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corroded-hellfire · 1 year ago

Note

Can we get Reader’s first Mother’s Day after Eliza is born? I’m imagining Eliza in a little “I 🩷 Mommy” onesie.

Also manifesting a heartfelt moment between Reader & Ryan ok byeeeee ✌🏻

Eliza in onesie? Check. Heartfelt moment with Ryan? Check. Cheesiness? Check.

Words: 6.4k

[As You Wish masterlist]

A low whining starts off slow but grows in both volume and intensity. The moment it registers in Eddie’s sleeping brain, he blinks his eyes open and is quick to grab the baby monitor and turn the sound down so it doesn’t wake you. Gently, he sets the monitor back down on his nightstand and rolls to look over his shoulder, checking to see if you’re still asleep.

A sleepy smile grows on Eddie’s face as he watches you, still out like a light, lips parted, and curled up with the comforter tucked up over your shoulder. If he didn’t have to get up to get your daughter, your husband would burrow under the blankets and cuddle up against you for the rest of the morning. But today is all about you and that starts with Eddie getting up bright and early so you don’t have to.

The moment the door to Eliza’s nursery cracks open, her whines go from half-hearted to insistent. She knows someone is there and she is going to make damn sure they hear her and come get her.

“Hey, there’s my little sunshine,” Eddie says as he steps into the nursery.

Eliza watches him with her wide brown eyes as he goes over to her pink curtains, parting them to let some light filter into the room. The sun isn’t even fully out yet, but the brightening gray sky provides enough of a shine to see by.

“How’d you sleep, hmm?” Eddie asks as he picks the seven-month-old up out of her crib.

Her chubby little fingers instantly grab at the shoulder of Eddie’s faded Hellfire shirt. She sighs contently when her dad presses a few kisses into the wispy baby hairs at her temple.

“You hungry?”

The rest of the house is silent as the two make their way to the kitchen. Eliza’s little hums and coos keep her occupied, like she’s having some sort of conversation, as Eddie sets her into her Disney princess highchair.

“I’ll heat up a bottle and then we’ll go watch some TV, okay?” Eddie asks the baby through a yawn.

He receives no reply as he pulls a prepared baby bottle out of the refrigerator and pops it into the microwave. As it heats up, Eddie goes around the kitchen, pulling out a frying pan, a spatula, and some cooking spray. Eliza watches with curiosity, but the moment the microwave beeps, her eyes snap in that direction, and she whines to get the attention of her father.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Eddie says, ruffling the tiny bit of hair that Eliza has as he passes by her.

The milk passes the wrist temperature test, so Eddie scoops his daughter up and makes his way into the living room with her.

“Okay,” he says through another yawn. “What should we watch? Let’s see what’s already in the DVD player. Oh, you like Hercules. Perfect.”

Eddie presses play on the remote and settles down on the couch with Eliza. He kicks out his plaid pajama clad legs and rests his feet on the coffee table as he situates Eliza against his body so he’s best able to feed her.

The little girl eagerly accepts her food, snuggling back against her dad’s chest as she takes over the responsibility of holding the bottle. Her eyes remain trained on the screen as she drinks, Eddie becoming invested in the movie as well. He even starts to sing to her as she finishes up the last of her milk.

“Like a shooting star, I will go the distance

I will search the world, I will face its harms

I don’t care how far, I can go the distance

‘Til I find my hero’s welcome waiting in your arms.”

Bright, shining eyes stare up at Eddie, making him chuckle once the song is over. Eliza blinks a few times, her dark long lashes kissing her cheeks with each flutter.

“Like when I sing?” Eddie asks her.

As a response, she drops her empty bottle and snuggles even further into her dad’s chest, making herself as comfortable as possible. Eddie gently rests his head atop her softer, smaller one and keeps watching the movie with her.

About halfway through the movie, Ryan comes down the hallway, rubbing his left eye as he trudges into the living room.

“Morning, pal,” Eddie greets.

“Mornin’,” Ryan answers, waving to his little sister as he passes the couch.

Eddie turns his head to tell his son, “I got everything you’ll need out for you. On the counter by the stove. Well, you’ll need to get the food parts out of the fridge, but I got the other stuff.”

“Thanks,” Ryan says as he continues on to the kitchen.

Now instead of the movie, Eddie’s attention is on any and all sounds coming from the kitchen. Yes, he trusts Ryan and knows he’s a competent kid—but he’s still only a twelve-year-old kid. After about ten minutes, Eddie can’t take it any longer and places Eliza in her pink flowery walker so he can go check in on his oldest son.

Ryan’s doing surprisingly well. He has all the ingredients that he needs out, and he has everything set up around him. He’s about to open the carton of eggs when Eddie raises his eyebrows.

“Did you wash your hands before you started cooking?”

“Oh, right.”

As Ryan goes over to the sink, Eddie hears “Hi, Eliza!” come from the living room. The heavy tread that accompanies the voice lets Eddie know exactly where Luke is until the ten-year-old pops up beside him.

“I’m hungry,” Luke says.

Eddie musses up the boy’s curls and nods his head.

“Eliza and I will go wake up the star of the day and then I’ll make you breakfast.”

The door to your bedroom slowly swings open, the heads of your husband and daughter popping in. The moment Eliza’s gaze falls on you, she immediately wants to be brought to your side.

“Okay, okay,” Eddie whispers as he walks over to the bed. He sits down on his side of the bed and lets Eliza go, who wastes no time crawling over to you. She wraps her small arms around your head, hugging it, and making Eddie laugh. “Why don’t you give Mommy some kisses? Wake her up like Sleeping Beauty?”

Eliza just tilts her head to look up at him, not knowing what he means. Your husband demonstrates by leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. This motion is what wakes you up, but you give no sign of being conscious, enjoying listening to your husband and daughter.

The infant does her best to copy her father, but really just slobbers on your face, which makes you laugh and peek your eyes open at her.

“Well, hello there,” you say, wiping baby drool off of your nose before it can run down any farther.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” Eddie cheers, one hand on Eliza’s back as if he’s encouraging her to say it as well.

“Thank you, Sweet Pea.” You press a kiss to your daughter’s cheek. “And thank you, baby.” Eddie leans in and gives you a peck on the lips. “Where are my boys?”

“Ryan is actually preparing your first gift of the day,” Eddie explains. “And Luke is either helping him or being a pain in the ass.”

As if he knew he was being talked about, Luke rushes into the room and does a running jump onto the bed.

“I’m heeeeeeere!”

Your middle child belly flops on the foot of the bed before army crawling up to you and wrapping an arm around your neck to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” he says.

“Thank you, honey.”

You take a look around at everyone on the bed and stick your lower lip out in a pout.

“I’m missing my oldest.”

Eddie presses a kiss to the top of Eliza’s head and makes sure she’s securely between you and Luke before he gets up from the bed.

“Let me go check on him.”

While Eddie walks out of the room, Luke wriggles himself so his arms wrap around Eliza’s small frame and lays his head on your shoulder.

“So,” he says, looking up at you, his blue eyes full of excitement. “It’s a surprise but you gotta know so you’ll be ready on time so I’m gonna tell you my gift!”

“Ready on time?” you ask, brows pinching together.

“Mhmm!” Luke says, letting Eliza chew on his thumb. “The art studio near Dad’s work is having a special Mommy and Me painting day and you and I are gonna go!”

“Luke, that sounds perfect,” you say, a bright grin lighting up your face. “I can’t wait.”

Eddie steps back into the room with Ryan, who has batter smudged on his nose.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” Ryan says, coming over and giving you a hug.

“Thank you, sweetheart. What have you been making a mess of?” you tease, poking his nose just below the smeared batter.

“My present to you!” he says excitedly. “I made breakfast. Just for the two of us.”

A gasp of excitement escapes your lips, and you rest your forehead against Ryan’s.

“He’s even set up a nice place setting out on the porch for you guys,” Eddie adds. “I’ll be managing the gremlins inside.”

“Hey! Who you calling a gremlin?” Luke asks, sitting up and narrowing his eyes at his father.

As if in response, Eliza presses her hands flat against Luke’s stomach and gives him a push.

“He was talking about you too, you know,” Luke tells his baby sister with a sigh. She copies his sigh and flops dramatically across his lap.

There’s a soft breeze outside as you sit across the table from Ryan, enjoying the French toast breakfast that he made for the two of you. Surprisingly, it tastes really good—better than any breakfast that’s been made for you in a long time.

“I think you should take over cooking for your dad from now on,” you tell Ryan with a playful smirk on your face. Before he can respond, your eyes catch on the mug sitting at your place setting. It’s white with a gold handle, and in the same golden color it says “World’s Best Mom” in a swoopy font.

For a moment you just stare at it, admiring it, and feeling your heart fill up with warmth. Carefully, you reach forward and lift the mug full of coffee towards you.

“This is beautiful, sweetheart,” you tell Ryan, looking at him over the rim of the mug. “Thank you.”

There’s a smile on Ryan’s face that’s a mixture of excitement and that mischievous look he used to get when he was a little boy.

“You should look at the back,” he says as you’re mid-sip.

Once you swallow your mouthful of coffee, you slowly turn the mug one hundred and eighty degrees to take a look at the other side. The sight that greets you has your eyes immediately filling with tears. Printed on the mug is a family picture of the five of you—the very first picture the five of you had taken together after Eliza had been born. The newborn is still wrapped in her blanket from the hospital as you hold her while sitting on the couch, Eddie right beside you. On his other side is Luke, grinning that hundred-watt smile that can light up any room. And on your other side is Ryan, leaning in close because just before the picture was snapped, he had his head bent over Eliza and was telling her that she was home now.

As much as you want to thank Ryan for the gift, your throat feels too constricted for words.

“Oh my God,” you’re finally able to squeak out. It takes you another few moments before you can speak again. “Ryan, I absolutely love it. It’s perfect. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

You set the mug back down on the table and open your arms for him. The oldest Munson boy pushes out of his chair and walks around the table, where you pull him into a bone crushing hug. He laughs as he wraps his arms around you to embrace you in return. Giving a little extra tug, you pull Ryan all the way into your lap, which has him laughing even harder. The pure joy his laughter radiates has you even more emotional than you already were.

“I don’t care if you’re too big for this now!” you say, words muffled against his back. Ryan tries to situate himself a little better, so you loosen your grip but don’t let him go. He drops his head back, realizing he isn’t going to be let free just yet, and the way the back of his skull becomes cradled in the crook of your elbow reminds you of how you held Eliza when she was smaller. A chuckle stuffed with a dozen different emotions bubbles out of you and you smooth some of Ryan’s golden brown curls off his forehead.

“I don’t care that you’ll be a teenager soon. I don’t care that you’re almost as tall as me. You’re still my little boy. You’ll always be my little boy.”

A smile tugs at the corners of Ryan's mouth.

“I’m so lucky that you’re my son,” you say softly.

Doe eyes that are so much like his father’s and his sister’s stare up at you from where his head rests on your arm, love and curiosity in his gaze.

“Did you love us before you loved Dad?” he asks.

It’s not something you expected him to ask, not something you thought about in a long time.

“That’s a tricky question,” you say, brows pinching together. “Because they’re different types of love. But, yeah, I did love you guys first. It was impossible not to after spending time with you.”

