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drowning scenario things

desperate rescue breaths on the way to the shore

damp hair splayed across the sand

blue lips

the warmth of rescuer's breath, contrasting the victims cooler core temperature

the victim weakly sputtering water during a futile effort to clear their lungs

wet, thudding chest compressions

water droplets trickling down the victim's sternum

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i’m very into mtm assisted breathing.

my dream scenario is still being conscious, but facing respiratory arrest. i’d be at high risk so i would need your help. i’d be able to feel your touch as well as u forcing your breath into me. your concern and worry for me only would make it hotter.

i would grab you tightly, and enjoy all the air you’re giving me. my belly would rise and fall with each desperate breath. and a hand on my chest to monitor my heart through this would be amazing.

i want you to breathe for me. would you do that? <3

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I read yesterday the new chapter of Sakamoto days and just had to draw the CPR scene in my style

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One last one for the CPR awareness prompts. This one's #14-Magic The girl, Lark, is a poet who writes all her feelings in secret poems. So she's cursed to have her lungs fill with the ink of all her words, which she drowns in...multiple times.... many times :B.. ANYWAY thank you for everyone who participated!! Thanks goes to @saphicresus @heimlich-heathen @wol-vee @severedfromthesource @beatingheart-writingwoes @pound-my-heart-make-it-start @resusbunny If you haven't checked them out, go see what they made! (And also if i missed your name and you made something please let me know so i can add you here)

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Okay a bit of a stretch but ... I actually had a fantasy similar to this. To simplify: A cruel space pirate captain forcing new members who come in pairs to resuscitate one another to see if their wills and hearts are strong enough to join the crew.

Something something two characters captured by enemies and forced to resuscitate each other over and over again "for science"

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A Warlord's Honor

Technically poisoning an opponent is allowed in the eyes of Splitter’s clan- that doesn’t mean Zulin and Cira have to let it happen. Features M resus, F and M rescuer, CPR, unconscious mouth to mouth and assisted respiration, internal cardiac massage. Splitter would literally rather die than admit his feelings. Resus marked in red.

The fight had been over quick enough. A spry young boy that Splitter was sorry to kill, but whose ambition had outgrown his wiry frame. It was a pity he had to die. But he was more clever than Splitter thought. He only realized this too late, when he left the fighting ring to take his throne above the proceedings, and felt the first tremor in his lung. Realization dawned on him. The boy had only managed the tiniest prick with his dagger, but that was enough. The poison was in his bloodstream. While he'd been fighting and beating the boy into the dirt, his heart had been madly thumping, carrying that poison all the way through his body. His fingers curled around the armrests of his throne.

"Well," he sighed, leaning his head back, "Seems Grouse has the last say after all." He snapped his fingers. "Badger, Irontooth. See Grouse is given proper credit for my death." They comprehended at once. It was in their code. Cleverness and guile were not as respected as brute strength, but the battle was still considered honorable even in the case of trickery. A true warrior would have never been struck in the first place. If you weren't strong enough to fight, you weren't strong enough to live. Irontooth crossed his arms, and as if they were doing no more than discussing foul weather said, "Shame, that. You deserve bet’er than a clever end, m’lord." Splitter shrugged. "The gods have not seen me fit for a true warrior's death. But I still die in battle. Not so terrible a shame." Irontooth nodded his agreement, and called for the warlord's servants to attend him. By the time Cira and Zulin appeared at his feet, he was already sweating and growing pale. His fingers curled into fists to stop them shaking.

"Tend to yer lord's death," Badger barked, and shoved Zulin down with a boot against his back. They knew better than to enact senseless cruelty on his pregnant mate, so neither touched her. The two dark elves looked to the other orcs, then to their master, puzzled. "That must have been a mistranslation on my part," Zulin muttered as he rose, "I could've sworn that man said we were to attend to your death." Cira just stared with wide eyes and a look of terrible comprehension. "A paralytic, if I had to guess," Splitter supplied. Already his throat felt tight, and no amount of trying to clear it would loosen the muscles. It didn't hurt, but he could feel his muscles growing stiffer by the minute. It felt like exhaustion dragging at him at the end of a hard day, and his limbs were starting to disobey his commands. "What?" Zulin squawked, "The hell do you mean? You were poisoned?" "Fairly. In combat." "There's no such thing as a fair poisoning!" "I should not have let him strike me," Splitter sighed, "It's my own fault." A cool hand touched the back of his and he looked down to find Cira at his side. She looked as if she was about to cry. The idea that she would cry over his death had never even occurred to him. Suddenly he felt a spike of dread, not for himself, but for her. She would be sad. Maybe even heartbroken. It wasn't so hard to break her fragile heart, but still, he hated the thought of doing that to her. He brought up a shaking hand to cup her cheek. "It'll be alright, salim." "How can it be? You say you're dying," she whispered, and leaned her head into his palm. He was. He could feel the sensation flowing out of his limbs. When he tried to lift his leg to test this, he found he could only slightly flex the extremity. His fingers too could not feel her cheek. The strength was starting to go out of his arm, so he laid it back against the throne before it had a chance to numbly fall. He breathed, and even that was a slow struggle. Dignity. He could die with his dignity. He would not crumble bonelessly into the arms of his servants. Even if it was Cira. Even if part of him really wanted to.

