.

Attention instantly on him, their waiter tucks his notepad back into his shirt pocket.

“Good evening, sirs. Is everything up to your standards tonight?” He asks, politely, eyeing the half-eaten plates, forgotten on the table.

Kent smiles.

“Everything is perfect. Would you-..”

Blood rushes through Victor’s ears as the shoe stills on his stomach, drowning out the conversation before him. His hands shoot out in a wild grab for it under the table, bumping the underside with a loud clunk as he tries to push it back into his abdomen. His pitiful attempts are met with only a quick, sharp glare, a familiar reminder behind familiar eyes to behave as the man continues his exchange, unmoved by the urgency of the situation.

He releases the ankle as though burned, and, either in reward or punishment, it kicks deep into his diaphragm, just once. His eyes bug out of his skull as he fights to hold back a loud croak, determined to behave himself. The foot thrusts up again.

It’s counterproductive, really. Pressure to his lungs, attempts at manually coughing him, hold little value when all expression of air is forcibly withheld. He holds it back anyway.

Another kick, and another. Kent flashes him brief glances every few, light reflecting off his eyes in twinkling amusement as each one is punctuated by several long seconds, graciously allowing Victor to fight to maintain his composure as the pressure builds in his chest: the desperate need to cough forcing his lungs to jerk and convulse under his sweater. His lips, pressed tightly together to avoid spilling more drool down his chin, begin to turn blue, as the rest of his face purples darkly around them.

This, in the dim lighting of their dining room, finally catches the waiter's attention.

“Hey, are you… okay? You’re looking a little flushed.” He inquires, brow furrowing in light concern as he squints down, head tilting gently to the side as he scrutinizes him. Victor forcibly widens his smile, surely a poor mask to his distress.

Kent shifts his chair back, lessening the pressure on Victor’s belly, chuckling as he waves a dismissive hand.

“Poor thing is nervous, you see,” he stage whispers, eyes half lidded, sly and conspiratorial, hand shifting to cover one side of his mouth as though inviting the waiter in on their dirty little secret. “It’s our first time out in public together.”

The man laughs, expression lightening in the way it only can when someone is let in on the joke as he turns back to him.

Attention back off of him, Victor can no longer fully tamp down his struggle. The blue tinge to his lips spreads up his face in splotchy tendrils, the lack of oxygen robbing him of his self control as his ribs begin to convulse, painfully mimicking the pattern of normal respiration as they flare and contract violently. His hands rest on the table where they twitch and shake, unstilled even by the solid surface they rest on.

“Thank you, you can just leave the bill here,” comes a snippet of the conversation before him, standing out as Kent raises his voice slightly in a polite dismissal.

“Of course, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening.”

The waiter bows his head, shooting an amused little smirk in Victor’s direction, widening when he catches a glimpse of his fidgeting on his way out through the drapes.

The moment he’s gone, Victor explodes.

Drool spills down his chin again as he opens his mouth to gag soundlessly, violent jolts ripping through his ribcage as his hazy brain sends frantic, relentless signals for his body to breathe. He stumbles up out of his chair, the wooden legs scraping unpleasantly against the floor as he throws himself towards Kent, who is halfway through getting up from his own seat.

Strong arms catch him, a silky sleeve coming up to wipe at the drool on his chin again.

“I wasn’t done talking to him, you know. You’re such a little whore for my attention.”

Victor croaks miserably, eyes rolling uncontrollably in his skull, lurching closer towards his lover, trying to press himself against his chest before he’s even finished talking. Kent shakes his head in resignation, and a hand slams down between his shoulder blades, so sudden and hard that he’s briefly, delusionally surprised that his lungs have not been knocked clean through his chest.

It doesn’t help. Victor hops in place, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet. So close to him, Kent can surely see the way that his fluctuating complexion is now a rich, mottled blue.

He tuts, one hand steadying him as the other reaches out behind him to sweep everything off of the table. Halfway between pathetic, urgent little hops, Victor almost tumbles facefirst to join the mess on the ground as he’s thrown over the edge of it. A hand pounds firmly on his back again, ribcage rattling against the polished oak, the air inside his lungs desperate for release, for somewhere to go besides circling around the same, cramped cavity.

His legs kick out in protest, body writhing as he fights against the obstruction in his windpipe, heart pounding in his chest as it cries out for oxygenated blood. It’s been far, far too long since his last breath. Kent grunts, no longer speaking as he stands somewhere behind him, banging on his back with heavy, even blows. He knows when the situation has gone too far.

A particularly forceful blow forces him harder against the table, and he gags loudly as its wooden edge digs into his stomach. The hand between his shoulder blades pauses for a moment, before it settles to push on his mid back experimentally, rocking him against it, sharp and purposeful.