Ryan tilts his head, looking away pensively. He’s quiet and you wish you knew what was going on in his brilliant, beautiful mind.

“That’s pretty cool,” he finally says. “Some people have trouble finding the person they belong with. But you found three.” He smiles. “You were always meant to be my mom.”

The tears that began to build up earlier now fall down your cheeks and Ryan is quick to sit up and wipe them away.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

“It’s a good cry,” you assure him with a watery smile through your sniffles. “It’s very, very good.”

The second that you step through the door into the classroom where the Mommy and Me paint session is happening, Luke’s eyes go wide. All the art that hangs on the walls mesmerizes him as the two of you find a pair of empty canvases to sit at.

Towards the back of the room, you and Luke take seats at a table on the left side. There are two easels perched on the table that hold blank white canvases. Between the two, there are a myriad of colored paints for you and Luke to share, as well as a variety of brushes of different sizes.

You’re about to redirect Luke into a conversation with you because it seems like all the art surrounding him has him on overdrive, head constantly on a swivel in an attempt to see everything and you don’t want him to get overstimulated. But before you can open your mouth, the teacher at the front of the class calls for attention.

“Happy Mother’s Day everyone!” she says. “I’m so glad that so many of you wanted to spend time painting with your moms today! I’m Hannah and I’ll be your instructor for this class.” Hannah explains the basic rules, how the class works, and offers to answer any questions. “Sometimes we have themes we work on in these classes, but I’m not here to tell you what to paint. But wouldn’t it be cool if each mom and child’s set of paintings had a common theme?”

Luke perks up at this, instantly loving the idea. He swivels to you in his seat and nods his head so emphatically he reminds you of a bobblehead doll.

When you’re given free rein to work on your paintings, Luke plucks a thin paintbrush out of the holder and taps it against his chin.

“What should we paint?”

“What about…the ocean?” you suggest. “You can paint the pirate ship that’s on top of the water and I can paint the mermaid that’s under the water.”

Luke gets very excited about your idea and nods enthusiastically once more. You swear, you feel like you have to stop him before a spring pops out of his neck.

“Ooh! We should turn the canvases like this!” Luke tilts both canvases so they’re landscape and would look better one on top of the other.

“Very smart,” you praise.

Luke appraises his canvas and decides where to start painting the bottom of his ship, when his eyes glance over to your blank canvas and he’s struck with an idea.

“You should make the mermaid look like Eliza! Not like…a baby, but with her color hair and eyes. And maybe a pink tail since she loves pink!”

You chuckle, eyes crinkling in the corner as you nod your head in agreement. “I can’t think of anyone who would make a more magical mermaid than your sister,” you say.

“You would,” Luke says casually as he dips his brush in some coppery-taupe paint.

Warmth fills your body and your hand stalls on its way to grab a brush at his compliment. You make a mental note to ruffle his curls up later when your hands are clean and press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Like The Little Mermaid?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Luke says, brush stroking from side to side to paint the broad side of the ship. “But, like, the Disney one, not the Brother’s Grimm one where she doesn’t break the spell in time and turns into seafoam.”

Your giggle was pink, the same shade that you’d chosen for your mermaid’s tail.

Conversation flows and ebbs easily between the two of you as the ninety-minute class ticks by—it’s always easy and never boring with Luke around. Occasionally, you ask one another for advice on your paintings or ask how something is coming along. Once the instructor announces that time is up, you and Luke clean up your area while the teacher goes from table to table, taking pictures of the mothers and children with their paintings.

When she gets to you, you squat down so that you can hold your mermaid below Luke’s pirate ship. The ten-year-old holds his painting below his chin, giving the camera a proud smile, while you’re out to the side of the paintings, also sporting a proud smile. But your pride isn’t in your artwork—it’s in having Luke as your son.

When the two of you get back home, Luke eagerly shows off your paintings and Polaroid to Eddie, who, of course, loves them. The photo immediately goes on the fridge, held up by Luke’s favorite Shrek magnet, and the paintings are set on the entertainment unit until you and Luke can find a good place to hang them.

“Someone says she just woke up from her nap and is ready to hang out with Mommy,” Eddie sing-songs as he walks into the living room from the hall, where he was picking up the little Liza Bean from her nap time. Your favorite part, though, is that Eliza is wearing a white onesie that says “I 💜 Mommy.”

“Well, look at you!” you say, gleefully accepting your daughter from your husband. “And I heart Eliza! Mwah!”

“She’s got a surprise for you, too,” Eddie says.

You cock an eyebrow at your husband. “Oh, really? If it’s in her diaper I’m handing her back to you.”

Eddie laughs and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“No, not in her diaper. But it is in the bathroom.”

“The bathroom?” you question.

Eliza babbles as if she’s asking about the location as well.

“What are you asking for?” Eddie teases Eliza. “You know what it is.”

After a small boop to Eliza’s nose, Eddie slips his hand into yours and leads you into the master bathroom. Products in an array of colors are laid out on the counter and there’s a radio with a CD player tucked into the corner.

“What’s all this?” you ask, taking everything before you in.

Eddie casually strolls over to the counter and begins to present the different items as if he’s Vanna White.

“Hair mask for Mom, baby oil for Eliza’s hair,” he begins. “Oh, don’t worry, before you ask, Eliza and I got help from the people at the store who actually knew what they were talking about. Right, baby girl? Right. Okay, so. Next, face mask for Mom, oatmeal lotion for Eliza’s face. Then, as you can see, you have a variety of scents to choose from for your luxurious bubble bath. And body lotion for Mom, and more baby oil for Eliza.”

You’re overwhelmed by everything Eddie prepared and look down at your daughter in your arms, smiling up at you with her single tooth proudly on display in her lower gums. You’re overcome with how adorable she is and need to nuzzle your face against hers.

“Are we having a Mommy and Eliza spa afternoon?”

“All her idea,” Eddie says, holding up his hands in front of him.

With a chuckle, you step forward and press a soft, slow kiss to your husband’s lips.

“This is absolutely the sweetest thing ever,” you whisper against his mouth. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, my love. You deserve some relaxation. Thought this would be some nice time for my girls.” Eddie’s eyes go back and forth from you to Eliza, Eliza to you, and the pure love that shines through his gaze is enough to get you tearing up again.

“Isn’t Daddy the best?” you ask Eliza, who is too busy looking at everything laid out on the counter.

“I think she just wants to get to it,” Eddie says. “I’ll leave you girls to your spa.”

On his way towards the bathroom door, Eddie presses play and the CD in the player begins playing instrumental, lullaby covers of popular songs that you had purchased for Eliza.

It makes you laugh, and Eddie gives you a wink, about to head out the door, but he stops short.

“Oh! One more thing.”

He steps back in and closes the door to reveal two lavender bathrobes hanging on the back, one that has “Mommy” embroidered on the back and one that says “Eliza.”

“Eddie!” You say his name with a gasp. “Oh my God, they’re so pretty.”

“Gotta keep my girls comfy even when they come out of the spa,” he says with another wink. “I’ll leave you girls to it.”

Once Eddie is gone and has shut the door behind him, you take a deep breath, wondering where to begin.

“Let’s see,” you say to Eliza. “What scented bubble bath should we use?”

Using one arm to grab all five different options, you lower yourself to the cold tile floor below and let Eliza rest between your spread legs. She leans against you and immediately picks up one of the bottles.

“Wanna try this one first? Okay. Let’s see, this is vanilla scented.” You unscrew the cap and take a sniff. It’s a faint smell, but it’s nice. When you offer it for Eliza to smell, she’s clearly unimpressed as she doesn’t even spare the bottle a second glance. “We’ll call that a maybe.” You set that one to the side and grab another bottle. Rose Water. The scent isn’t bad to you, but it immediately makes little Eliza sneeze. That one gets pushed farther away as you giggle at how adorable your little girl’s sneezes are. The third option is Cherry Blossoms and by the way Eliza wanted to take this bottle from your hands, you’d say she liked it. A definite contender since you enjoyed it as well. Tropical Mango is a hit with Eliza, not so much with you, and Citrus smelled nice and clean but Eliza wrinkled up her nose more than you’ve ever seen her do before. Cherry Blossoms it is.

You let Eliza stay seated on the floor and push the other bottles around while you get up to run the bath water and add the bubbles. Next up, adding the baby oil to Eliza’s hair proves amusing because she keeps trying to roll her eyeballs up high enough to see what you’re doing. It’s impossible not to giggle and you press a kiss to her nose.

“Silly girl.”

Adding your own hair mask is much simpler, but Eliza still studies you, and you can’t help but wonder what’s going through her little mind as she watches you now—never mind what goes on in your house on a day-to-day basis.

“You ready for the water?”

Carefully, you step into the tub—making sure both facemasks are within reach—and lower both you and Eliza into the warm water and bubbles.

The seven-month-old clearly isn’t sure how she feels about sitting in the water at first, but once she realizes you’re sitting in there with her and it’s warm, she likes it. Slowly, she begins to get a little more adventurous and starts to make small splashes. These amuse her greatly until the bubbles start growing higher; then she seems a little concerned by them. All it takes is you scooping some up in your hand and blowing on them so they scatter and fly around to catch the baby’s attention again. She sits facing you and you gather enough suds to give her a bubble beard. This tickles her both literally and figuratively because she can’t stop laughing once it’s on her.

The sound is pure joy and so infectious. You laugh with her, silently wishing she could always be this happy.

The song on the CD changes to the instrumental, lullaby version of You’re My Best Friend by Queen.

“I love this song,” you tell her.

“Ooh, you make me live

Whatever this world can give to me

It’s you, you’re all I see

Ooh, you make me live now, honey

Ooh, you make me live.”

Eliza is mesmerized by your singing, and it makes you chuckle. She rests her head against your chest but the oil in her hair has her head slipping around, making you laugh even more.

With a sigh, you sink a little further into the water to relax.

“When you’re old enough to head bang,” you say, “I’ll teach you Bohemian Rhapsody. But fair warning, once you can head bang your dad is gonna make you do it to his music all the time.”

After you’ve soaked for a bit and both your and Eliza’s fingers are pruny, you reach over the side of the tub and grab the face mask and oatmeal lotion. First you apply Eliza’s and you’re surprised at how still she sits and lets you rub it around her face. Maybe it feels nice to her, just like a facial should. As you apply the mask to your skin, Eliza starts to giggle.

“What’s so funny?” you ask her.

Her ferocious giggles continue, and you realize she must be laughing at how you look because she looks silly even in her little oatmeal mask. The two of you laugh and you have to hold Eliza steady because even though she’s getting very good at sitting up on her own now, she’s laughing so hard that she keeps almost falling over.

Taking a washcloth, you first gently take off Eliza’s mask and then your own. Though her giggles have subsided, Eliza looks up at you with a smile on her lips and a glimmer of happiness in her eyes.

“This isn’t my first Mother’s Day,” you tell her, voice soft at first, “but it’s my first one with a baby. My little Sweet Pea. You and your brothers—and your dad—made this such a wonderful day. I’m so lucky to have you all. Thank you for choosing me to be your mom. I’d like to think you chose me, anyway.”

The little girl puckers her lips and makes a smacking sound as if she blew you a kiss.

“Right back atcha, kid.”

