Maybe I shouldn't have gone so in depth with the last ask but I suppose I have a more specific one -
I'd love to be found half-conscious after attempting to remove an obstruction on my own. Leaning on the cabinet while on the floor, white in the face and barely able to gulp in enough air to keep me awake. A chair is on the ground from a failed self heimlich, and I barely even realize you're standing in front of me before you hoist me up.
You're not looking to immediately fix the problem, something about the helplessness and the inability to save myself makes you shake with anticipation. You pull up into my quivering abdomen, not nearly hard enough to clear the way.
A hiccup makes its way from my throat, knees bent but feet loose against the ground. You pull up again, rewarding me with a teaspoon sized gasp.
You play with me until my head lolls and it's clear I'm not conscious anymore. I'm placed onto the ground, and you sit on my stomach and look down to my slack face. You place a hand around my throat, squeezing slightly- you can feel the lump above my Adams apple.
Without removing your hand on my neck, your free fingers curl between my teeth and slide down the back of my tongue. You touch the slick object- it feels like hard candy. You snicker under your breath, further pressing on my windpipe. The candy slips out of the spot it'd been stuck in, almost insultingly easy after my lone struggle.
The moment it frees itself, my unconscious diaphragm strains for the air I've been fighting for. I wheeze through your grip, and you feel even more empowered from continuing to heed my breath.
Slight consciousness comes back to me, and my hands raise to your continued grasp on my throat. I squeeze your wrist, pulling you as I slowly realize where the pressure has shifted to.
This continues for as long as you'd wish, maybe you get tired of physically keeping me from breathing and push the candy back down my gullet.
8. What is your go-to item for the victim to choke on?
I'm a simple man and typically go for food, but I do love the opportunity for a character to choke on something they're not supposed to be chewing on. Maybe something they've been told to spit out before because of the danger of accidently swallowing it. The embarrassment of that happening around the same person who told you not to do that is ooooh so fun.
11. What is something you wish would be included more in heimlich works?
If you haven't already picked this up as a preference as my own,,, I'm a sucker for mouth sweeps. I love conscious mouth sweeps even more. A panicked rescuer trying whatever they can think of to help you, unsure of what to do. They pound you between your shoulder blades, asking you frantically "What do I do? Fuck- come on! Just cough it out!"
You're running on near empty, and they force your mouth open to jam their fingers down your throat in a hasty attempt to clear your airway. It doesn't work- In fact, it makes the problem even worse. You pull away as you feel the discomfort increase, but your rescuer doesn't understand that they're not helping at all.
lord all I want in life is to be rescued by the sexy chubby lifeguard dilf~ (I feel bad for him tho, he spends 8 hours at the pool only to come home to his himbo bf choking on mochi... :,)
Mateo chokes on his lunch and is saved by Luke, who is in a wheelchair. [M rescuer, M victim. Choking. Heimlich. Vomiting. Rescue breathing.]
In the space between words, a bite of Mateo’s lunch slipped into the back of his throat. He tensed, suppressing a cough, and tried to swallow the awkward mass without making a scene. It’s okay, he told himself. Just relax and it’ll go right down.
He placed the half-eaten chicken salad wrap down on the bench beside him. His fingers came away slick with grease that was soaking through the wrapper. He had been excited to share one of his favourite food carts with Luke, an online friend who had just moved to the city for university, and because the area was more wheelchair-accessible than Luke’s hometown. It was a nice day outside, so they brought their lunch to the park. The tips of Mateo’s ears burned as it occurred to him that random passers-by might see him in this state.
Mateo’s throat bobbed around the obstruction, scared to inhale in case he pushed it down further. He just needed to get it out so he could go back to enjoying his friend’s company, but the sandwich sat like a rock at the top of his windpipe.
Luke knew from his friend’s sudden silence that something was wrong. Mateo never stopped talking for this long.
“Uh oh. You good?”
Mateo opened his mouth to respond and erupted into a harsh coughing fit, unable to get out a single word. Luke flinched at the noise. It sounded painful, and he watched Mateo with increasing concern as the seconds ticked by without relief. Luke placed a hand on Mateo’s shoulder as he tried to recall the first aid course he had taken so many years ago.
“Keep coughing. Keep it up.”
As if he could do anything else. Mateo heaved and retched, snatching quick breaths in between coughs, but it wasn’t enough to replenish his lungs’ dwindling supply. A fierce heat was rising in his face and his mouth flooded with saliva. He was beginning to feel nauseous from the forceful coughing. He spun away from Luke as a bubble of acid scorched up his throat and spat out a thick glob of bile and partially digested food.