"When my heart stops," he said quietly, fighting the catch he felt in his throat, "The others... will help carry me to my quarters. As far as I-" He paused when a muscle spasmed in his larynx, let it pass. "As I understand, dark elf burial is similar to ours. Bathe my body and see I'm fit to-" "What the hell are you talking about," Zulin hissed in elvish, "We are not going to prepare you for a fucking burial, we are going to get you an antidote, you stupid brute!" Splitter tried to say, "It was fair combat." But no sooner did the words leave his mouth that Zulin snapped, "It is not fair to poison an opponent! You won the round!" "And he won the war. It is our way-" "Stupid fucking way you've got then. Letting yourself up and die without even trying to fight, what honor is that?"

But he knew there was no way to fight it. If he'd realized sooner, he might have. By the time he had felt the first twitch, it would have been too late anyway. He fixed Zulin with a pitying look. That only seemed to anger the elf male. He'd known Cira's tenderness towards him. This was the first time he'd considered that maybe Zulin felt tenderness towards him as well. His eyes were wet, dousing some of the anger in them, and his shoulders rose and fell hard. Splitter took as deep a breath as he could manage. His vision was beginning to go soft at the edges. His heart had fell into a sluggish crawl, and he couldn't compel his lungs to fill much. It wouldn’t be long before the paralysis set in and his body was arrested of its functions. “You’ve served me well,” he whispered. That deflated Zulin’s anger. He shook his head, his jaw set, but all the same he drew closer. Cira, surprising both males and the coterie of guards, moved in against his side, and laid her head against the broad expanse of his chest. “Oh, Agonem,” she breathed shakily. The sheer sorrow in her voice shamed him. How could he have been so stupid? He should have never even accepted the challenge. He should have seen the poison blade for what it was. He should have been fast enough to avoid it. Now he was leaving her behind. Even leaving Zulin behind felt wrong, somehow. He thought of the night they shared in the mountain pass. Of the stolen bouts of laughter and drinking they’d indulged in after. Zulin clapping him on the shoulder and guffawing at something he hadn’t meant to be so funny. Cira smiling gently at him. Her hand was on his clavicle now, her small, warm body pressed to him. Splitter found the strength enough to roll his head against hers.

“Would that I was born an elf,” he chuckled in her native tongue, lips brushing the crown of her head, “Maybe there was once a world we could have… been more than this to each other.” “It could have been this world,” Zulin grumbled in spite of the strain in his voice, “If you weren’t so bloody proud. What a senseless waste.” “I don’t expect you to understand our ways.” “No, you just expect both of us to stand by as you die. As if we-“ His voice broke. Suddenly he had taken up the side opposite Cira, so both sets of arms embraced him as they had embraced her that night. He might've blushed if his body was not shutting down. Air whistled inside his too tight throat. His heartbeat was a slow waltz, winding down until the music stopped. Splitter's fingers twitched. He wanted so badly to embrace them. His companions. The only people who had ever made him feel like a man with a mind and a heart, and not just a war machine. Cira seemed to catch the meaning, despite how small the gesture. She took his wrist and draped a numb arm over herself. Zulin did the same. All three crowded into the throne in a heap of bodies and warmth. Splitter's eyelids sagged. He'd never feared death. But holding them like this, watching Zulin shake and Cira look up at him with gemstone eyes, he felt afraid. "You're alright, my..." Cira trailed off. Shes obviously meant to call him 'master' or some other honor befitting a slave and slave owner. Instead she let go a trembling exhale and pressed her lips to the hard edge of his clavicle. "My noble prince." Zulin's face was buried against the other side of his chest. He could not feel the tears, only vaguely understanding the sounds the elf male made to be quiet sobs. Each pulse of blood throbbed in his temples. He became aware of them as he never had before, and of the distance growing between each beat of his heart. Eventually great gulfs stood between every pump. Somewhere along the way he'd stopped breathing. When he let his eyes slip closed, Cira was humming a lullaby. Though it may have been a funeral song.

---

Other orcs helped drag Splitter to his tent, as he'd said. Both dark elves didn't have a chance of moving him on their own. They laid his body with care on the same furs he'd first laid Cira down on. With a few words of respect, they left. As soon as the tent flap closed, she collapsed on top of him. Her entire body quivered.

"Zulin," she sobbed miserably, "Gods, Zulin... this can't be happening. He can't be dead, he can't.." She'd never sounded so grief stricken. She took his head and cradled it in her arms, drawing him to her breast.