As soon as you get both of your hairs rinsed out, all you can think about is the soft plush bathrobe that’s awaiting you. But first, lotion. As you apply yours to your body, Eliza watches the water go down the drain of the tub with complete fascination. She peeks over the side of the tub, mesmerized with the whirlpool collecting near the pulled plug.

“Ready to be moisturized?” you ask her once all the water has disappeared. “Want that baby smooth skin?” Your own joke makes you laugh as you pop the top on the baby oil.

Eliza isn’t used to the sensation of having something slick on her skin. The slightly furrowed brow and the way she keeps running her hands lightly over her arms tells you she isn’t sure how she feels about it.

The time has now come for the bathrobes. The mini one comes off its hook first. It’s a little difficult to maneuver her body into the robe, but you soon get it situated on her and tie the fuzzy belt at her waist. She is a purple marshmallow, and the cuteness threatens to make your heart burst. A pleasurable sigh hums through you as you slip into your own robe. The way it feels like you’re wearing a pillow and cuddled up cozy but not constricted or overheated has you daydreaming about wearing this every single day.

“Come on you,” you say, picking up your fashion twin. “Let’s go see Daddy.”

Footsteps approach the living room and Eddie turns his head from the television to see you and Eliza making your entrance. A laugh of amusement falls from your husband’s lips.

“Look at my girls! A vision in purple!”

You walk around the couch and sit down on his lap, holding Eliza on your own.

“Tell Daddy that we had a nice relaxing time.”

“Good,” Eddie says and presses a kiss to your cheek. A strong hand rubs up and down your back and it relaxes you even further.

“Where are the boys?” you ask, voice sounding slightly distant as his touch lulls your body practically pliant.

“In the kitchen,” Eddie says, “going over the takeout menu for the Chinese place a few blocks over. So we’ll probably see them in an hour or two.”

Letting out a soft chuckle, you snuggle up against your husband, your baby cocooned between you.

“I love Chinese food.”

“That’s why we’re getting it, princess. It’s your day,” Eddie tells you before looking down at your daughter. “Right, Liza?”

Eliza simply blinks at him in response and buries her face in the soft fabric of your robe.

“Oh,” Eddie says as a thought resurfaces in his mind. He looks over the back of the couch to make sure neither of the boys are coming. “I have to tell you what Luke said. And, well, Ryan too.”

“What is it?”

Eddie’s smile is one filled with happiness and pride and it’s making you all the more curious.

“When you were in the bathroom—excuse me, I mean spa—Luke was telling us about the art class and how much fun it was. Then he kind of pauses and says, ‘You know…no, never mind. It will sound stupid.’ But I was like, come on, what’s on your mind, kid? And he goes, ‘I’ve always known how much Ryan and I are loved by everyone; our family. But I guess seeing how we’re treated the same way…’ And then he trailed off and sighed, and I think he couldn’t figure out how to phrase what he wanted to say. But I guess Ryan knew where he was going because he took over. He says, “We’re not treated any differently than Eliza. We’re all…’ Then he trailed off, but I caught where they were going then. So, I said, ‘You’re all her kids. Each one of you three is just as much her child as the other two. There’s no difference.’”

Tears flood your eyes but you’re not entirely sure what emotion is provoking them.

“They thought—” your voice cracks and you can’t continue.

“No, no, hey,” Eddie reassures you. “Both of them said it was something they never thought about. Not even after Eliza was born. But I guess a kid in Luke’s class or something says his stepdad doesn’t treat him like his son and Luke thought that was crazy. All he’s known since he was five is you loving him as if he’s your own. Because he is your son. Then I guess Luke talked to Ryan about it and they thought back and couldn’t think of a time where you treated Eliza as more important than them. I think it was an emotional revelation. One that they don’t take lightly. They know that they’re your babies, too. God, I wish you could’ve seen the looks on their faces when we were talking about this. Just the pride they have that you’re their mom. That you chose them and love them as fiercely and deeply as possible. Sweetheart, the only thing that was my idea today was the spa with Eliza. Everything with the boys? That all came from them. I hope you know how much they love you.”

“I do,” you admit with a sniffly smile, cheeks completely stained with tear tracks. “They chose me too. They’re my sons.”

Eliza looks up at you and babbles and coos, clearly wanting to be part of this conversation.

Both you and Eddie chuckle at her insistence and Eddie takes the opportunity to wipe your face.

“And you’re my daughter,” you say to Eliza.

“No denying that with how much you look like Mommy, huh?” Eddie says, running the back of his forefinger down Eliza’s soft, chubby cheek.

“Hey!” Luke says as the boys come back into the room, Ryan holding the takeout menu in his hand. “Why didn’t we get matching robes too?”

“The color clashes with your skin,” Eddie quips.

“I’d like to be included in these things is all I’m saying,” Luke says as he sits on the couch perpendicular to the one you’re on.

Ryan perches on the arm of the couch you’re on and opens the menu.

“We figured out what we want,” Ryan says, offering the menu to Eddie. “We circled them.”

“In red pen,” Luke adds. “The blue pen is from the last time we ordered.”

“Red pen,” Eddie repeats. “Got it.”

Reluctantly, you slip off of his lap so he can go call and make the order. Truthfully, you’d rather stay curled up in your husband’s lap, forget the Chinese food, and survive on Eddie’s cuddles alone.

“Want your usual, babe?” Eddie asks you.

“Yes please.”

The sound of footsteps fades the closer Eddie gets to the kitchen. You wave both of the boys over to come sit with you.

“Boys,” you stage whisper.

They come over, Luke plopping down on your left side and Ryan hunkering down on your right. Gently, you tuck Eliza between your and Ryan’s bodies before you wrap an arm around each of the boys’ shoulders and pull them in for a hug.

“Thank you for—oh, yes, Eliza you’re included in this too,” you say when Eliza harrumphs at you. “Thank you for the most amazing Mother’s Day. This was one of the best days I’ve ever had.”

“In your whole life?” Luke asks.

“In my whole life,” you affirm. “And thank you all for making me a mom. It’s the hardest but coolest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Being your kid is pretty cool, too,” Luke says. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure Eliza knows that as soon as she understands words.”

With a tired but content smile, you lean back against the cushions on the couch and immediately feel little hands and knees digging into various parts of your body as Eliza climbs up your body and makes herself comfortable, her clean head and hair coming to rest on your chest. From the position you were in when you hugged the boys, your arms are still stiff and wide open, and Luke is the first to take advantage of that.

He tucks himself into your side, resting his head on your shoulder. Ryan copies his actions (instead of the other way around for a change) and leans against your right side, careful of Eliza’s tiny head that is so close to his.

For a few moments you just sit there, thinking. Enjoying this time, with all three of your children in your arms. You close your eyes and savor it, just you and your babies in this moment.

Eddie strolls back in from the kitchen.

“Food is on its way—oh. Well, don’t we all look comfortable?” Eddie smiles as his gaze roams over the couch, taking in every detail of the four of you. His oldest babies who helped get him through one of the worst periods of his life. You, the great love of his life who saved him in every possible way. And the small baby girl that the two of you created together.

You tilt your head and rest it against Luke’s, looking up at Eddie with a soft smile.

His eyes meet yours and no words need to be said. Everything you need to express to one another is in that look. The love, the happiness, the gratefulness. Both of you realize the million and one things that had to line up just right for this moment to be a reality. It’s exciting to think about what the choices that were made today will lead you to in your future together. Only time will tell—and right now? This particular moment is one you’d like to pause. Maybe pause it until you can wring every moment of blissfulness from it that you possibly can. But you already know that would be impossible—the joy in this moment is endless.

#eddie Munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #older!eddie #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #dad!eddie #eddie munson imagine #AYW #AYWS #request

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starvity · 2 years ago

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— ☆ sides zb1 only show when they’re with you

gn!reader x zb1 (ot9)

genre: fluff, drabble // warnings: insecurities, jealousy, a bit angsty for gyuv and yujin

author’s note: this was such an interesting request and i had so much fun thinking about what to put for each member!! (★ω★)/ [requested♡]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ jiwoong - his funny side

okay i’m not saying jiwoong isn’t funny usually but he would be the FUNNIEST when he’s with you. he's most of the time someone kind of serious and reserved in public settings but then he would suddenly whisper a funny comment (that only you heard) and you would have to fight internally to not burst out laughing. some other time, you’re just getting ready to sleep, already cuddled up in the blanket while waiting for jiwoong, when his silly side would appear. like he would be brushing his teeth then he would start running around and doing some handstands on you idk???? he’s just a silly guy

ੈ✩‧₊˚ zhang hao - his protective side

hao loves himself a good princess treatment. he would always use his puppy eyes to get whatever he wants from you and you both know it, that you can never win. and that dynamic works for your relationship!! but then sometimes you appear in front of hao looking a bit more tired, stressed, or sick than usual and it’s like something switches in his brain. he will treat you like absolute royalty, that being by doing the chores, giving you a massage, cooking for you, cuddling with you? ANYTHING YOU WANT!!! that always happens when you’re away from him too, walking home or coming back late from a party. he will come pick you up whenever he can or at least ask you to facetime him.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ hanbin - his jealous side

i am certain that not a single person on this planet can dislike this man. he is loved by everyone and everyone knows him. when you two go out on a date he would usually be the one to meet like 5 of his friends on the way. but today it was your turn to randomly meet one of your old high school friends in a store. naturally, they come to hug you and keep an arm around your waist while you two catch up on each other’s life. suddenly, you feel hanbin’s arm slide around your shoulders as he pulls you closer. "i’m their boyfriend, by the way." he says, with a smirk on his face and his eyes turning dark.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ matthew - his insecure side

matthew is your biggest fan. he will always hype you up, telling you that you’re the most beautiful and amazing person he’s ever met. he will brag about you to his friends and talk about you to his family all the time. but when you do the same for him, he immediately gets shy, saying that it isn’t true and that you’re doing too much. you frown, repeating that he’s just perfect and he shakes his head again. you cup his jaw with your hands to make him look at you. "you.are.amazing.matt." you repeat, kissing his lips between every word. he lowers his gaze, a pinkish color settling on his cheeks "you really think so?"