“You okay? Is it out?”
The blockage shifted slightly and Mateo inhaled sharply, hungry for air. That was a mistake. With a wet gasp, the sandwich got sucked back into his windpipe, sealing it completely. Annoyance gave way to full blown panic as he clutched at his throat, feeling the slight bulge of the stuck food. Luke craned his neck, trying to get a look at Mateo’s face. He was red as a fire engine, eyes bulging, and mouth gaping as he strained to move any air.
Oh shit, he’s really choking.
Luke remembered being in the class, watching the instructor demonstrate various first aid procedures and mentally translating them into things he could realistically do on the days when he needed to rely on his wheelchair. Back blows – he could handle that.
“Mateo! Lean forward. I’m going to hit you on the back, okay?”
Luke reached behind Mateo and pounded his back between his shoulder blades. He listened for breath but the only sound was the hollow thudding of his fist. Mateo lurched forward with each strike, squirming from pain and panic.
This isn’t working. If I can get him to help himself… I just hope he’s not too far gone to listen.
Mateo shoved two fingers into his throat, hoping to either grasp at the food or make himself puke again, which might force it out. His knuckles scraped against his teeth as he worked the hand around. The abrasion stung with acid, but he didn’t care. He was intensely, hideously aware of his own bodily sensations in this moment even as the rest world dimmed around him, as if almost nothing existed outside of his body. Luke was saying something, but his voice was hopelessly far off and Mateo struggled to make out the words. It sounded like...
“Okay dude, try something for me. Stand up. Stand up!” He grabbed Mateo’s arm, urging him out of his seat. Mateo swayed and gripped the armrest of Luke’s wheelchair for support. “Get behind the bench and thrust into your stomach with the back of the bench.”
Mateo nodded weakly. He stumbled getting into position, and his first attempt landed awkwardly, sending a sharp spike of pain through his lower ribs. He pressed off the seat of the bench with trembling hands and tried to align himself better. His second attempt landed with uncomfortable yet welcome force, but he was still choking. He banged a fist against his chest, urging the stuck food to move. Mateo’s lungs felt like lead – a tight little ball in his chest that was slowly collapsing into a singularity, dragging the rest of his body into it.
A his vision tunneled, Mateo looked up and caught a glimpse of Luke’s worried face. He was saying something, but Mateo couldn’t understand anything through the haze of fog that had settled over his brain. He was desperate to breathe, to cough, to do anything that wasn’t flailing around uselessly humping the back of a bench while his friend watched.
Oh god, I hate that he’s seeing me like this.
Luke had never felt so helpless as he sat watching his friend fighting for his life. There was a sheen of sweat covering Mateo’s graying face. A long string of saliva trailed from his lips to the seat of the bench and broke apart when he rose clumsily to attempt another thrust. Over and over he collapsed into the bench, his movements becoming progressively more sluggish until he no longer had the strength to stand.
Mateo threw himself onto the bench once more. His feet kicked out behind him, lifting off the ground and sending as much pressure as he could manage into his abdomen. He teetered on the back of the bench, hanging like a sheet on a clothesline. His tender ribs flared in a futile attempt to drag in any air around the chunk of food still firmly wedged in his throat. He was briefly aware of a hand grabbing the back of his shirt before he faded completely.
Luke rolled his chair behind Mateo and threw on the brakes. He wanted as much stability as possible for what he was about to do. He reached up and grabbed the back of his friend’s shirt with both hands and pulled Mateo towards him. Mateo’s body flopped backwards so that he was sitting on Luke’s lap. Luke wrapped his arms around Mateo’s waist and pulled and hard as he could, but as he suspected, he didn’t have enough leverage for the Heimlich while he was sitting down. His hands skipped up Mateo’s chest and locked together over his heart. Mateo rocked back and forth, practically riding Luke’s thigh as he began chest thrusts. Luke might have blushed if he wasn’t so terrified.
My one saving grace is that he’s too out of it to remember this.
Mateo’s head snapped back after a particularly violent thrust and crunched into Luke’s nose. Luke cursed as tears filled his eyes. He turned his head to the side, blinking furiously, but kept up his rhythm with the chest thrusts.
A strangled huff worked its way out of Mateo’s swollen throat, which finally got Luke to pause. He shook his friend.
“Mateo? Talk to me. Can you breathe?”
Receiving no response, he resumed chest thrusts. Mateo continued to grunt and gurgle as the blockage worked its way up. Luke snaked an arm across Mateo’s chest to support him as he leaned him forward.
“Come on man, cough it up!”