Fifty-seven...fifty-eight...fifty-nine...sixty. "Four minutes," Zulin said, as if his mate wasn't sprawled over the body of a loved one. He got up on his knees and bustled to Splitter's side. "It took them four minutes to get him here. So that means his heart has only been stopped around four or five minutes." She looked up at him with a quizzical expression beneath the sorrow. He went on, "I'd say it's Lockridge. Fast acting paralytic, it does it's job within a few minutes if the dose is concentrated enough, but it absorbs quickly. I've seen healers use it to numb amputation patients. It's out of their system within twenty minutes or so." He touched Cira lightly on the back. "If we can keep his vital organs functioning, then we might give him a chance for the poison to pass." "But he said... it's a matter of honor among his tribe." "Are we really going to let him die for honor?" She hugged his body tighter. "But his clan. They won't accept him if he dishonors their custom." "So what? Hang the lot of them! We can take him far away, we could bring him home with us." Cira paused. "Do you think he'd want that? Would he be happy back home?" He fixed her with a look. "Is he happy here?"

That broke the indecision. Cira shifted his head against her shoulder and pressed her lips against his in an instant. The first breath went in only somewhat, with most of it leaking back out of the insufficient seal his tusks made poking out of his mouth. It took some awkward maneuvering and adjusting his jaw and mouth before she managed to get a good breath in. Zulin took up his task with haste as well.

From the instruction Splitter had given him, it only mattered to force the sternum down and let that compress the heart against the spine, rather than try to compress the heart yourself. With such a broad chest, that would be difficult. He planted his palms against both sides of his chest, the heel of each hand towards the middle of his sternum while his fingers curved over his muscular pectorals. A shove. His chest barely moved. Not nearly deep enough. Zulin lifted up a bit on his haunches and shoved again with his whole weight, a huff of exertion leaving his mouth. It caved and snapped back up that time, the force enough to rock his head a bit in Cira's arms. "That's it, like that," she said in a rush of excitement. As effective as that was, a pit opened in Zulin's stomach. He wouldn't be able to keep up a pace like that for long. Regardless, he steeled himself and shoved down hard again. Each compression forced Splitter's sizable chest to bow and his muscled stomach to rise. A quiet grunting noise accompanied every sharp blow, sometimes a growl, or a snore, but never pleasant sounding. Zulin wasn't entirely sure how many of these he had to do. When Splitter had instructed him with Cira, it had been in rounds of fifteen. Was that right, or just for someone her size, or because she was pregnant and needed more oxygen? Would the orc need more for his substantial size? He was suddenly aware just how little he knew of the magic Splitter worked to restart a heart. But he had to try.

He got through three rounds of these intensive compressions. Throwing everything he had into each thump. His core burned with the strain, the muscles of his back and shoulders protesting like he was trying to haul a tree with his bare hands. Cira gave Splitter her air and spoke gently to him. She brushed her fingertips against his forehead, pushing back hair from his face. She kissed the corner of his mouth, an eyelid. She gave him whatever comfort she could. As if he could feel it. As if he was aware. It didn't matter if he could, it was more for her benefit than his anyway. While Zulin thrust his sternum inward, she clutched him to her, her lips against his brow as she rocked just slightly. "You're doing so well," she whispered against his skin, "We'll get you back, alright? Just hold on, darling, stay with us."

Zulin dropped an ear to the orc's chest, seeking out a heartbeat. Nothing. He was painfully still, with only the rush of Cira's breath in his lungs to stir his stiffening body. The elf growled in frustration and moved to push himself up. The strength went out in his arm. He collapsed back across the broad chest, heaving for breath. It had been only a few minutes of this cycle, yet it felt as if they'd been here for hours, the strain of trying to depress dense muscle and denser bone making the already exhausting efforts twice as hard. He couldn't keep this up. The sick realization made bile rise in his throat. He was failing. He was letting all of them down. Splitter would die and it would be his fault. "Do you need me to take over compressions?" Cira offered. He shook his head. They both knew that would be foolish. Her own heart could barely sustain her, a physical exertion like this would surely just leave Zulin alone with both people he loved dying on the floor of the tent.

Loved. He did love them, didn't he? He'd told Splitter once that elves give their body to many and their heart to only one, but as he slowly rose back up, wiping sweat from his mouth with his sleeve, he understood with a start that he had come to love the gentle giant. In spite of the circumstances that brought them together, he had only ever been kind. He was good. He would not die because of the foolish pride of orcs. Zulin glanced around, looking for another way to perhaps push down on his chest that he could sustain for longer. Nothing. He reached for anything he knew, anything that might help, another way to help his heart until the paralytic wore off. His hand still on his chest, he felt Splitter's ribs shift every time Cira breathed into him. Zulin felt like he'd been doused in ice water. If he couldn't compress the heart with his ribcage, then maybe...