ੈ✩‧₊˚ taerae - his calm side

dating taerae can be a bit exhausting sometimes (especially if you’re introverted) because this man YELLS. like it’s not even that he does it on purpose most of the time, he just has a really prominent voice. he would be playing video games online with his friends and he wouldn’t even hear how loud he is screaming because of his headphones. you throw a pillow at him, monitoring a "silence" motion with your index finger as you were trying to take a nap. after mouthing a sorry, taerae delicately turns off his computer, puts his headphones aside and takes his guitar before sitting next to you on the bed. he strokes your hair, apologising with now the calmest voice before he starts singing you to sleep with his sweet voice.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ ricky - his attentive side

you don't even try to figure out what's on ricky's mind sometimes. he would start talking about some random subject, then starts talking about another, then another... he himself would be distracted with his own words when he's talking to you that he would need to get quiet, blink a few times and let out a "what?" before laughing and trying to focus again. he can be easily distracted but he is also really observant, especially around you. one day he started talking about all the little habits you have that he finds endearing and you realised that you weren't even aware that you had half of these.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ gyuvin - his serious side

one thing about gyuvin is that he's always going to make fun of people. and you being his partner gets the WORST treatment. he was on his phone when he suddenly laughs, shoving it in your face. you were horrified when you saw the ugliest picture of you sleeping and started begging him to delete it. he continues laughing as you try to snatch the device out of his hands but, again, he was too tall. without even you knowing, tears roll down your cheeks and the expression on gyuvin's face completely changes. he takes you in his arms, stroking you back and apologising over and over again. later in the evening, you two had a deep conversation and he asks to set boundaries because he never wants to hurt you ever again. (he won't stop making fun of you though, as far as you allow him <3)

ੈ✩‧₊˚ gunwook - his cute side

mister giant baby thinks that his role is to protect you no matter what. he thinks he always need to be tough, and that you're probably just dating him to open jars and carry heavy stuff for you??? "can i be the big spoon today?" you ask, opening your arms for gunwook who had just showered after coming back from practice. he looks at you confused, at first disapproving because blah blah he's the big boy here before sighing and placing his head on your chest. you suddenly see his eyes soften at the sudden contact as you pull him closer. gunwook hums contently and closes his eyes. "not so bad , after all?" you chuckle while stroking his cheek with your thumb. "shut up~" he whines in a cute voice, hiding his face in your neck.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ yujin - his emotional side

you know that it is not easy to read yujin like an open book. and since he's also pretty new to the whole relationship thing, he finds it quite hard to express his emotions, especially around you. you were studying in yujin's room while he was practicing his vocals in the bathroom (the acoustic is good, apparently). and you were so focused on studying for your next test that you didn't hear nor see the door open a minute ago. "can i talk to you?" yujin's voice startles you from across the room and you gulp nervously, inviting him to sit next to you. he suddenly leans his head on your shoulder and your hand naturally comes up to pet his head. "i feel like i haven't been doing really good lately, with my vocals and dancing... and like i don't know if i'm even good enough..." you listen attentively to his worries and reassures him that he's doing great and that you're proud of him. (might have teared up a little).

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renranram · 1 year ago

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i CANT stop thinking about the idea of a schlatt x camgirl reader fic

Pose for the fans

nsfw

fem!reader x loser loner pathetic schlatt

reader is a cam girl whilst schlatt is her biggest donator and fan!!

you gasps, " oh my god! user jnschlt thank you for your donation! " you clasp your hand together, " 'hi baby, here's some 500, can you lift your skirt up and show us how pretty you are? ' " the tts reads out

you giggles softly, " am i really that pretty? " you twirl your hair with your fingers as you sit on your knees, slowly, teasingly pulling up your skirt to reveal a lacey pink panties

the live chat immediately went into shambles, spamming compliments whilst schlatt, chuckles, amused, his hands already on his pants, before typing on his keyboard, ' baby, how many more to get that dildo on your pretty pink pussy hm? ' he donates as you read it

" hm.. eager aren't we? " you tease your viewers before gently picking up the pink dildo, showing it off to the camera, " i think we're too fast to be in there " she giggles softly

as you spread your legs, moving your panties to the side to reveal, your already wet and hot pussy, " is this what you guys want? " you flaunt your pussy as the chat speeds up

" fuck.. " schlatt groans out, chuckling in amusement as he slowly palms himself, " dumb fucking whore " he moans out, sending another donation

' jnschlt sent 1000, put a show on us baby ' the tts reads out as you gasp, " jnschlt! oh my god you're really spoiling me "

" you want a show huh? then ill give you a show " your lips form into a cheeky smile, and with a teasingly slow pace, you take off your panties, your hands playing with your folds

meanwhile schlatt lifts up his shirt and lowers his pants, his eyes stuck to the screen as if he was hypnotized, you rub yourself, moaning in pleasure, " you enjoying the show? "

the chat spams yes, ranging from compliments, degrades, and slurs, " ah fuck " you throws your head back as you plays with your own buds, you hand slowly squeezing your breasts

schlatt groans out, impatient, but he continues to admire your body, his eyes eye fucking the girl on his monitor

he pushes his head back as he leans his back on his seat, for a loser who has nothing to do with his life schlatt found a new obsession on some random camgirl on a random site he saw

you continue to rub your clit as you bite your lip, " shit... ", spreading your legs more to show your wet juices on your pussy as schlatt fasten his pace, grabbing a nearby lube to lube up his dick

after playing with your pussy, you enter a finger as you moan out softly, as schlatt groans, ' jnschlt donated 5000, baby, i dont have the time for this, please ' you gasp

chuckling, thinking how pathetic he is before shrugging, " fineee, you're so impatient " you giggle softly, grabbing the dildo

teasing your hole by slapping the pink silicone on your already sensitive clit, as you moan out, pushing the tip slowly, just to tease her viewers too

" what a fucking whore jesus fucking christ " schlatt smiles, he fastens his pace as you gasp, finally entering the entire size in your pussy

" oh my god, fuck.. i forgot this is like.. 7 inches or something " you chuckle, as you continue to thrust in and out the dildo, replying back with a moan

" fuck.. exactly my size " schlatt mumbles, shifting on his seat as he continues to jerk himself off

" ngh fuck.. it feels so good " you moan out, as you maintain eye contact with the camera, " it feels so good daddies "

" feels really fucking good.. i feel so fucking- ah.. full " you continue, " fuck.. holy shit.. " schlatt moans back, fisting his dick with the palm of his hands

" what a fucking whore, fucking bitch.. fuck.. im gonna.. im gonna fucking shove my cock on your pussy when i see you.. " he mutters, as his adrenaline hits and yours too as you fasten your thrusts, moaning and whimpering

" ah ah ah oh my god " you moans out, rolling your eyes back in pleasure, braindead from all the pleasure and adrenaline your getting

" fuck... what a fucking slut.. fucking cum slut.. " schlatt groans out, as his precum leaks on his tip, grabbing more lube so he can lube himself up

" ah shit- i-im fucking cumming " you stammer, feeling a hot pool on your stomach as you bite your lip, " fuck.. im cumming too " schlatt mutters, acting as if he's talking to you

you continue to thrust in the silicone in your sensitive and sore pussy, fucking your brains out as schlatt's movements follow your thrusts

and after a few thrusts, you came, shaking in pleasure as you squirt out your juices while schlatt came too, his semen on his monitor, covering your panting figure

#chuckle sammy #chuckle sandwich #fluff #jschlatt #jschlatt x reader #jschlatt x y/n #jschlatt x you #jschlatt x reader smut #schlatt x y/n #schlatt fanfic #schlatt x reader smut #schlatt x reader #schlatt #sleep deprived podcast #sleep deprived #jschlatt smut #jschlatt fanfic

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emdashbitch · 5 months ago

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the way mcu Peter is the one existing in the least financially stable position out of the three we've had yet is the one who gets called middle class and an insult to Spider-Man's origins the most is baffling to me

yes, he's technologically more privileged than the other Peters having been given access to the suits and connections he has, but that isn't because he's wealthy or middle class, it's because of grooming. the tech he has is a by-product of child exploitation. and that then led him to being further exploited by others afterwards. hardly a fair trade off.

(And as for Midtown High, Peter's a scholarship student and an exemplary student at that, needing scholarships and grants is literally how Tony gets his literal and proverbial foot in the door with him.)

All three live action Peters have ties to some incredibly rich men, but one has a significant and important contextual difference I've seen ignored constantly:

Raimi's Peter and TASM Peter were both childhood friends with a boy their own age in authentically and organically formed relationships, formed before either Peter acquired their powers. Both Harrys were peers to the Peters, despite the wealth gap, and the Harrys don't make the Peters feel lesser for not having the same resources or living situation. It wasn't smooth sailing and there were issues that arose due to that gap, but at their core, the Peters and the Harrys were friends without ulterior motives. This is also the case with many other versions of Peter and Harry.

MCU Peter at 14 was specifically targeted and exploited by a 46-year-old man who'd been stalking him (justify it however you like, the fact Tony had been aware of Peter as Spider-Man and did digging to find out who he was and where he lived. He'd been watching Peter for up to six months... that's a form of stalking).

He had no prior relationship with Tony outside of childhood hero worship for Iron Man. Tony Stark is one of the most powerful men on Earth, financially, socially, academically and politically speaking, as well as militaristically as Iron Man, and Peter is a child who got powers six months ago wearing swimming goggles and a hooded sweater. Already, all of this creates several power dynamics that aren't to Peter's benefit.

Tony locks him in the room with him after entering his home under false pretenses and offers him gifts/bribes him after rifling through Peter's belongings mocking and making Peter feel small for what he did have. Tony had ulterior motives for seeking Peter out that, no matter how you spin it, are child exploitation. He turned Tony down, we never see Peter willingly agree, yet Tony didn't take no for an answer and used blackmail to get him to fight for him without telling Peter anything, particularly scary since he had Peter fighting against his own human rights as a genetically enhanced person. All he told Peter was that Steve had "gone crazy" for not wanting enhanced people to... say, have to wear 24/7 identification and monitoring trackers. Wild.

And despite admiring Tony who's given him all these things, he's frequently disobeying Tony. He and Tony have contradictory ethics. Their morals are at odds, they're constantly shown disagreeing on how to handle situations because Peter is far more like Steve Rogers than he has ever been like Tony (something we also see between how Peter handles Norman, under the control of another entity to kill May, and how Tony handled Bucky, also under the control of another entity to kill Maria.)

Peter might be into tech and a genius, but that's where his likeness to Tony ends. It's people like Happy around him who try to make him fit into the box of a Tony mini-me (ex. in FFH, we're shown Peter through Happy's grieving eyes as this, and then through the use of the music and the camera frame shifting solely to Peter, we see that it's a false legacy Happy's invented in his grief. Peter has a completely disinterested reaction to the music, even though he claims to "love" it and gets the artist wrong. This isn't a reach, it's symbolism, used to convey complex themes without having to spell it out.)

It can even be argued that Peter failed to clue into Quentin Beck because Beck treated him exactly the same way Tony did, which we're shown was on purpose once Beck drops the act and we learn he personally knew Tony and how he behaved. Peter has been constantly exploited, not just by Tony but also by "Fury"/Skrull Fury and SHIELD, since the age of 14. None of Peter's peers are in the superhero/spy world and he was never given the chance to properly talk to any of Earth's other heroes, just Tony, so he has no point of reference to know what is and isn't acceptable dealings in superheroism. Every single time he's been recruited, it's been with lies and manipulation. Victims of abuse, of any kind, are 4x more likely to go through it again as they go through life and that only goes up if they were under 16 at the time of first instance.

Anyway, I'm just really tired of seeing important context about MCU Peter ignored. No one seems to realise that they're not calling out proof that MCU Peter is lazy for using this advanced tech or living in a billionaire's back pocket, they're highlighting the symptoms and direct results of child exploitation.

#peter parker #mcu #spiderman #anti tony stark #anti irondad #anti spiderson #the mcu is the furthest thing from perfect and one of those reasons why is how they portrayed and then framed tony and peter's dynamic

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medfetai · 20 days ago

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The MedFet Bible - Volume I

The following is a collection of MedFet short stories, all of which are guaranteed to enflame and entice the various senses..

Please leave your feedback in the comments below. Please repost and let's get the whole community to see it.