Mateo’s head lolled forward and large chunk of partially chewed sandwich fell out of his mouth, landing on the ground in front of Luke’s wheelchair with a soft splat. It felt terribly anticlimactic for all the work he put in, but he was grateful all the same. Luke breathed a deep sigh of relief. Mateo didn’t.
“Mateo, come on, take a breath!”
Mateo was heavy and boneless in his friend’s lap as Luke hiked him up so he was sitting somewhat vertically again. Mateo’s head lolled back against Luke’s shoulder. Luke kept one arm around Mateo’s waist for support and brought the other one up to lightly tap his cheek. When Mateo didn’t rouse, Luke gripped his chin and angled his face toward him, hesitating for a moment before he sealed his lips over Mateo’s and breathed deep into him. Some of the air puffed out of Mateo’s nose against Luke’s cheek, but he also felt Mateo’s stomach rise slightly where he gripped him around the waist.
Come on, come on, come on.
Luke cradled Mateo in his lap, feeding his starving lungs another breath. He continued until his head was swimming, thoughts tumbling around faster than he could make sense of them.
You can’t die. You’re my only friend in this city. Also you fucking drove us to the park and I need a ride home.
Mateo’s lips moved against his. Luke pulled back as Mateo let out a deep, rattling cough. He gasped, taking in his first breath after far too many minutes. His eyes were glassy when he finally opened them, but they came to rest on Luke and that was a good sign.
Luke let out a short, breathless laugh. “When you said that food truck was to die for, I didn’t think you meant it literally.”
Mateo swallowed thickly, his throat still raw, and said, “Still gonna eat there.”
I’m back! Sorry for the wait <3 This one is for my dearest @heimlich-heathen ! It was such a pleasure writing this for you, it’s lovely that we have such similar tastes.
“Is it rare enough for you?”
Victor flushes, the deep red dusting over his high cheekbones rivaling that of the thick, velvet drapes that curtain the back of the restaurant, sectioning their table off from the rest of the dining room.
He chews the bite of steak in his mouth, shooting an embarrassed little glare off to where Kent sits across from him, leaning back in his chair, watching his lips with the kind of interest one would typically expect to find directed at the plate in front of him instead. “I won’t send it back for you again. This isn’t a tavern.”
Victor ducks his chin as he swallows, barely keeping eye contact as he spears another bite. “It’s good, now. It was fine the first time too,” he mumbles, blush darkening as he stuffs the next forkful between his teeth. The colour is only just visible under the dim lighting of the private room, the muffled bustle of the restaurant behind them fostering its hazy ambiance.
“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.
Behind them, left for the waiter to collect with their bill, is far more cash than necessary to cover their meals for the evening. What will draw his attention first, however, is the napkin tossed down beside it– ten inviting digits etched across it in Kent’s easy scrawl.
I choked on room tempature Lindor candies with my boyfriend while watching The Good Place yesterday and had to doodle it cuz I’ve been thinking about it all day
I’m back! Sorry for the wait <3 This one is for my dearest @heimlich-heathen ! It was such a pleasure writing this for you, it’s lovely that we have such similar tastes.
“Is it rare enough for you?”
Victor flushes, the deep red dusting over his high cheekbones rivaling that of the thick, velvet drapes that curtain the back of the restaurant, sectioning their table off from the rest of the dining room.
He chews the bite of steak in his mouth, shooting an embarrassed little glare off to where Kent sits across from him, leaning back in his chair, watching his lips with the kind of interest one would typically expect to find directed at the plate in front of him instead. “I won’t send it back for you again. This isn’t a tavern.”
Victor ducks his chin as he swallows, barely keeping eye contact as he spears another bite. “It’s good, now. It was fine the first time too,” he mumbles, blush darkening as he stuffs the next forkful between his teeth. The colour is only just visible under the dim lighting of the private room, the muffled bustle of the restaurant behind them fostering its hazy ambiance.
“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 water 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.
Behind them, left for the waiter to collect with their bill, is far more cash than necessary to cover their meals for the evening. What will draw his attention first, however, is the napkin tossed down beside it– ten inviting digits etched across it in Kent’s easy scrawl.
I’ve been inspired by some of the disdainful choking stories…
“Breathless”
The storm had picked up, rain rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. The apartment lights flickered slightly, a dull glow casting long shadows over the dining table.
It was just the two of us.
He sat across from me, still laughing between bites of food, still talking too much, still barely paying attention. He always ate too fast. Barely chewing.
I watched him swallow another mouthful, his throat bobbing. His fingers curled around his fork, lifting another bite—
And then—
A small, almost imperceptible pause.
His shoulders tensed, his breath catching mid-sentence. He swallowed again—harder this time.