Tugging a dagger free from the orc's belt, he felt along his ribcage until he came to a hollow between his ribs. "Zulin?" Cira asked shakily. "I'm going to try something," was all he replied before driving the point into flesh. She gasped and clutched at his head all the tighter. Zulin made a deep cut a few inches wide in Splitter's side, crimson blood leaking slowly from the wound. He braced himself for the next part. Parting the incision, he drove one hand into the wound, whimpering undignified as he did so. Sick warmth enveloped him, and he blindly felt his way inside the body. His fingertips skated across something broad and a bit soft, a lung if he had to guess, until he felt the dense wad of muscle which was his prize. "There," he murmured, more to himself. He pressed a thumb against it, anchoring himself as he shifted his other fingers to take hold of it. Suddenly he held Splitter's heart in his palm. The thing was huge, like every damn thing about an orc, enough so he felt he could not adequately cover it with one hand. Cursing softly, he widened the incision enough he could stick his other hand inside the chest cavity and cup the organ with both hands.

Cira had stopped her task while she watched this macabre display. She had no air of her own to give him, as she felt like it had been slapped out of her. Zulin huffed, "Keep breathing for him." and she came quickly back to herself. She cradled their charge's head and met his lips again, blowing air into him. Inside, the air inflated Splitter's lungs so they brushed up against his wrist and he shuddered, feeling them press against him and then slowly go lax again. Splitter made a hollow rasping noise as the air left his body.

He had to focus. He could not think of how this could easily kill him as much as save him if he did it wrong. They had no other options. Neither of them were strong enough to deliver compressions outside his chest wall, so inside it would have to be. Zulin worked the organ between his palms, squeezing gently but insistent. The ventricles collapsed and snapped back into shape with more alacrity than he thought. The nagging fear he would somehow squish his heart abated. It was dense, and stronger than he might have imagined, even with the delicate veins he could feel shifting under his touch. A marvel. Even in stillness. "Come on," he whispered, hunched over the wound he'd made, his arms flexing as he tried to urge the precious thing back to life. "I know you're still in there, you big oaf. You have to fight." Cira gave him another breath and again he felt the lungs rise and fall around his fingers as he worked. The rattling sigh as they deflated was Splitter's only reply. It continued to be his only reply as the minutes stretched on. His skin was wooden without circulation, and a terrible shade of greenish gray. The incision site had long ago stopped bleeding, not even the little rivulets it had made before, and even the remnant of warmth inside his chest cavity was beginning to cool. Cira pressed her cheek against his and let out a sob she could no longer hold. "Don't die," she whispered hoarsely, "Not like this. You can't leave us here alone..."

As if speaking to her, Splitter's heart shifted in the palm of Zulin's hand. A little twitch as the muscles rolled, one quick spasm, then again it came to rest. It was enough of a jolt he nearly tore his hands free. Instead he let it spur him on, eagerly shifting as he urged it with his rhythmic massage. "That's it, you remember, I know you do. Come on, come back to us." He punctuated his words with renewed vigor, pumping the orc's heart between his palms. His fingers had begun to cramp, but he went on, watching Splitter's face as Cira held him to her. She gave him three breaths in quick succession to try and encourage his body to pick up the message. On the last, her lips lingered against his. Tears rolled down her cheek onto his face. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him with fierce desperation. "Agonem," she whispered against his mouth, his name holding all the reverence of a holy litany when she said it, "You have to wake up. Please. Please."

Perhaps it was because she asked nicely. The organ cupped in Zulin's hands throbbed adamantly. The sudden ripple of movement made him jump, and it surprised him again when it followed up with another beat. For a moment it twitched and fluttered against his fingers, but when he nudged it, it took up a rhythm with that little encouragement. "Was that all you needed this whole time?" he laughed between euphoria and sobbing, "A little nudge?" He drew one hand out to splay bloodied fingers over the orc's chest, leaving the other inside to soothe and coax it along when it faltered here and there.

---Splitter---

Something soft touched his cheek. Words reached his ears, but he couldn't quite make sense of them. He was tired. More than he had ever been. He couldn't even raise his head. That was of little concern, because he felt someone cradling it, raising it for him. His eyes felt gummed shut as Splitter pried them open with great difficulty. Cira swam into view. Her edges were soft and fuzzy, her features not really in focus, but he knew it was her. He could always feel her near. She kissed him. Their lips were not made to fit together so well, yet they did, and it felt so good to finally kiss her he didn't even consider why she did it. He didn't even mind when she poured hot breath into his mouth. Dark elf kissing was perhaps different. Maybe it was normal for her to force air down his dry throat and into his lungs.