Title: Sofia’s Silent Spiral

Sofia Reed arrived at St. Mercy’s Medical Center at 6:15 pm, her auburn ponytail bobbing as she walked into the admissions bay. She was twenty-eight, vivacious and articulate, a research analyst who spent her days poring over spreadsheets. Tonight she’d come for “just some routine tests” after a vague flutter in her chest. She spoke easily with the triage nurse, laughing about her overactive imagination. Her light cardigan slipped off one shoulder, hinting at the curve of her collarbone and the gentle swell of her breast beneath a simple camisole.

Within minutes, Sofia was settled in a quiet room, vitals stable: pulse 82 bpm, BP 118/72, SpO₂ 99 percent. She settled against plump pillows, propped her legs beneath a crisp white sheet, and chatted with the on‑call resident about her favorite podcasts. Her pale skin glowed under the fluorescent lights, and she bent to sip ice water, untroubled.

At 8:02 pm, she asked for a pain‑scale chart to note the residual flutter she’d felt earlier. The resident smiled, placed the chart on her lap, and stepped out to review Sofia’s preliminary EKG. Left alone, Sofia traced patterns in the sheet, humming a soft tune—completely at ease.

Then, at 8:07 pm, her eyes widened. A sudden tightening gripped her chest, forcing her to inhale sharply. She clutched at the thin sheet, the camisole riding up to expose the apex of one breast as her lungs struggled. She tried to call out—only a strangled whisper emerged.

The monitor beside her beeped once, then began its urgent wail: heart rate spiking to 220 bpm, then collapsing toward zero. The door burst open and the resident lunged in, eyes frantic. “Code blue—room 12!”

Two nurses ripped Sofia’s gown open in one swift motion, exposing her bare chest to the chill air. Her breasts sat tense and high, nipples dark against her ivory skin. They pressed the defibrillator pads onto her sternum and left flank—gel glistening like tears.

“Charge to 200 joules!” the resident barked. The paddles clamped down. The shock coursed through Sofia’s body; her limbs arched once in a stark arc, then lay still. No pulse.

They intubated immediately: the laryngoscope’s blade reflected the stark white of her molar‑gritted teeth, then slipped past swollen cords as the endotracheal tube settled in her trachea. A nurse squeezed the bag‑valve mask—air hissed into lungs that crackled with fluid and faint wheezes.

“Start compressions,” someone ordered. Two pairs of gloved hands took turns driving into her sternum—down two inches, release, down, release—the brittle snaps of cartilage echoing in the small room. Each compression surged blood toward a heart that refused to restart on its own.

They cycled through epinephrine boluses, the loud click of syringes punctuating every two minutes. A nurse slid Sofia’s camisole up further to access an antecubital IV. Saline and blood products flooded her veins; warm solution rushed through central lines.

At 8:15 pm, the resident looked up from the monitor—ventricular fibrillation dancing across the screen. “Charge again—300 joules!” The paddles slapped on her now‑reddened chest. Another arc of electricity; her body twitched as if rebelling against the shock, then lay motionless.

Improbable as it seemed, they pressed on. Compressions continued, medicine dripped, the ventilator hissed. The resident’s voice cracked with exhaustion as he announced, “We’re going thirty minutes. Let’s give it everything.”

Thirty relentless minutes later, hands fell silent. The resident placed the stethoscope over her chest—no breath, no heartbeat. At 8:37 pm, he whispered, “Time of death.”

They smoothed the sheet back over Sofia’s breasts and sternum, now stained faint pink where the gel had mixed with sweat. The room stood empty of alarm—only the soft drip of the IV line remained. Outside, the waiting room sat oblivious, chairs neatly aligned. Inside, Sofia’s final whispers died in the quiet hum of machines she would never again hear.

Title: Sarah’s Final Embolism

Sarah Linton, thirty-three, stepped into the brightly lit emergency department at 9:15 pm, greeting the triage nurse with a weary smile. As an international flight attendant, she was accustomed to odd hours and cramped seats; tonight she’d come in complaining of a dull ache in her left calf and occasional fluttering in her chest. Clad in a worn silk blouse and leggings, her cardigan slipped off one shoulder as she sank onto the gurney, revealing the gentle swell of her breast and the curve of her clavicle. Her pale skin glowed beneath the halogen lights, and she chatted effortlessly about her next layover in Tokyo.

Vital signs in the monitor bay were reassuring: pulse 92 bpm, BP 120/78 mmHg, SpO₂ 98 percent on room air. A quick Doppler ultrasound ruled out deep vein thrombosis—at least for now—and the attending resident ordered an ECG. Sarah hummed softly while the technician pressed sticky electrodes to her torso, the gel glistening against her skin.

At 9:42 pm, the resident reentered with the ECG printout. “Sinus rhythm—nothing acute,” he announced. He stepped out to review Sarah’s labs. Left alone, she stretched and massaged her calf, wincing faintly at a hidden tenderness. She sipped water and whispered a quick text to her partner.

At 9:47 pm, without warning, Sarah’s face drained of color. She clutched the sheet at her waist, lips parting in a silent gasp. The flutter in her chest morphed into a terror‑steeped pounding, and her breathing sharpened into frantic, shallow rasps.

Seconds later, she slumped sideways, gown falling open and exposing both breasts to the clinical chill. A nurse dashed back in, colliding with a gurney and knocking over saline bags. “She’s unresponsive!” the nurse shouted. The resident burst through the door.

Two attendants ripped Sarah’s blouse and camisole free in one tug, leaving her completely nude from the waist up. The nurse slapped defibrillator pads on her sternum and left lateral chest—gel oozing around the edges. Her breasts rose and fell in the sudden, shallow breaths forced by panic.

“Code blue—room 9!” the resident barked. He charged the paddles to 200 joules. Sarah’s body arched once under the electric surge, limbs flinging outward, then collapsed. No palpable pulse.

They intubated in seconds: the laryngoscope’s blade caught the sheen of her wet lips as it passed her swollen cords, the tube slipping smoothly into her trachea. A ventilator hissed to life, delivering oxygen into lungs crackling with the first signs of pulmonary edema.

Compressions began—down two inches above the xiphoid, release, down, release—the brittle snap of ribs echoing against the tiled floor. Syringes of epinephrine, atropine, and amiodarone were plunged into her IV at two‑minute intervals. A nurse inserted a second line; blood products and crystalloids flooded her veins in a desperate bid to maintain perfusion.

At 10:05 pm, the monitor flickered into pulseless electrical activity. “Give tPA—massive PE,” the resident ordered, drawing up tissue plasminogen activator. The syringe glistened as the viscous fluid entered Sarah’s bloodstream.

Outside, an ambulance standby team awaited. Within five minutes, Sarah was loaded into the back, chest compressions never pausing. The defibrillator pads remained in place, ready for another shock. Sirens wailed through the city as paramedics continued advanced cardiac life support: compressions, ventilations, shocks—over and over.

At St. Anne’s Hospital, the trauma‑resus bay was a whirlwind. ECMO specialists prepped their circuit, recognizing that thrombolysis had failed. A perfusionist cannulated Sarah’s right femoral vessels while the cardiac surgeon cracked open her chest. The rib spreader groaned as it forced her sternum apart, revealing a heart flaccid and unresponsive. Hands sank directly into the myocardium, kneading in time with ongoing compressions.

Warm blood, mixed with dissolved clot fragments, gurgled through suction lines. Monitors warned of severe acidosis; the nurse dripped sodium bicarbonate and calcium chloride into central lines. The ECMO pump whirred, taking over her failing heart and lungs, but Sarah’s core temperature had plummeted, and her body trembled in shock.

Forty agonizing minutes of direct cardiac massage, thrombolytic infusion, and extracorporeal support passed in a blur of adrenaline and dread. The OR lights cast long shadows over the sterile field. The surgeon’s gloved hand hovered, then stilled.

At 10:57 pm, the resident pronounced, “Time of death.”

They closed Sarah’s chest, replacing bone flap and suturing skin. Her gown lay folded on a stainless‑steel tray, darkened with sweat and gel. Outside the OR, the hum of nighttime hospital activity carried on, indifferent to the life extinguished within. Sarah Linton would never see Tokyo’s neon skyline; her final journey ended beneath harsh lights, her pulse silenced by a silent, massive embolism.

Title: Mallory’s Flatline

Mallory Hayes was thirty-five, athletic, sun-tanned, and independent—a wilderness tour guide back from a two-week hiking expedition. She walked into the ER at 6:48 pm with nothing more than a vague complaint: “I just feel… off.” Her voice was steady, but she looked pale beneath her freckles. Her pulse was fast, but nothing alarming—98 bpm. She laughed with the triage nurse about hiker’s paranoia, downplayed the dizziness, and shrugged when asked about any pain.

Vitals were taken. BP 114/76. O₂ sat 97%. Slight tachycardia, mild temperature of 37.8°C. She mentioned having had a brief fever during her trip, chalked it up to sleeping outside. The nurse noted that her skin felt slightly clammy. Mallory dismissed it. “Probably just dehydrated.”

At 7:15 pm, she was placed in a curtained bay and told to rest while they ran labs. She kicked off her boots and lay back in the paper-draped bed, her sports bra damp against her chest, a thin ER blanket pulled over her hiking shorts and bare legs.

7:22 pm. She sat up suddenly. Her chest hurt. Not sharp, not crushing—more like a pressure building beneath the sternum. She leaned forward. “Something’s not right.”

Her nurse returned just in time to see her sway. “Mallory?”

Then the monitor alarmed. Pulse dropped rapidly—98 to 44. BP unreadable. She slumped sideways, the monitor flatlining.

The code team descended instantly. A nurse ripped the blanket down, then pulled off her bra with scissors to clear access to the chest. Her toned torso was slick with sweat. Defib pads were slapped onto her sternum and side. “Charging to 200!”

Shock. Her back arched. No response.

“Intubate her,” the resident ordered, pushing the laryngoscope into her open mouth, tongue slack. The tube slid in with practiced urgency. The bag-valve mask hissed rhythmically.

Compressions began. Her chest caved rhythmically under the weight of two sets of gloved hands. Her sternum snapped under the pressure—subtle at first, then more obvious. The resident called for epi—1 mg IV push—then another.

7:29 pm. V-fib. Another shock. Her body jumped again. Still no pulse.

An ultrasound showed a pericardial effusion. “Tamponade,” someone said grimly.

They cut. A rapid thoracotomy was performed—chest wall opened in one clean motion, ribs spread. Her left lung sagged to the side. Blood pooled fast.

Suction. A cardiac needle. Fluid aspirated from the pericardial sac. Mallory’s heart fluttered briefly—an agonal blip—then stopped.

Internal massage began. Gloved hands cradled her heart, pumping directly. Epi again.

She remained unresponsive. Skin pale, lips blue. Her opened chest heaved with each manual squeeze of her heart.

Thirty-five minutes. No electrical activity. No contraction. The room was soaked in silence except for the rhythmic beeping of equipment refusing to give up.

“Time of death,” the attending whispered. “7:56 pm.”

They closed her chest carefully, placed a clean gown over her, and turned off the monitor.

Her boots still sat neatly at the foot of the bed. Muddy. Untouched.

Title: Last Breath – Danielle’s Collapse

Danielle Mercer, thirty-two, was vibrant, articulate, and beloved—an elementary school art teacher known for her spontaneous energy and big, warm laugh. She’d stopped at a popular downtown deli with a friend after a long parent–teacher conference night, still in her blue polka-dot dress and cardigan, hair loose from the clip she always forgot to use.