Nothing moved.
His fork clattered against the plate.
I didn’t move.
Not yet.
He coughed. Just once. A short, sharp sound. Then again, harder. His fingers curled at his throat now, pressing lightly, uncertainly.
Then his breath hitched.
A flicker of realization passed through his eyes.
Another cough—but it was weaker. Forced.
And then—
Silence.
I set my drink down.
His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he shoved back, pushing to his feet. His chest heaved, stomach spasming with the effort to force air into his lungs.
Nothing came.
His fingers dug into his throat. His mouth opened wide—too wide—as if that alone could summon the breath that had abandoned him.
I watched.
His lungs spasmed again, another desperate attempt at a gasp—but it was useless. His lips quivered, the edges already darkening to something faintly blue.
Oh.
This was real.
He staggered, hands slamming against the table for balance, his body locking up with sheer, mounting terror.
A pulse of something electric crawled up my spine.
I could see it—the betrayal in his own body, the slow, creeping stillness taking root in his limbs. His vision blurred, unfocused. He was losing.
Losing everything.
His head snapped toward me.
Wide, glossy, pleading eyes. His lips shaped a soundless, help me.
I did nothing.
Not yet.
I let it go further.
Let it progress.
His hands—trembling, desperate—grasped at his chest now, his knees buckling slightly. A violent, broken gag tore through him, but it produced nothing. His throat fluttered with the effort. His body twitched in spasms.
His pulse—what little I could see of it, hammering beneath the flushed skin of his throat—was erratic.
Fast.
Then slowing.
Slowing too much.
My breath came shallow. My hands curled into fists at my sides.
I let it go a little longer.
He swayed on his feet, the last bit of coordination draining from his limbs. His fingers lifted toward me, shaking, grasping for something—anything.
I caught him.
His entire body sagged against me, boneless and weak. His chest shuddered against mine, but no breath came.
His pulse—fast, fluttering—was fading beneath my touch.
He had seconds.
I tightened my arms around him, feeling the damp heat of his body pressed against mine.
A weak, trembling exhale brushed against my skin.
I felt him slipping.
I wrapped my hands around his waist, pressing my fists into the soft, convulsing flesh of his stomach.
“Hold on,” I whispered.
Then I wrenched.
The first compression sent a brutal, violent jolt through his body. His spine arched, his legs nearly collapsing. A strangled, wet gag burst from his throat—but still, no relief.
Again.
His ribs caved beneath my fists. His limbs twitched helplessly. A pitiful sound—somewhere between a retch and a sob—escaped him.
Still no air.
I felt his pulse flutter beneath my grip.
Weak.
Irregular.
Dying.
I clenched my jaw, tightening my grip, holding him steady.
“You’re not done yet,” I whispered against his ear.
His body gave one last, struggling jolt—then stilled.
His head lolled slightly.
His arms—weak, spasming—dropped against his sides.
No movement.
No breath.
No pulse.
My own chest rose and fell, my heartbeat hammering wildly in my ears.
I had let it go too far.
Or maybe—just far enough.
A slow, measured inhale passed through my lips.
I eased him down onto the floor, gently, almost reverently. His head lolled to the side, his darkened lips parted, glassy, sightless eyes fixed somewhere past me. His body twitched faintly, the last traces of oxygen-deprived muscle spasms jerking through his limbs.
I hovered over him, one hand pressing against the center of his chest.
Nothing.
Not even the faintest rise.
I let my fingers trail up to his throat, feeling for—
Nothing.
The silence was deafening.
I swallowed, my own breath trembling.
I could fix this.
I had to fix this.
My hands spread over his chest, pressing down.
Once.
Twice.
Thirty times.
I forced breath into his slack lips, feeling the resistance, the stiffness of his unresponsive body. His head lolled slightly as I adjusted his jaw, repositioning him, working him.
My hands drove into his chest again—harder, faster, desperate.
His ribs shifted beneath my palms, his body jerking with each impact.
I felt his bones beneath my hands, his skin, the way his unbreathing chest caved with each press.
My own pulse pounded through me, sharp and hot and alive.
I leaned down, sealing my lips over his, forcing another breath inside.
His chest rose slightly—shuddered—then fell limp again.
I pulled back, staring down at him.
His body was perfectly still. His lips—dark, parted—quivered faintly from the force of my last breath.
For a moment, I just… watched.
He looked… vulnerable. Empty. Mine.
Another sharp press to his chest. Another. Harder.
Come on.
Come back.
I pressed down again, and again—
And then—
A sharp, sudden inhale.