He gags louder.

There’s a huff behind him, one that rings of exasperation, and then he’s being heaved upright, arms wrapping around his middle and finally, finally sliding under his sweater, hands connecting under his ribs, settling against his warm, quivering skin. Kent thrusts.

And thrusts.

There’s no real change. The world spins, stars exploding behind Victor’s half lidded eyes as the combination of prolonged, severe choking, and the sudden, powerful compression of his thorax exacerbate his dizzy panic, frame weakening as his limbs begin to succumb to cold numbness.

His knees buckle, but his descent ends abruptly when his body lands on a solid thigh, a knee tucked between his legs as Kent bends a little to stabilize him, stepping back to avoid the plates haphazardly swept to the floor. His arms continue to thrust, unrelenting as the man behind him works to clear his throat. An end to their fun.

Victor barely registers the sound of the chair scraping the floor again, but in a blink, he’s spun around and lowered down to straddle it, chest pressed against the wooden frame as Kent presses up close behind him. His head and arms hang down, limp over the backrest, jaw working silently as his muscles devote the last of their strength to futile attempts at sucking in lungfulls of oxygen.

And yet it continues. His lover works behind him in a vigorous rhythm, fists returning to his stomach as he graciously provides him with his attention, pumping deep into his belly over and over with quick, jerky heaves, hard enough to bruise.

Time crawls by in slow, near-infinite seconds as he’s manhandled, thrusted from behind in a way that would likely be much more enjoyable in a different context, but a part of him, lightheaded, hazy and fading, has found itself beyond caring. Kent is warm against him, arms wrapped tightly around him as he works. He’s the centre of his attention. He’s here with him now, alone together as the pain in his chest begins to numb.

The warmth is ripped away as Kent stands to pound on his back again, but all he can manage in protest is a twitch of his fingers, invisible where they hang, blocked from view by the backrest of the chair.

He doesn’t process the frustrated grunt behind him, but suddenly, arms return to his waist and heave, angled to lift as opposed to thrust. Coincidentally, they also happen to do so rather violently in the process, forcing a loud, strained cough of stale air from his lungs.

Awareness floods through him momentarily at the shock, long enough to register the way Kent has paused behind him. Even in this state, the reasoning comes to him instinctively: he hasn’t been very good tonight. Perhaps he should be left like this, to learn his lesson.

But Kent has always been merciful when it matters. He’s lowered back onto the chair and lifted again, quicker than before.

Finally, he begins to cough.

With the first, weak, strangled inhale, his eyes blow wide open, consciousness slamming back against him as he hacks and wheezes, gasping for air. The first thing he notices is the wetness against the back of the chair where his face had pressed against, saliva and tears mingling with the oak. It’s unsurprising, considering his penchant for it tonight.

He’s lifted one last time, and the half-chewed hunk of ribeye pops out of his throat insultingly easily, disappearing inconspicuously somewhere on the floor, indistinguishable from the preexisting mess they’d made across it. Victor gasps for air, slumping facefirst against the backrest as Kent retracts his arms to let him catch his breath. Dark spots at the corners of his vision fade away before his eyes as he tries to pull himself together, fighting the haze still encroaching at the edges of his awareness, but he can hear the other man shuffling around behind him, clinks of plates against the table, napkins sweeping over the ground. Between slow, pained gasps, the room comes together again, as spotless as it had been when they’d first arrived.

It’s impossible to know how much time passes as he sits there, too weak to pull himself up, but eventually, enough feeling returns to his limbs that he musters an attempt. Stubbornly, he drags himself upright, clumsy hand coming up to his throat, rubbing at his windpipe to try and massage away the soreness. A glass is pressed to his other hand, and Kent is suddenly crouched by the chair in front of him. A hand comes up to swipe through his hair, fixing the curls back into place.

“Drink.”

He does, with some help, his hands not yet stable enough to support the glass entirely on their own. It empties quickly, only partially filled from when he’d spilled half of it down his chin all those minutes ago, and Kent’s already soiled sleeve comes up again to wipe his face clean, other hand resting on his rapidly bruising back.

“You’re so needy, pet. If you wanted me all to yourself that badly, you should’ve waited until we got home.”

He scolds, gently, but he’s already helping Victor dress, guiding his shaky arms through the sleeves of his jacket, straightening the collar to ensure his dignity remains untarnished once they inevitably leave their quiet little corner.

With a warm, supportive arm around his shoulders, Victor manages to stand, although it takes a bit of steadying on his lover’s part before he’s relatively stable on his feet, and even more before he’s able to walk, pressed contently against his side.