It started casually. Midway through a bite of a turkey sandwich, she suddenly stilled. She tilted her head, brow furrowing. Her hand lifted slowly to her chest. Then she coughed—once, then twice. Her friend laughed nervously.

“You okay?”

Danielle nodded, tried to clear her throat again, eyes watering slightly. She coughed once more, but now it sounded strained. She reached for water and took a sip—then violently spat it out. Her hands slammed the table. Eyes wide.

She stood. Staggered. The people around her noticed the panic—her face turning red, then a deep shade of purple. Her lips parted soundlessly. She tried to speak, but only gurgling emerged. She pointed to her throat. Her friend screamed.

Someone called 911.

Two patrons tried the Heimlich. One wrapped his arms tightly under her ribs and heaved, again and again. Nothing. Danielle collapsed to her knees. Her airway was blocked. She was conscious, but slipping—eyes frantic, arms grasping weakly.

She was unresponsive by the time the ambulance arrived, three minutes later.

The EMTs found her sprawled on her back, head tilted to the side, cyanotic.

“Confirmed airway obstruction,” the lead medic said, slicing open the front of her dress with shears.

They suctioned first—nothing came up. Laryngoscope in. Her tongue was swollen, lips bluish. Her chest barely moved.

“Visual on the object. Looks like bread lodged deep.”

He tried to pull it with Magill forceps—no grip. He reached again, deeper—pulled out soggy bread and meat, streaked with blood and saliva.

Still no breath. They began BVM ventilation, trying to force oxygen in. Chest did not rise.

“Let’s go—move now!”

She was loaded into the ambulance with compressions already started. One EMT straddled her on the gurney, hands rhythmically pressing into her sternum as another bagged her.

In the ER, they met a trauma team already waiting.

“She’s been down maybe seven minutes—full arrest. Aspiration,” the medic barked.

“Push epi!”

They re-intubated—now with clearer access—but her airway was inflamed, her trachea resistant. They forced the tube in. Her chest barely inflated under the ventilator.

“Get me a cric kit!” the physician called.

A scalpel cut her neck just below the thyroid cartilage. A plastic tube was inserted, and finally—finally—air moved. Her chest rose.

“Pulse check—nothing. Asystole.”

More epi. Atropine.

CPR continued. Her chest was bare, smeared with lubricant from defib pads, breasts shifting with each forceful compression. Her ribs cracked audibly around the 15-minute mark.

They shocked twice despite asystole, hoping for a miracle. No response. Her skin was cold. Monitors flatlined, the ventilator pumping uselessly.

By 8:17 pm, nearly forty minutes after her collapse, she was declared dead.

The team stood in silence. Her dress lay in tatters across the floor, her lips parted slightly around the tracheal tube.

A meal. A bite. A moment.

Danielle Mercer’s final breath never came.

Title: The Quiet Room – Marissa’s Last Hour

Marissa Lane was twenty-seven and worked late nights as a night-shift editor for a publishing house. She was quiet, bookish, and carried herself with a softness that made her forgettable in most rooms. That morning, however, she entered the ER under a different light—bleary-eyed, flushed, and pale beneath the freckles that dotted her cheeks.

She'd driven herself there. No sirens, no panic. She parked, walked in, and calmly told the triage nurse that she felt short of breath. No cough, no chest pain—just a strange pressure in her back, “like someone sitting behind me, leaning in.” Her voice was quiet, almost embarrassed.

Vitals were curious. BP 128/90. Pulse 112. Temp 38.3°C. Her oxygen was at 93%—low, but not alarming. The nurse assigned her to a low-priority bay, gave her a nasal cannula, and asked her to change into a gown. Marissa complied, folding her jeans neatly on the chair, slipping into the paper-thin gown that barely reached her knees.

She lay on the bed, reading on her phone, IV fluids running slowly into her arm. Her chart sat untouched for nearly twenty minutes.

At 9:27 a.m., the monitor beeped—slightly increased heart rate.

9:31 a.m.—her oxygen dipped to 88%. The nurse noticed her breathing was more labored. Marissa looked confused. “Is this normal?” she asked, blinking slowly.

By 9:34 a.m., she was gasping. Her gown clung to her chest with each desperate breath. The monitor now screamed—tachycardia in the 140s. Her oxygen fell into the 70s.

She arched her back, tearing at the cannula. A rapid response was called. Nurses flooded in, propping her upright, switching to a non-rebreather mask. She clawed at the edges of the bed, trying to sit up.

9:38 a.m.—she collapsed backward.

Code Blue.

They pulled off her gown in seconds, exposing her pale chest slick with sweat. Electrodes slapped onto her. Compressions started. Her head lolled to the side.

“Epi, now!”

The monitor showed pulseless electrical activity. CPR continued, each compression driving her chest deep. Her sternum gave way with a dull pop.

They intubated her—tongue swollen, mouth open in a frozen gasp. Blood pooled at the corner of her lips as the tube slid down.

“What happened? What the hell happened?” the resident muttered.

An ultrasound revealed a massive pulmonary embolism. A clot, silent, sudden, lethal.

Thrombolytics were ordered, but the damage was done.

They shocked her once, twice—no change. Manual compressions continued. One nurse straddled the gurney, pressing hard against her broken ribs, sweat dripping from her brow.

Her body jerked under each effort, breasts heaving unnaturally under the strain. The room buzzed with urgency.

Another epi. Another pulse check. Nothing.

After 34 minutes, the attending raised a hand. The compressions stopped.

Time of death: 10:12 a.m.

They covered her gently. Her phone still buzzed on the chair—an unread message from her boss asking if she’d make a noon meeting.

Marissa wouldn’t answer. The quiet girl who whispered in the waiting room never made a sound again.

Title: Breach Point – Hailey’s Final Hour

Hailey Brookes was thirty-one, a structural engineer with a restless mind and a dry sense of humor. On Thursday afternoon, she left work early, complaining to her coworkers that she felt “off”—a little lightheaded, maybe something she ate. They’d laughed it off. So did she.

By 4:17 p.m., she stood at the front desk of the emergency department, swaying slightly as she explained that she felt short of breath and “weirdly cold.” She smiled, made jokes. Her blood pressure was low—90/58. Her skin was pale and cool, O₂ sat in the high 80s.

They took her back quickly.

In Bay 6, Hailey lay on the stretcher, legs bare beneath the paper blanket, IV fluids running. Her gown was loose at the shoulders, her skin clammy. A low-grade fever registered.

The nurse asked if she was in pain. “A bit. Like, right under my ribs,” Hailey said. “It's dull, but it spreads. I dunno.”

Blood work was ordered. ECG. Chest X-ray. A CT was pending.

5:09 p.m.—she pressed the call button. “I can’t breathe,” she whispered.

The nurse found her sheet soaked in sweat. Hailey was curled slightly, breathing hard, pulse 124. She was trembling.

A rapid response was called.

Doctors arrived, and her vitals continued crashing. BP 70/44. Her lips were turning blue.

“Sepsis?” someone guessed.

They started broad-spectrum antibiotics. Fluids pushed. Her eyes flicked around the room. “What’s happening to me?”

Her belly now looked subtly distended. The CT never made it.

5:22 p.m.—she went unresponsive.

Code Blue.

Her gown was stripped away. Monitors attached. Her chest rose weakly, then not at all. She was gasping. Then still.

CPR started. Hard. Immediate.

A nurse climbed onto the stretcher, palms pressing deep into Hailey’s sternum. Her chest caved with each compression, her breasts shifting unnaturally beneath the force. A femoral line was placed as IVs blew.

“Intubate her.” The resident was shaking. The laryngoscope slid in. Blood appeared in her airway.

“Ultrasound now!”

They scanned her abdomen—then saw it: massive intra-abdominal bleeding. A ruptured splenic artery aneurysm.

“She’s bleeding out.”

Blood transfusions started. Two units O-negative. Then four. Her belly swelled visibly as pressure built internally.

A thoracotomy tray was opened, but they hesitated. Her rhythm was agonal.

Internal compressions began—her chest opened with one clean incision, ribs spread. The trauma surgeon reached in, grasping her heart directly, pumping.

It fluttered, then stilled. Her aorta leaked into the field.

They packed the abdomen. Clamped vessels. But the clock had moved too fast.

6:01 p.m.—no rhythm. Asystole.

Thirty-eight minutes of resuscitation. Blood spattered the team, the sheets soaked red beneath her open chest cavity.

They called it.

Time of death: 6:03 p.m.

A nurse cleaned her face. Another zipped the body bag halfway, pausing long enough for the trauma resident to remove her name badge from the gown.

No ID yet for next of kin. Just a woman in a hospital bed—brought in awake, now silent.

The bed was wheeled out slowly. The ER floor was mopped in silence.

Title: Fracture Line – Taylor’s Spiral

Taylor Nguyen, twenty-eight, was a second-grade teacher with a wild laugh and a daily coffee addiction. She had no major medical history, never missed a physical, ran three miles a day, and only occasionally smoked when drinking with friends. That Friday morning, she slipped on her apartment stairs carrying laundry.

She landed awkwardly, twisting her right leg beneath her. There was a sickening snap she couldn’t forget. Her neighbor heard her screams and called 911.

The paramedics found her pale, diaphoretic, and clutching her thigh. Her right leg was visibly deformed—shortened, rotated outward. The femur was likely broken.

They stabilized her, gave her fentanyl en route, and brought her in alert but in clear distress.

10:17 a.m. – ER, Bay 3 Taylor was groaning, gripping the side rails. “It’s broken, I know it,” she hissed, tears streaming down.

X-rays confirmed a comminuted mid-shaft femur fracture—serious but survivable. A traction splint was applied, and her pain started to ease.

She was stable. Awake. Cracking jokes. “Guess I’m skipping my run today,” she smirked, sipping juice through a straw. Her vital signs were a bit soft—heart rate 108, BP 104/70—but nothing alarming.

10:49 a.m. She began to look pale. Clammy.

“Is it just me, or is it hot in here?” she muttered. She reached for her water, hand trembling.

Nurses noted her pressure had dipped to 88/60.

Blood was drawn again. Fluids were started. Her oxygen dropped to 91%.

Then she said: “I feel… weird.”

10:57 a.m. Taylor vomited suddenly. Then collapsed sideways on the bed.

Monitor alarms screamed.

BP 72/40. HR 140. O₂ 85%.

She was fading fast. Her pupils dilated.

“Call a code!”

Code Blue – Trauma

The room flooded with staff. Her gown was cut away. Electrodes, oxygen mask, IVs. She was barely conscious, breathing shallowly.

“Get her back flat. Let’s go!”

A bedside ultrasound showed free fluid—rapidly expanding in the abdomen.

“Retroperitoneal bleed. Internal hemorrhage. Probably from the fracture.”

11:04 a.m. Her eyes rolled back. No palpable pulse.

CPR initiated.

A nurse mounted the stretcher, straddling Taylor’s torso, pounding compressions into her chest as others prepped meds.

Epinephrine pushed.

The monitor flickered—PEA.

They intubated. The laryngoscope revealed vomit in the airway—suction in, fast.

Another pulse check. Nothing.

Blood was rushed in. 2 units. Then 4. The floor beneath her gurney darkened with what leaked from the access ports.

11:18 a.m. A thoracotomy tray was opened.

“Do it,” the trauma attending said.