His entire body spasmed violently, his back arching off the floor as a guttural, desperate gasp wrenched from his throat.
He choked—gagged—sucking in another ragged breath, then another. His fingers twitched, his eyelids fluttering as his chest heaved, shaking with the effort of reclaiming his stolen breath.
I watched his body struggle to come back to life.
Watched the way his lips quivered, the way his throat bobbed with each frantic, aching inhale.
A shudder passed through him. His lashes fluttered, his dazed, glassy eyes barely focusing as they flicked toward me.
I exhaled slowly, dragging my fingertips along his ribs.
“There you are,” I murmured.
His breath hitched.
I leaned in, my lips close to his ear.
“You almost didn’t make it.”
A tremor wracked his body. His pulse, wild and fragile, stammered against my fingers.
“God, I feel like we’ve been on this road forever. Do we have anything to eat?”
My passenger’s voice cut through the overlapping trains of thought that had conquered my mind miles back on this road. He was right that the road felt never ending, for me in part due to the company.
He’s so fucking annoying. All he ever thinks about is himself.
“Hey. Did you hear me? I asked if we have any food.” He says again. Demanding little fucker.
“Yeah, I was just thinking. Jesus. Be patient. We have some apples in the back, but you’re going to have to get them. They’re behind my seat.”
He groans, ready to whine, but I silence him with a glare that reminds him just who is behind the wheel right now. He huffs, unbuckles, and stretches his way into the rear of the car. Clanking and jostling of the contents of my car floor ensue.
You’d think it wouldn’t take this long to just find an apple. What an idiot. Why am I even friends with this guy?
The noises from behind my seat stop and he returns to his rightful place in the passenger seat, apple in hand.
Thank god. At least he’ll shut up while he’s eating.
I glance over and he’s inspecting the apple, dusting it off with his fingers.
“What, is it not good enough for you?”
“It’s fine, it’s fine.” He takes a bite. “You know, you should really get your car detailed once eve–”
His condescending remark screeched to a halt mid-word, replaced by a throaty rattle. Watching him from the corner of my eye, I see his jaw drop and his left hand rise to his throat. A horrible sound emerges from deep within his airway as he half-retches, half-gasps. The apple hits the floor and he pounds his chest once, twice. A pattern of high whistling attempts to inhale and gagging attempts to cough it up escaped his lips.
Serves him right. Insulting my car floor like that when I’m the only one of our friends with the goodwill to give him a ride across the goddamn state. Go ahead. Choke a little. See if I care.
“You good?” I ask.
He shakes his head no and the streak of drool leaking from his lips shakes too. Leaning forward and smacking the dashboard, his stomach expands with his unsuccessful attempts to inhale. The veins of his neck bulge, his face and neck flushing red instantly. He turns to look at me and smacks the dashboard again.
“What?”
A frenzy of gesticulation. Pantomiming choking, flashing the universal signal of both hands at his neck, giving himself a weak Heimlich thrust, smacking his own back as best he can… my passenger looks at me with an equal blend of exasperation and panic.
“Are you choking?”
Nodding emphatically, his sloppy mouth open wide, a loud retch interrupts his wheezing attempts to cough.
“Come on, try to cough. Hard. You’re still getting some air. You’ll be fine.”
Keeping my eyes on the road and my left hand on the wheel, I begin to thump his back repeatedly. Gently. If he’s going to make a mess in my car, he’s going to have to earn it. He tries to cough and I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he works to dislodge the apple, but none of these blows are nearly hard enough for any pressure to reach his throat and rattle it free. I continue thumping his back in rhythm with the noises he’s producing as he chokes for at least a minute before stopping.
“Still choking?”
He doesn’t nod this time, instead opting to stick his fingers down his throat. When I look over, his wheezing attempts to cough greet me from the purple lips of his flushed, sweaty face, chin wet with drool and the scent of apple. His hand nearly disappears inside his mouth and he gags, grabbing my shoulder with his other hand, a horrific noise emitting from within as he tries to hook the apple free with his fingers.
Does he think I’m incompetent? He’s going to make himself choke completely by doing that.
“Be careful doing that– you might push it further down into your gullet and then you’d really start to choke.”
No sooner had I said the word “choke” when one stronger gasp took control of the situation– sealing his windpipe with a thunk of suction.
Suddenly no sound emits from his throat. His mouth opens wide and he slowly pulls his hand free, reaching it towards me. I turn to look at him and notice in horror that his lips are completely blue, his face an ever-paling shade of purple.
Shit. I’m going to have to fix this, aren’t I?
“Oh man. You’re really still choking, aren’t you?”