Though, he didn't entirely like the sensation when it made his lungs balloon out. There was an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, a fullness he didn't understand. His lungs met a tiny knot of resistance as they filled. When he drew in a breath for himself, a pain flared in his ribs. His whole chest was sore, but there was a spot between his ribs especially that panged fiercely. Something felt lodged there. A sword left inside him? It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to breathe around metal. Voices carried dully to him. "He just took a breath!" "Yes, yes, I felt it! Keep up the air, Cira, I don't know if he can get enough on his own." Zulin's voice. Cira did as he asked and again he felt the warm rush of her air in his body. He tried to croak her name, but it was unintelligble sounds raking out of him. She was kissing him, only this time she peppered them all about his face, dotting him with adoration from his hairline to his jaw. "Come on, darling, take another breath for me." He found he couldn't. The fullness of his chest seemed to dissipate. With it went his awareness of the two of them. "No, no, Agonem? Dove? Open your eyes, look at me again! Agonem!" There was a wet squelch and the sword seemed to drive between his ribs again. Something probed into his body, to the center of his being, and he felt his heart beat up against something solid. The solid thing pressed against the chambers of his heart and he could not help the cry he let out at the intrusion. It was not exactly painful, but the sensation of resistance when ventricles snapped made his whole body shudder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Zulin was hastily saying, "I-I'm sure it's not pleasant. I'm just giving it a little help." Fingers, sticky with something slightly cool, slid into Splitter's own. Cira was petting his brow. "You're doing so well, dove. So, so well. Feel how I'm breathing?" Her breasts rose against him in a deep inhalation. She let it slowly out and it stirred against his cheek, the sweet smell of something he couldn't place on her breath. "Can you breathe with me?" Again she took in a deep draft. He mimicked as best he could. His was accompanied by a dry, whistling sound. Even so, she patted his cheek affectionately. "Good boy," she murmured, "Very good. Keep going."

The rest of the night came to him in snatches. Splitter would jostle awake to find himself somewhere new. He'd dragged himself back to consciousness in his tent first, only to stir awake in the stables. Cira was breathing into him again. "I've got him," she said softly to someone, "He's just having a little trouble." Then he fell away again, bobbing back to the surface to find trees dappling overhead. Stars burned in the dark sky beyond. They were moving, the quiet rumble of wheels over dirt filling his ears. Zulin was beside him now, his lips not as soft as Cira's as they drove air into him, but still warm and inviting, enough to ward off the chill he felt creeping over him. "We're almost out," he was saying, "Hear that, Nem? We're almost in the clear. You just have to hold on." But he was trying. He was clinging so desperately to any scrap of awareness he could. It kept sluicing out of his hands.

They were still in the cart when next he breached from the river of sleep. His head was a little clearer. Enough so he could better understand his surroundings. He lay on his back, something propping up his head, with furs and cloaks bundled so tightly around his body he couldn't move, even if he'd had the strength to. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of silver hair, and glanced over to see Cira's head on his shoulder. Her arms were wrapped around him as she slept, her cheek pressed very close to his own. The angle of her body draped over his didn't make sense at first, and it definitely didn't look comfortable. She's making sure she can hear if you stop breathing, he thought with a sudden clarity. Dragging his eyes down, he saw Zulin curled up at his other side, thin limbs wrapped around his arm. While his head lay on the orc's chest, his hand rested over his wrist. To check his pulse, he knew. Both he and his mate had fallen asleep where they could spring up at a moment's notice if his heart stopped again. That it had stopped before was a hazy memory. Some part of him said they had done something wrong, that it had been his time to die, that they had robbed him of something. He no longer recalled what. He remembered only gentle hands on his body, giving him breath, giving him a heartbeat, giving him life.

Splitter curled his fingers around Zulin's hand. He tilted his head so it rested against Cira's. Then he closed his eyes and slept, thinking no more about it.

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1, 5, 9 and 10

I already answered n1 in a previos ask so Imm aroll with the other three ;)

5. Do you like self resus

In all honesty no. As there is lack of the tension between the rescuer and victim, inability to do mtm and overall I do not see a story scenario where this could be used ... I just don't see the appeal. It's alright if people enjoy it, but it's not for me.

9. Would you prefer to be rescued by a male presenting person or female presenting

99% of the time I imagine myself being rescued by a man. A specific one that is, since my self head-roleplays involve my fictional crushes which are mostly male.

10. Hard or shallow compressions

Hard! What's the point of shallow? That ain't gonna save anybody! Make those ribs bend till they crack!

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1 and 7 for the resus asks!

1. What made you interested in resus

Honestly I blame TV and movies with such scenes. My childhood favorite musical had a scene with a girl fainting and a guy giving her mtm. It was not a dramatic scene, more like silly... but it had no background music and you could hear the breath being shared and honestly that may have awoken something in me 😆

7. Rescuer or victim

Tough question, it really depends on my mood. If I had to choose, lately I found myself imagining me as the rescuer in most cases. Although I also kinda dig the third option: being an observer. Just seeing somebody else do the work while I assist, we maybe swap or just hold off the danger.

