It felt good. Oddly good, given the situation. He could feel his pulse in his ears, that was for sure, heart beating rapidly. Mike didn't know what else to do except for sit there, awkward and strangely aroused before the hand began to clamp down on his trachea more.
He did something wrong. He had to, that hand on his throat. He had to, and he almost immediately starts to panic. Not being able to breathe some people could handle for more than others, but the whole reason he got into this mess, the entire hospital visit--how he had died. Literally.
Mike was panicking, now, as the other tightened his grip with how hard he stroked. He needed the drugs and he needed the drugs badly but this was reminding him of the hospital, reminding him of dying and he couldn't handle that, not now, not without the drugs. He lets out a murmured, muffled noise of protest just as the other shuts out all the air completely.
Something amazing happens.
Mike smells, just for a second, that spring day. The coniferous and deciduous trees. How it had just rained, that all-too familiar earthy smell he always got when he was near the treeline. His eyes shoot open, wide and dilated, and he's overcome with something. He's not sure what--the smell, the hand stroking him as he does so. He locks eyes with the other's blue ones, a look of complete and utter confusion on his face. Asking why. But he's not fighting back. Not as much as he can. No kicking, no trying for the door like he normally could. Mike's hands are still trying to pry the other off, but shaking hands in withdrawal are nothing compared to a dealers.
He smells it, the place with the 47 red birds. It's indescribable. It's exciting. It's so much more than words can describe.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
oh my god this tag became so fucked up
Date: 2015-07-15 10:41 am (UTC)He did something wrong. He had to, that hand on his throat. He had to, and he almost immediately starts to panic. Not being able to breathe some people could handle for more than others, but the whole reason he got into this mess, the entire hospital visit--how he had died. Literally.
Mike was panicking, now, as the other tightened his grip with how hard he stroked. He needed the drugs and he needed the drugs badly but this was reminding him of the hospital, reminding him of dying and he couldn't handle that, not now, not without the drugs. He lets out a murmured, muffled noise of protest just as the other shuts out all the air completely.
Something amazing happens.
Mike smells, just for a second, that spring day. The coniferous and deciduous trees. How it had just rained, that all-too familiar earthy smell he always got when he was near the treeline. His eyes shoot open, wide and dilated, and he's overcome with something. He's not sure what--the smell, the hand stroking him as he does so. He locks eyes with the other's blue ones, a look of complete and utter confusion on his face. Asking why. But he's not fighting back. Not as much as he can. No kicking, no trying for the door like he normally could. Mike's hands are still trying to pry the other off, but shaking hands in withdrawal are nothing compared to a dealers.
He smells it, the place with the 47 red birds. It's indescribable. It's exciting. It's so much more than words can describe.