Scalpel in. The chest opened, ribs spread. Her heart was revealed—flaccid, barely twitching. Manual compressions were started directly on the heart.

Still no rhythm.

11:24 a.m. Defibrillator charged. 1 shock. Flatline.

Another epi.

Still asystole.

“Time of death: 11:28 a.m.”

They stood in the silence. Her chest was still open. Her leg, still splinted, now seemed almost irrelevant.

A simple fall. A healthy woman. A hidden artery torn from the inside.

A fracture. A bleed. A death no one saw coming.

Title: Last Words – Emily’s Sudden Collapse

Emily Rojas was thirty-three, a barista with a big laugh and a bigger heart. She lived alone, loved horror movies, and ran a side business making custom candles. That Sunday afternoon, she was helping her friend move into a third-floor apartment. She carried a box up the stairs, chatting mid-sentence—when she suddenly stopped, tilted her head slightly, and sat down hard on the landing.

“I… I feel dizzy,” she muttered.

Her friend asked if she was okay. Emily nodded, but her skin was already pale, and sweat glistened at her temples. She stood to shake it off—and collapsed.

3:11 p.m. – 911 call She was conscious when EMS arrived, barely. Pulse 130. Blood pressure 86/52. Her shirt was soaked. She couldn’t speak clearly, and her right arm twitched once, violently.

The crew noted unequal pupils. Emily tried to sit up, but her body failed her. Her words slurred.

Stroke? Seizure? Her glucose was normal. They rushed her to the nearest ER.

3:34 p.m. – ER, Bay 1 Emily arrived obtunded, posturing. The trauma team called for CT, labs, neuro consult.

“She’s not following commands. Pupils unequal. Get her to scan now.”

In CT, she coded.

The techs shouted. CPR began in the scanner. She was wheeled out, chest compressions in progress, her lips darkening.

3:49 p.m. – Trauma Bay again Her shirt was torn open completely. Electrodes snapped on, gel pads pressed against her bare chest. The monitor showed pulseless electrical activity.

"Get epi in. Bag her faster."

“Compressions—deeper.”

A nurse pushed hard on Emily’s chest, the sound of bones shifting under her palms. Her head rocked side to side with each thrust. The ET tube was inserted—blood immediately bubbled up the lumen.

Her abdomen was growing distended.

“Massive internal bleed?”

They scrambled for ultrasound. A ruptured aneurysm was unlikely in someone so young… unless—

“Subarachnoid hemorrhage? Could be neurogenic shock,” the resident muttered. “She was lucid—then just tanked.”

Her pupils were now fixed and blown.

Still they worked. Ten minutes. Twenty.

A defibrillator was tried, despite no rhythm. One shock. Two. No change.

More epi. More compressions.

Her body bounced with each round. The sheet under her soaked red with IV and airway blood. Her jaw was taped open, eyes glassy, staring.

4:18 p.m. – 29 minutes of resuscitation “Asystole. No signs of perfusion.”

The attending looked at the clock. “Time: 4:19.”

Hands dropped. The room was still.

Her friend sat outside, sobbing, unaware it was already too late.

Emily, who’d brought coffee and laughs every morning to half the hospital staff, lay motionless—legs askew, arms loose, face serene despite everything.

No warning. No time. A ticking vessel inside her brain had finally burst.

And with it, so had she.

Title: Static Line – Naomi’s Final Descent

Naomi Keller was thirty-five, a software developer by trade, a skydiver by passion. The kind who thrived on adrenaline, she’d jumped over 60 times before. She had gear customized in purple and gold, a GoPro mounted to her helmet, and a smile that could settle nerves in the most anxious first-timer.

Saturday morning’s forecast was clear. Perfect drop conditions.

The plane climbed to 13,000 feet. Naomi checked her gear meticulously—altimeter, main chute, reserve, AAD. All clear. She gave a thumbs-up to her jump partner, grinned, and vanished out the open door into the roar of wind.

Everything went smoothly. Until it didn’t.

11:08 a.m. – Dispatch call Witnesses on the ground reported Naomi’s descent looked normal… until the final few hundred feet. Her legs were limp. Her body slack in the harness.

“She’s not flaring—she’s not controlling the chute!”

She hit the ground hard. Crumpled. No scream. No movement.

By the time EMS reached her, she was unconscious, pulseless, breathing agonally. CPR began in the field.

11:24 a.m. – Trauma Room 2 Naomi arrived as a full code. Her jumpsuit was shredded open. Blood leaked from her mouth, her nose, a laceration across her scalp. Her leg was clearly fractured—bone exposed. But her chest was the real concern.

“Multiple rib fractures. Tracheal deviation. Right side—no breath sounds. Tension pneumo.”

Needle decompression was immediate. Her chest hissed, but her vitals didn’t improve.

"Get a chest tube in. Now."

A nurse bore down on compressions. Naomi’s chest caved with each push. A lung collapsed. Blood frothed from her lips. Her heart showed fine v-fib. Defib pads were placed.

“Clear.”

One shock.

No rhythm.

Another.

Her sternum fractured audibly beneath compressions. IV fluids wide open. Blood ordered STAT. Her abdomen distended under pressure—internal injuries likely.

“Pelvis is unstable,” someone noted.

A FAST exam showed free fluid, echoing black on the screen. They intubated her, suctioning blood every few seconds.

11:41 a.m. Still no ROSC.

The trauma surgeon made the call: thoracotomy.

Scalpel slid between ribs. Rib spreader cranked. Her heart emerged—floppy, motionless.

Direct massage began. She was cold now. Pale beneath the surgical lights.

“Come on, Naomi…”

11:48 a.m. – Time of death No electrical activity. No cardiac response. No life.

They called it.

The trauma bay fell quiet except for the low hiss of the ventilator still attached to her lifeless body.

They left her parachute bag beside the gurney. It hadn’t malfunctioned.

She’d likely had a sudden cardiac arrhythmia mid-air. Collapsed while falling. And hit the ground already half gone.

In the end, it wasn’t the fall that killed her.

It was what her heart did before she ever touched the earth.

Title: Crosswalk – Jenna’s Final Step

Jenna Morales, thirty-one, was walking home from her shift at the animal shelter. It was just after 9 p.m. A drizzle slicked the roads, and she had her earbuds in, humming softly to herself as she waited at the crosswalk on Main and Fairview.

She had the walk signal. She stepped off the curb.

The truck never slowed.

Witnesses said the sound was worse than the scream—metal on flesh, a crunch, a thud, then silence. The driver kept going. By the time someone reached Jenna, she was on her side in the crosswalk, barely breathing, her right leg twisted completely around, femur poking through blood-soaked jeans.

9:08 p.m. – EMS Arrival Jenna was semi-conscious, gurgling, trying to sit up but unable to move. Her pelvis was shattered. Multiple ribs flared outward where the truck had struck her chest.

Her left arm was gone below the elbow. Not crushed—ripped. They found it five feet away.

BP 74/38. HR 154. She was shocky, pale, blood pooling beneath her and washing away in the rain.

“Rapid sequence intubation. She’s agonal.”

Tube in. Oxygen on. Fluids bolused. Tourniquet to the upper arm. Pressure dressing on her thigh.

She flatlined en route.

9:22 p.m. – Trauma Bay 1 Jenna arrived blue-lipped and pulseless. CPR began immediately.

“Let’s move!”

Her shredded clothes were cut off. The wound at her hip was brutal—degloving and partial amputation. Bone exposed, muscle torn and flapping with compressions.

“She’s lost liters.”

A nurse straddled the gurney, pumping her sternum with rapid, deep compressions. Blood spurted from the stump, soaking her scrubs.

Two large-bore IVs ran wide open. O-negative blood slammed in through a rapid infuser.

“Pupils fixed. Abdomen distended. Chest rise asymmetric.”

“Chest tube—left side.”

A scalpel slid between ribs. Blood gushed—they connected it to suction, but the canister filled instantly.

Epinephrine pushed.

She was in PEA.

More compressions. Her body convulsed beneath the team, chest rising and falling unnaturally, jaw agape under the ET tube.

“Crack the chest,” the attending barked.

Thoracotomy tray opened.

They sliced left, tore muscle, spread ribs. Her heart was exposed—torn on the anterior surface.

A gaping, bleeding hole.

No chance of repair here. No time.

Still, the surgeon massaged the heart, trying desperately to get a rhythm. Blood kept pouring from the chest cavity, running in thick rivulets off the table.

9:36 p.m. Asystole.

“Time of death: 21:36.”

They stood in silence.

Jenna's body was barely recognizable beneath the blood and bandages, limbs askew, eyes half-lidded.

One moment she was walking home, thinking about what movie to watch.

The next—torn apart in the street, a quiet life ended by a streak of headlights and a coward at the wheel.

Title: Burnout – Claire’s Final Shift

Claire Donovan was 29, a second-year resident in emergency medicine. Known for her dry humor, relentless work ethic, and the ever-present coffee cup clutched in one hand, she’d become something of a legend on night shifts.

But lately, Claire hadn’t been sleeping. She’d taken on back-to-back 12s, covering for a sick colleague. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Her face looked pale under the fluorescent lights as she finished suturing a lac on a teenager’s hand, stepping away with a weak smile.

“Just need a second,” she muttered, heading toward the staff bathroom.

She never made it.

2:41 a.m. – Code Blue, staff hallway The thud of her collapse echoed. A nurse found her on the floor, face-down, blood trickling from her nose, her limbs jerking.

“Claire?!”

She was seizing—arms locked, eyes rolled up, froth building at the corners of her mouth.

The team scrambled. She stopped convulsing—but then came the gasping.

Agonal.

2:43 a.m. – Trauma Bay 4 Her colleagues were already there—tears in their eyes, hands trembling as they worked.

“Pulseless.”

“Start compressions!”

Her scrubs were cut open. A nurse climbed up and began CPR, driving deep into her sternum. Claire’s body jolted with each push, her head lolling to the side, blood pooling in her mouth.

“Epi’s in.”

She went into v-fib.

Pads slapped onto her chest.

“Clear!”

Her body arched violently off the table. Still no rhythm.

Again.

Her ribs fractured with a loud pop beneath the resident’s palms.

“Internal bleeding? Look at her abdomen—distended.”

They dropped in a central line. Her pressure was nonexistent.

A portable ultrasound showed a ruptured hepatic artery—likely from a spontaneous aneurysm. A rare ticking time bomb.

Her eyes were fixed now. Pupils blown.

“Thoracotomy tray. Now.”

They cut. Spread.

Her heart, bruised and still. They tried to massage it, blood pouring over gloved hands.

The attending looked at the clock. The team was silent.

3:08 a.m.

“Time of death: oh-three-oh-eight.”

The room fell still.

The resident doing compressions collapsed into a chair, sobbing.

Claire’s hair was matted with blood, eyes wide open, chest splayed open beneath the surgical lights. A trail of blood led from the trauma room to the hallway where she’d fallen.

A doctor. A friend. A fighter.

Gone—not in a crash or catastrophe.

But crushed by the weight of a system that never let her rest.

Title: Electric Silence – Haley’s Final Seizure

Haley Kim was 26, an energetic grad student working on her thesis in neurobiology—of all things, epilepsy. She’d had a seizure disorder since childhood, well-controlled for years on medication. She hadn’t had a grand mal since she was seventeen.