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Hansry "The Last Unicorn AU", that no one is asking for~

Blame thundersnake69 on twitter coz this random thing happened when we discussed some fav books from evilgang's prompt😀

Henry would be the last unicorn

Hans is Prince Lir

Theresa is Schmendrick

Sam is Molly~

There will be Hanush as the bull and Radzig as the first unicorn.

Please dont take it seriously, coz we both basically just dumping things with no actual plot!🤣

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Some kcd2 whump. You know. In case we didn't have enough on this blog...

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Damn that is ... so well written. Like my friend here says, you said it better than anybody!

I see a lot of people very very ashamed of liking resus stuff bc it can be perceived very harshly and I just wanted to throw my two cents into the ring, as a Certified Freak with at least one kink that's on QUITE a few "no thank you" lists bc it's also a deeply traumatic and stressful thing to experience (cnc, dubcon, rape play, etc):

Everyone fucks weird, whether they want to admit it or not, bc the brain just does whatever at literally all times. I'm terrified of choking, drowning, and having a heart attack, just like I'm soul-deep afraid of being assaulted, but fear is right there next to excitement in terms of chemicals in the brain, so here I am! You're not a bad or cringe person for having thoughts or playing pretend or talking about your kinks in appropriate spaces!

Also resus stuff is literally the height of intensity and drama in media, which is incredibly fun. The idea of someone (professionally or personally) being so dedicated to YOU and you ALONE because you have such dire immediate needs that need to be met that they'll drag you back from death bruised and battered and broken is likely really appealing to a lot more people than they realize. Especially today, when it's easy to feel so isolated, that sort of thing is VERY nice to fantasize about.

Like oh...I mean so much to you that you'd work yourself to exhaustion and break my bones just to make sure I'm okay? I don't get to deny help bc this is so vital? It's not rude to accept so much, even when I can't reciprocate? You're doing all this even knowing I cannot repay you right now, or maybe ever?

Imo, it's just about vulnerability and power and control and being taken care of and trusting someone (and having that trust broken with the highest possible consequences in dark resus), and that's just bdsm with a different aesthetic.

Be nice to yourselves. No one fucks normal, I promise.

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Doing this again cuz I want something to do before Artfight starts XD

resus promts

send me a number through my asks & i'll answer (anonymous or not) ! 🌟 feel free to reblog & let your followers ask you! ✨

1. what made you interested in resus?

2. how old were you when you first realised you were into it?

3. aed or defibs?

4. do you prefer professional videos or homemade?

5. do you like self resus?

6. are you into a more realistic scenario or sexual/fantasy scenario?

7. rescuer or victim?

8. would you ever rp in person?

9. would you prefer to be rescued/saved by a male presenting person or female presenting?

10. hard or shallow compressions?

11. hollywood style defibs or other?

12. mouth to mouth or ambu bag / artificial respiration?

13. stething or ecg?

14. does anyone in your life outside of your blog know about your love for resus?

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How did I miss this?! My favorite trio!!!

Plus a prompt (which totally wasn't put there by me ^^') from the awareness month list! If this was a fishing trip then I just caught a whale!

Holy smokes I love this.

Underwater Rescue Breaths

Summary: La'hare gets stuck under a log and needs a little help

Warnings: fantasy setting, near drowning, underwater rescue breathing, depictions of violence

Zephyr stopped his attempts at moving the log, quickly realizing that he simply wasn't strong enough. It was also becoming clear that La'hare was running out of time. He hoped Van could take the remaining gnolls alone as he ducked under the water.

The elf squinted at him from his trapped position, legs pinned under the fallen log. Zephyr motioned to his mouth, then pointed to the other man, who tilted his head questioningly. The rogue gently rested one hand behind La'hare's head and used the other to pinch his nose closed. The elf nodded in understanding and released the stale air he still had in a torrent of bubbles and allowed Zephyr to press his mouth to his. The tiefling pushed the fresher breath into the other and pulled away. Only a few bubbles escaped between the two and the cleric gave him a thumbs up.

Zephyr surfaced, taking a deep breath of his own. He looked around, trying to pin point Van. “We got a situation over here!”

Almost as though on cue, he heard the man curse loudly. Whipping around in the direction of the noise, Zephyr saw the warlock currently being pinned by one of the gnolls. The rogue ley out a curse of his own before he sucked in another deep breath and ducked back down under the water.

La'hare could see that the younger man was a bit more frantic and motioned for him to go. Zephyr pinched the man's nose shut again. The cleric let out the stale air again and let the other force another breath into his starving lungs. Once he had all he could give, he pushed at the tiefling, silently telling him to go.

Zephyr resurfaced and, with practiced swiftness, grabbed a dagger from his belt and threw. The blade dug into the gnoll's shoulder and it reared back with a snarl. Turning around, it locked its eyes on the tiefling, then changed towards him, abandoning the battered warlock.