He turns, almost collapsing into me, bloodshot wet eyes pleading. I take my right hand and pull him in as though I were going for a hug, letting him gag and convulse into my chest while I pull the car over to the shoulder, and take advantage of his closeness to pound on his back with my right fist. Nothing but silence and drool in my lap for my efforts.
“I can’t believe you’re seriously making me pull over to help you right now. You can’t even cough up some food? Come on. That’s pathetic.”
The blinker clicks rhythmically in the background as I pull the car to the dirt shoulder of this lonely country road. Aware of my lowest-ranking friend growing weaker in my lap, I deliver some heavy blows to his back. As the car stops and I flick the hazards on, I push him upright so his back leans into my right hand for counterpressure and shove my left fist into his pudgy belly.
He’s really so fucking pathetic. Worst road trip buddy ever. Choking on our only snack and making me pull over. Now he needs the Heimlich, he’s probably gonna puke, and he’s drooling all over my goddamn pants. He can’t make anything easy, can he?
Drool runs from his bluing lips down to my hand as his head lolls forward. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I turn to face him, his own seatbelt and I doing most of the work in keeping him upright. My right hand stays steady on his left shoulder, pressing him deeper into the seat of the car; my left hand in a fist right at his belly button. The fabric of his t-shirt bunches up beneath my closed fingers with each push up into his belly. Slow and steady, I sink into the cavity beneath his ribcage. Each push goes deeper and higher into his diaphragm– my reward for the depth found in the strangled noises Henry makes into my ear. Beneath the layer of fat there’s muscle that tenses and convulses against my closed hand as he chokes.
The rhythm I settle into is interrupted by Henry thrashing suddenly, a cold and sweaty palm grabbing my hand. He flails, shrugging the other hand off his shoulder and unbuckling his seatbelt in a frenzy. I grab the fabric of his t-shirt at the shoulder and try to hold him back but he looks up at me with wide, bloodshot eyes and shakes his head frantically. Like a goddamn dog, drool flies from his mouth as he does it. He grabs at the handle of the passenger side door with one hand, missing, fumbling; then the other, shoving the door open and tumbling out onto the asphalt.
Fucking disgusting. And what’s he doing, trying to fling himself out of the car? What’s that gonna help? He’s fucking delirious.
“God, that’s fucking gross. Get it together, man.” I sigh, stepping out of my own door and crossing to the passenger side.
Time to step it up a notch. Can’t let him choke forever. Haven’t heard an inhale in a couple minutes either.
I’ve always been one to see symbolism when it stares me right in the face. His high-and-mighty attitude, his holier-than-thou takes in every conversation for the last year, his inability to see when his core belief that he’s the only one really correct tramples on the souls of the people around him– it’s why no one else wanted to spend this much time with him in the first place. If it weren’t for the few intimate moments we’d shared, I wouldn’t have taken him either.
Squandered too many chances to do right by too many people, and look what it’s got him. I might be the only chance he’s got at ever taking another breath.
A wet, high-pitched gagging sound and a hand grabbing haphazardly at my ankle breaks me away from pondering why he might deserve this fate, and takes me back into preventing it. He’d fallen to his knees from the car and I see the scrapes from the asphalt– a pang of guilt hits my core as I realize some of them are from crawling to me just now.
“Jesus, stay calm, alright? I’m about to Heimlich you. I just had to remember how to do it.”
He’s too heavy to pick back up if I actually want to get any leverage. I’m basically gonna have to get down there and hump him. Can’t let him see me blush about it– not that he’d remember. Dude’s fucking blue.
“Okay, get ready. I’m about to pick you up and pull– fucking hard.”
I step around behind him, squatting down to effectively encircle his belly, squeezing him tight as I get in position. I pull his shirt up and run my hand down the midline of his torso until I hit the belly button, then close my fist and grab it with my other hand. His shirt falls down over my hands and I stand from the squat, plunging the closed fist deep into him and up towards his lungs. His stomach is slick with sweat and fine hairs graze my hands as I reposition them. He slips slightly from my grip as I heave into his body and his head lolls back onto my shoulder. I see the bulge of the apple in his throat and can’t help myself but to hold him up with just my balled fist, to run my fingers over the visible blockage with the other hand. As he sags weakly in my arms, he wheezes slowly while I trace the outline of what’s choking him.
Back to reality, dude. Give him the Heimlich.
My fists rejoin. A horrible noise comes from his throat with the thrust, like the apple piece completely obstructing his airway shifted for the instant that the thrust reached its peak. A loud gulp for air, a retch to clear the throat all in one split-second, yet no air entered his oxygen starved lungs. His arms drop from where he’d been weakly grasping at anything– his throat, my hands. Even inside his mouth. No doubt pushing the apple deeper and undoing all my hard work with that one.