Zephyr let out a squeak and tumbled out if its path as the monster barreled towards him, barely missing him and slamming head first into the log. It rolled forward with the force of the creature's failed tackling attempt.

“Shit,” the tiefling growled, seeing the massive creature between him and La'hare. It stood straight shaking its head, before glaring the man down. Zephyr reached for another dagger as it lunged towards him.

There was a familiar voice in a language he didn't understand from behind the gnoll before a translucent, floating and faintly glowing replication of La'hare's mace appeared directly in front of the gnoll and swung. It collided with the creature's jaw with the sickening crack of bone. The monster collapsed into the water, revealing the cleric behind it, clinging onto the log and soaked to the bone. He breathed heavily, dark eyes watching the gnoll as though daring it to try to stand up. His gaze shifted to the dumbfounded Zephyr and the man gave him a reassuring smile.

Zephyr had to actively stop himself from staring any longer, thankfully the darkness of his skin tone concealed the flush he could feel across his cheeks, as he turned to where Van previously had been. The warlock was standing, now, grumbling to himself as he curled an arm across his stomach.

“You good?” Zephyr called.

“Yeah,” Van called back. He straightened, taking a quick look around, then visibly relaxed. “That seems to be the last of them for now.”

“Oh thank God,” Zephyr slumped against the log. La'Hare pushed himself off from the log and stumbled, falling back into the water. The rogue yelped and moved towards him to help him up. “You ok?”

The elf winced as he was helped up. “Yes, but I think my leg is broken.”

Van was already making his way over with a potion in hand, wading through the water and stepping over the dead gnoll.

[blog-o-suffer]

If you don't whump your favorite character, who will?

CPR Awareness Week

Day 3 - Sudden Cardiac Arrest

Day 8 - Love Triangle

Human Cars AU - Story under the cut

TW : CPR

Heatstroke

The day is unusually hot, even for the small desert town. The sheriff leans against one of the abandoned storefront walls, fighting to stay cool in the sliver of shade it provides.

He's been tasked to watch the delinquent for the day as he repaves the main street. He'd barely made it past the fire station yesterday before pitching his little hissy fit. He'd thrown the shovel down and whined and moaned until the sheriff decided he'd had enough and threw him back in his cell.

Now here they are, out in the Arizona heat again as the boy grumbles and complains.

The clatter of a shovel on fresh asphalt snaps the older man back to the present. Not again, he thinks as he turns to look in the blond’s direction. What he sees sends ice cold panic down his spine.

The younger man’s cheeks and ears are searing red. He sways on his feet, stumbling toward the sheriff, slurring, “I d’n feel s’g’d.” No sooner had the words fallen from his lips, his blue eyes roll back and he crumples forward into the older man’s outstretched arms.

The sheriff’s knees buckle with the dead weight and he lowers both of them down into the red dirt. The boy's lips twitch and his lashes flutter, but his chest doesn’t rise.

“Doc!”

The panic in the sheriff’s voice makes the older doctor jump. He tosses his book aside and quickly stands to see what the commotion is about. Is the kid making a run for it, again? When he steps out into the street for a better view, his blood runs cold.

“The boy ain’t breathin’,” the sheriff all but sobs as he tilts the racer’s head back, cradling a flushed cheek and sealing his mouth over the other's. Both their cheeks round and McQueen's throat expands as the older cop pushes the first breath into the boy's lungs.

Doc is to them in a few long strides, bad hip and back all but forgotten in his urgency. He kneels down in front of the pair on the ground, pressing two fingers into the side of McQueen’s throat.

“Shit,” Doc spit, “he's got no pulse. Brace him.”

The sheriff does as he’s told, shifting his weight back into his heels and pulls McQueen’s limp torso flush with his broad chest.

Doc plants his interlocked hands over the smaller man’s chest and rocks forward. He slams his palms into the blond’s chest as hard as he can, counting under his breath as he works. When he finishes a cycle of thirty compressions, he reaches for the young man’s throat again, digging calloused fingers deep into the artery there.

Nothing.

The sheriff turns McQueen’s face towards him again and gives two more quick rescue breaths.

“Lay him down,” Doc urges. They cradle him gently as they lower him to the ground. Doc shifts him so that his back is flat while the sheriff removes his jacket and tucks it under the boy’s thick curls.

Doc moves to kneel next to McQueen, rolling his shoulders over his laced fingers to begin proper CPR. His hands sink deep into the blond’s chest, releasing just long enough to spring back before pushing down again. Small huffs are the only sound the younger man under him makes. His shoulders bow inward and his head nods where it rests between the sheriff’s knees.

“13, 14, 15, breathe!” Doc sits back to catch his breath as the sheriff leans over to seal his mouth over McQueen’s. The blond’s face is quickly going ashen and his lips are turning blue. Doc leans back into position, ready to start another cycle of compressions as soon as the sheriff lifts his head.