I heave into his belly again, and again, over and over slowly and deeply, making sure to pull as far in and up as I can, hitting the diaphragm at the end of the thrust with an extra push. Each one earns me stronger strangled retches from Henry, but nothing emerges from his mouth for the full minute I can stand to hold him up as dead weight.
Fuck. He’s really out. I can’t hold him up and keep delivering the Heimlich this hard. I’m gonna have to put him down.
Remembering a tidbit from the first-aid class I took years ago, I kick Henry’s limp, dead-weight legs apart and place my left one in between them, still squeezing him tight around the middle, and lower us down to the ground. I slowly pull my leg out from between his, running my hands up his torso and giving him one solid chest thrust before laying him down on his back.
Themes/CWs: humiliation, mention of alcohol and drug/cigarette use and a general nightlife, tongue kissing, teasing/dry humping, grinding, choking, self heimlich, prolonged peril, drool, gum swapping, heimlich (and back slaps), group resus, cpr and defib (Hollywood style, more dramatic than realistic), will be some mention of arousal with someone who is partially/totally unconscious.
—
Delaney expected to find Vivienne having a meltdown of some sort in the bathroom - they’d been eying that hott bartender for weeks and being approached like that had to have been the craziest thing to ever happen to them.
Once they looked up from watching where their own feet were going, they blinked a few times, taking in the sight of Vivienne awkwardly lurched over a trashcan, their tits hanging on for dear life to the slightest little bit of remaining elastic black fabric of that tiny dress, their mouth hung open, tongue poking out and a long string of drool pouring from their lips.
“Viv–?”
The silly smile on his face dissolved into something more concerned. Maxine, giggling, followed soon behind Delaney through the bathroom door, getting quiet fast as she took in the sight of Vivienne bent over the trash can, in a fight for their life.
Nearly tipping herself and the trashcan over in the process, her body feeling suddenly too heavy to move, Vivienne managed to bring her trembling hands up to her throat, grasping it and lifting her head. It took a moment to focus her eyes enough to make out her friend’s face.
God, I must look so pathetic. Maybe… at least he will be able to get it out before Zara has to see… Please Delaney, help me out...
“Oh my God D, she’s choking!”
Maxine’s shrill voice was full of so much urgency and panic it startled some part of Vivienne’s dizzy brain back to the present, just as Delaney was coming up behind her, wrapping one of their big buff arms around her chest to keep her from falling over, and driving the other hand in between her shoulder blades. It was such a sharp and sudden pain it made tears flood over her cheeks reflexively, but didn’t do anything to the gum in her throat. He did it again and again and through the haze in her mind Vivienne was so frustrated with him for being too drunk to remember the key points of the first aid course they took together less than one year ago.
“Oh shit, oh fuck this is bad. Vivi, spit it out come on!”
Desperate, Vivienne turned toward Delaney, smacking his arm a few times to get his attention then dropping her hands to her belly, balling up a fist and showing him where to put it. Luckily, he seemed to immediately understand what they meant.
“Max, go get help!”
Vivienne heard Delaney’s voice crack with emotion as he yelled out, practically right into her ear.
“I've got you, we are gonna get it out, stay with me Viv…”
He was internally kicking himself for wasting any time with the back blows.
She felt their hands grab her roughly around her middle, the big ball of their fist rolling backwards and jerking her up so fiercely her feet left the floor for a moment.
Gyechhk
The most awful noise to escape her yet, and an absolute flood of drool just spilling from her lips, but still no give in her airway.
Her whole body felt so heavy she gave up finally, letting her head lull back against her friend’s shoulder, her hands fall limp at her sides, still trembling, flailing a bit with the second big upward thrust into her belly.
Gluurghh
She watched the string of drool connect to the dirty tile floors in the bathroom. She could feel one of her buns coming loose, her purple hair spilling out in a mess as she flopped around in Delaney’s arms like a ragdoll. Tears poured over her red cheeks. It occurred to her again;
I’m going to choke to death.
“Don’t you dare die on me, Viv. Come the fuck on!”
Delaney’s voice roared from behind her, freaking out at her sudden limpness.The next thrust was so hard it made her eyes bulge.
The pain was so sharp and intense Vivienne felt themselves come to a bit more again, just enough to look up and see the most beautiful face – the very last person she ever wanted to see her like this.
Zara’s face was flashing an array of different emotions, processing what was happening.
“Shit… how long were you like this?”