“Come on, hotshot,” Doc grunts, his arms pistoning into the chest beneath him like a well-oiled machine. The sheriff’s gifted air is forced up his throat with each thrust, some quiet huffs while others sound more like short moans or growls as the air passes through the vocal cords.

“Please, son, breathe,” the sheriff whispers as he run his fingers soothingly through matted blond curls.

Doc finishes another cycle and leans back on his heels while the sheriff takes over breathing. He turns to call over his shoulder, “my bag! Go to the clinic and grab my bag! The one with the blue cross on the front!” He's not sure who goes, but he hears their hurried steps crunching in the gravel.

A moment later Ramone appears. He drops the bag and takes a step back, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. Doc is still pounding into McQueen’s chest, his whole body rocking and jerking with the force.

“Go. You don't need to see this,” the sheriff says, voice tense.

Ramone nods once and turns on his heels, half jogging back to where everyone is gathered in front of Flo’s Cafe.

Doc unzips the duffel and pulls a pair of shears from inside. He slides the blades under the hem of the white undershirt and snips, cutting it open in three fluid snips. He brushes the fabric aside, revealing the racer’s bare chest. A lump starts to form in Doc’s throat when he sees the darkening bruise already forming over the boy’s sternum.

He shakes himself, willing the stinging tears back from his eyes as he turns on the portable defibrillator. He sets the paddles to analyze and presses the cold steel over the blond’s heart. After a moment, the machine shows what he already feared. Still flatline.

He passes an ambu bag over to the sheriff, “seal the mask over his mouth and nose. Every time I get to fifteen compressions squeeze the bag.”

The sheriff nods, and Doc goes back to his task. Pump. Pump. Pump. Breathe. They continue this pattern for two more cycles before Doc presses the paddles back onto McQueen’s chest.

There!

The monitor reads a weak VFib and Doc takes his chance. He turns the dial to 150J and sets them to charge. “Keep breathing for him,” he commands, finally glancing up at the older man in front of him. His eyes are glassy and red, but his brows are set in determination. He squeezes the bag, filling the boy’s lungs again and again.

When the light finally blinks Doc pulls the paddles from their slot and covers them in conductive gel. He presses the cold metal against bare skin. As his thumbs hover over the triggers, he looks up at the sheriff, “stand clear. Don't touch him.” He does as he’s told, scooting back and raising his hands.

Doc nods.

“Clear!”

The boy's arms and legs spasm as his chest jerks inward. His head lolls to the side as his body stills.

“No change,” Doc mutters, turning the dial to 200J. “Clear!” This time, McQueen’s back arches off the sand. His head falls back with an involuntary grunt and his fingers and toes flex and curl. When he slams back to the ground with a dull thud, the monitor whines.

“No…no, no!” Doc dives forward again, driving his palms down into the blond’s chest. He feels more than hears the snap when one of McQueen’s ribs gives way under the pressure. Without it, the chest softens and his hands sink even deeper. He can feel an ache forming in his jaw from gritting his teeth. He’s stopped counting and is now just yelling at the man below him. “Come on! Don't do this to me, rookie!”

There's a huff, then a grunt. The sheriff is watching McQueen’s face like a hawk for even the slightest sign of life, and when his golden lashes begin to flutter he feels the first shreds of hope bloom in his chest. Come on, that's it.

McQueen’s lips twitch like he's trying to suck in a breath, then suddenly his face screws up in pain as the air is forced from his lungs again.

“Doc-”

“I'm not giving up!”

“Doc!” The sheriff reaches out and catches the older doctor by the wrist, halting his movements, “he’s back. He’s back.”

Doc reaches a shaking hand forward, pressing his fingers against the side of the rookie's, his rookie’s throat and feels the quick tapping of a pulse against his fingertips. He allows himself a few moments of relief, leaning over to rest his forehead against the sheriff's shoulder. “We need to move him to the clinic,” he mutters, “gotta get his temp down and get him on some supplemental oxygen.”

The sheriff nods, shifting to slide his arms under McQueen's back and knees. He grunts, his knees cracking and popping as he lifts them both from the dirt. He awkwardly reaches out, helping Doc to his feet before they start across the street to the small clinic.

[blog-o-suffer]

A commission that was maybe possibly perfectly tailored to me cause I ship these twooooo so muuuchhh omg If you are here from the star trek community be careful exploring the rest of my tumblr lol. its a lot more of this and a lot less of star trek

[blog-o-suffer]

My resus fantasy is having sex while I was unconscious letting you try to resuscitate me as you ride me

Can't really say that's something I would be into as an Ace, but I can see the appeal others can see in this idea.

Maybe you get a sudden cardiac arrest while enjoying some adult time and your beautiful partner tries to help you out. But she herself can't help it but feel even more turned on by the whole scene so she just keeps riding you, thrusting down with each compression and clenching her thighs around you anytime she helps you breathe.

Yup, I getcha XD