Zara walked up and took Vivienne’s face in her hands. Vivienne felt her bare nipple graze against the woman’s wrist – that meant at some point her tits had come bouncing free in all the ruckus. Embarrassment flooded over her. If she lived through this she'd never live down the shame of being this messy, this desperate, this much work to save.
“Hold her still for a second, let me see if I can fish it out.”
Vivienne was just barely conscious enough to focus her eyes on Zara’s. They felt her fingers pry open their lips and push past their teeth and into the back of their throat.
“Give her one more thrust as hard as you can.”
Ghleckkk
“Shit, I think my hands are too big. I might have just pushed it deeper. Maxine, come here and try. I’ll take over thrusts.” Zara’s heart sank realizing what was stuck at the back of Vivienne’s throat; It was her cinnamon gum.
Vivienne felt her limp body being roughly passed from Delaney’s arms to Zara’s. She felt so pitiful and helpless, too weak to move at all but just awake enough to know what was happening.
Maxine’s hands were on her face then, holding her head up roughly, her slender fingers pushing down Vivienne’s wet tongue and swiping at the back of her throat.
“Ready? Try to swipe in time with when I pull up, okay?”
Maxine nodded determinedly.
Glurrgghh
Vivienne felt her body slip in Zara’s slender arms for just a moment, and some of the force of the blow went to her ribs. The pain was so sharp and intense it made her vision white out and her ears ring.
“Hold on that one didn’t work,” Zara said frustratedly. Then, something so wire crossing and shocking happened that Vivienne almost believed it was a fantasy she made up in her apoxic state.
To balance Vivienne’s weight in her arms and keep a better grip on her, Zara put one leg forward, her thigh pressing firmly between Vivienne’s legs. Her arms anchored most of their weight backward toward her, wrapped tight around their mid-belly. Hidden barely under the pleats of her skirt, Zara was rock hard and it felt so gross and inappropriate but she couldn’t stop to think about it really. She had to focus on getting that gum out of Vivienne’s throat.
The last conscious thought that Vivienne had was how she could still feel slick wetness between Zara's leg and her core.
“Ready?” She asked.
“Ready.” Maxine confirmed.
Glehhhrkh
“Did that do it?”
“No, not quite…” There was an awkward pause, and Zara watched the woman slap Vivienne’s face a couple times, first softly then a bit harder. “Oh fuck I think she’s out.” Maxine said.
“No, No… No.”
Zara hadn’t really looked at the masc’s face until just then, and when she did she noticed it was wet with tears. He looked terrified.
Vivienne’s eyes were still open, but they stared past Maxine at nothing, and her red flushed cheeks were starting to look a bit more purple. She was smacked several times, and never blinked or even twitched.
“Delaney listen to me. Get out your phone and call 911. Tell them we are doing cpr, tell them where we are. Do it now.”
He looked in shock, but nodded, fumbling for his phone.
Zara looked back across Vivienne’s slumped back to Maxine, who also seemed horrified but was managing to keep some composure.
“Ready? On the count of three we try again. 1… 2… 3!”
Gluhhrp
Vivienne's full breasts bounced at the force, their feet dangling inches above the ground, held up by Zara's strong grip and her thigh wedged into her crotch.
Maxine pulled her hand out of Vivienne’s very slobbery mouth, revealing the pink gum, now stuck to her fingernail. With her other hand, she slapped their face a couple more times.
“They still aren’t breathing.” She said, swallowing down a lump in her throat.
Gently, together, they lowered Vivienne onto her back on the dirty tile floor. Once she was down, Zara urgently scrambled to get to her face, cupping her cheeks in her hands. She pinched their nose shut and took in a deep breath, then sealed her lips over theirs, delivering one deep, and very much needed, rescue breath that made their belly inflate and their full and bare chest lift upward. Zara’s lips pulled away from Viv’s with a light pop, pretending not to notice the drool that connected in wet strings between her mouth and the mouth of this poor thing dying beneath her. She gasped in quickly just to lower back down and try it again.
They had been without air for so long and it was all because of the stupid piece of gum they stole from her, tongue kissing on the dance floor.
Why didn’t you just tell me you were choking? I was right there. Would you have really rather died then asked for help?
She pulled up again and her fingertips probed at Vivienne’s neck, trying to find any trace of a pulse. Nothing.
Hi!! I loved your Passenger, and I'm wondering if there will ever be second part. Or maybe you posted it somewhere else and I just haven't found it... have a good day!!
Thank you!!! I will be posting (and writing 😭) the next part of this one and the airport story soon! Life has been Unyielding recently and I have not had much free time but I believe that’ll shift soon