So when she felt the strange pressure building behind her eyes on a quiet Thursday evening, she told herself it was just stress. Lack of sleep. The Red Bull. Not enough water. She blinked hard, rubbed her temples, and kept typing.

Then the floor came up fast.

7:18 p.m. – 911 Call from Upstairs Neighbor Thuds. Repeated, rhythmic. Something heavy hitting the floor. Then the crash of glass. Then nothing.

“She's on the floor. She’s shaking—foaming at the mouth—I think she hit her head!”

7:26 p.m. – Paramedics Arrive Haley was unresponsive, breathing rapidly, jaw clenched. Blood ran from a split on her scalp into her ear canal. Her hands were rigid, arms flexed at her sides.

“Postictal, but breathing. GCS 6.”

Then her eyes fluttered. A new seizure hit.

Tonic-clonic again, violent. Her head slammed into the floor despite padding. Vomit mixed with blood began to pool at the side of her mouth. She stopped breathing mid-convulsion.

“She’s hypoxic! Let’s bag her—get her up!”

Her pulse fluttered, irregular.

7:40 p.m. – ER, Resus 3 Haley came in intubated, bradycardic, and cyanotic. Her face was bruised, tongue bitten, lips blue. They secured her airway, started benzos, loaded her with antiepileptics.

“She’s still seizing. Look—focal twitching in her left leg.”

Status epilepticus.

“We need to sedate her fully. Push propofol.”

A sudden flatline on the monitor.

“V-fib!”

“Charging—200 joules!”

Shock. Her body lifted off the table. Still no pulse.

“Start CPR.”

Her gown was yanked open. Compressions began fast and deep, snapping ribs beneath the nurse’s palms. Her chest rose awkwardly, blood leaking from her ET tube with every bag.

“Epi’s in. Come on, Haley…”

Her pupils were now fixed.

“Push another round. Again.”

Shock. Compressions. Shock again.

She had been seizing for nearly 40 minutes. Brain-dead on arrival, they realized later. But no one wanted to say it.

They tried until 8:13 p.m.

“Time of death: 20:13.”

The room went still.

Haley’s chest was a ruin of bruises. Bite marks lined her tongue. Her limbs, still occasionally twitching, gave an eerie echo of the seizure that had never ended. A silent brain, still firing into nothing.

A brilliant mind, short-circuited by the very illness she had dedicated her life to understanding.

Title: Toxic Level – Mia’s Final Party

Mia Reynolds was 24, recently graduated, and freshly hired as a marketing assistant. It was Friday night—her first paycheck had cleared, and she was celebrating with friends downtown.

She had three vodka shots before they even left the apartment.

By midnight, she'd lost count. Something pink and sweet in a plastic cup. A dab of something powdery on her gums. A stranger’s hand guiding her to the dance floor.

Security found her collapsed in the club’s restroom—vomiting, twitching, and barely responsive.

12:37 a.m. – EMS Dispatch She was found lying on her side in a stall, lips blue, pupils pinpoints, foaming at the mouth. Her pulse was erratic.

"Likely polysubstance—get Narcan in!"

They gave her 4mg intranasally. Nothing.

Another seizure started—full-body, violent, arms locked, legs kicking against the tiles. Her head slammed into the toilet base.

“She’s bradying down—heart rate 42, BP 68/40.”

They bagged her, loaded her, and peeled away with sirens screaming.

12:58 a.m. – ED, Bay 2 Mia rolled in, post-ictal but still unresponsive. Her dress was soaked in vomit, her skin pale and slick with sweat. The vomitus reeked of alcohol, but her tox screen was a nightmare—fentanyl, cocaine, MDMA, benzodiazepines.

“She’s in severe respiratory failure. Bag her harder. No drive.”

She vomited again—projectile—so much they had to suction continuously. Her O₂ was crashing.

“Tube her. Now.”

As they intubated, she seized again—despite all the drugs on board. Her oxygen saturation plummeted.

“She’s coding.”

Pads on. Compressions started. A nurse climbed onto the stretcher, driving deep into her chest. Her body flopped with each push, arms slipping off the sides.

“Get access—two 18s. Push Epi. Start bicarb.”

Her heart showed torsades, then flatline.

“Shock her.”

Nothing.

Again.

They cracked her chest—blood pooled in the cavity, dark and thin. Her heart was motionless. The team massaged it desperately.

1:22 a.m. – Time of death

She was 24. She had joked, hours before, that this would be her “craziest night ever.”

Now her mascara streaked down her cheeks, her body limp and cold beneath the trauma lights.

The party ended on a stainless-steel gurney, surrounded by strangers trying to undo a fatal mix of recklessness and chemistry.

A celebration turned to resuscitation.

Too late.

Title: Not Getting Better – Lauren’s Quiet Decline

Lauren Finch was 28. A librarian. She’d come into the emergency department that morning with a low-grade fever, body aches, and a dry cough. Nothing dramatic. Tired, pale, bundled in a scarf despite the warmth.

She joked as she was triaged, her voice raspy: “I probably just need soup and a nap.”

Her vitals weren’t terrible—heart rate in the 110s, temp 101.4°F, sats hovering at 93%. She was placed in an observation room, told to rest, to hydrate. Just a viral bug, most likely. She smiled politely, nodded.

But by mid-afternoon, her breathing had become shallow. Her oxygen dipped to 88%.

They placed a nasal cannula. She laughed at it—softly.

“I feel silly. Do I really need this thing?”

5:42 p.m. – O2 Increased Her nurse, Rachel, noticed she wasn’t talking as much. Still awake, still alert—but a slow, foggy quality had crept into her responses.

Her chest rose and fell a little harder with each breath.

They upped her to 4L.

“You doing okay?” Rachel asked.

Lauren nodded, then paused. “I just… feel heavy.”

6:03 p.m. – Reassessment Now 86% on cannula.

A rebreather mask was fitted over her face—tight, plastic, fogging slightly with each breath. Lauren didn’t argue this time. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted the straps.

“She’s tiring out,” one nurse murmured. “Look at her. She’s not compensating anymore.”

A stat ABG showed severe hypoxia. Her lactate was climbing.

6:30 p.m. – Rapid Response Called Lauren was now slumped against the rails. Heart rate 134. Respirations in the 30s. Oxygen sat at 81%, on the mask.

When they touched her shoulder, she didn’t respond.

“Lauren?”

Her eyes opened halfway. Her lips were turning dusky.

The team rushed in.

“Bag her.”

They pulled off the oxygen mask—her face was soaked in condensation, her lips gray-blue. Bag-mask ventilation began.

She gagged weakly, then seized. Briefly. A single, arcing convulsion.

Then limp.

“No pulse.”

“Start compressions!”

Her gown was yanked open. Compressions started, sharp and deep, shaking her body. The bag valve mask was replaced with an ET tube.

Lines were placed. Epi pushed.

Her heart showed PEA. No output.

They tried for nearly twenty minutes.

6:54 p.m. – Time of Death

Lauren’s body lay still on the narrow bed, chest bruised, mascara smudged across her cheek.

The oxygen mask still hung loosely from one ear, the clear plastic fogged slightly with the last warm breath she’d taken.

#hospital #oxygen mask #resus #resus community #cpr #cpr resus #defib #resus roleplay #resuscitation #breathing #medfet #resusfet #oxygenmask #resusfetish #medfetish

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schwarzgeier-side · 6 days ago

Note

Hai Geier, hai Geier, hai Ge- oh, I dropped this art, but anyway... I'll leave it here (I drew Silver one more time) Also have a nice day!

I NEED PEOPLE TO SEE THIS IN ALL ITS GLORY BECAUSE OH MY GOD ZUDDIE??????? HELLLO????? THIS IS. BETTER THAN MONALISA OR ANY OTHER PAINTING WAOXHCJHOHQHGH

IM SCREAMING CLAWING ON THE WALLS RUNNING AROUND MY ROOM BULDOZING YOUR WALLS AND HOUSE TO YELL THAT THIS IS FUCKING INCREDIBLE

Im. This is. So good zuddie ohmygod geniuenly.holy shit i love everytjing about this. The way you use colors for filling but also for line art and how it all blends together is so good and welldone and its so you your style and i wanna eat ur art so badly its so gododdddd

The little drink Silvers sipping , the chill vibes the Flowery patterns. Im. In love

Bonus picture of proof that your art is now my background wallpaper on pc because fuck it deserves it (other monitor has the other geier piece you drew because im in love with it as well) featuring also my sniffer

#signalis #not my art #signalis oc #geier #geniuenly zuddie this made me screaammm when i saw it #im gonna reblog on main too because fuck this deserves to be seen #hhhhhhb ill get u back i swear i wil #i gotta find the file for the cloud painting i started #but i cant find it shit #welp ill stillget u #silver...silver my beloved #im heppy u like her #she will wink at u back and shotugn the drink probably if u let her gjgjjv

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futureplayboibunnie · 2 years ago

Text

Mistakes

Miguel O’Hara x spidey!fem! reader

Will Miguel let you in?

Miguel angst is MY thing fr, this is another self serve fic tbh. GOD i love this one, he’s so damaged and broken like fr we can fix him. I’ll probably do a part 2 bc writing this had be squealling

it’s been a hot minute. i’m on holiday for a month and i genuinely used my phone for this one. giggles

Miguel honestly felt like a ghost story as of late. He had been hiding out in his mancave a lot longer than what was deemed usual by the others and no one really had the incentive to find out what the hell he was doing and why the hell he wasn’t leaving.

More like no one wanted to have their spinal chord ripped out and dangling in front of them.

Miguel was as complicated as ever, his aggression seemed to be boundless and his drive a never ending abundance of determination. Though he was admirable as a leader, he was almost impossible to see through. It was his knack. His ge ne sais quois. He was a calloused man, haunted by demons he couldn’t escape- not because he wanted to, but because he would lose the last memory he had when he was genuinely happy. And that was with his daughter. Who he lost. Who he was responsible for losing. It had been almost a month since anyone had seen him. It was most definitely a period of self isolation for him, but it had been too long for the other spiders without a leader. They needed him, so did you.

It was bothering you now, what the hell was he up to? Did brooding really cost this much time? It seemed either ridiculous or…unsettling. You didn’t know which one you prefered. Day after day or constant wondering sent your mind spinning frok fraction to fraction: all you could do was wonder, be slightly irritated and…concerned about him all at once. Miguel was always on time, always prepared and valued hypervigilance and attentiveness…so why wasn’t he following his own moral code?

You told Gwen that you should check on him to make sure he was still fucking alive. She heavily disagreed with the idea but even Jess didn’t know what had gotten into him. Unlucky for them, they didn’t know the secret spot into his lair you find the first day of getting into the Society. The tour of HQ was quite enlightening, the amount of hidey holes were insane. Your heart was racing at the idea of visiting him unannounced, but you hated this and it was getting frustrating. Hell, you weren’t scared of him and you made it very known to him.

You decided to go late at night when no one else was at HQ. Jesus, if he was still here at 3 in the morning then he really was reeling… and no-one was there to pull him back from the unending void. Miguel’s hidey hole was on his ceiling so you quite literally had crawl through his vents which was very humbling and quite a blow to your blossoming ego. After that embarrassment, you were irked and already impatient. He better have a damn good reason for being like this.

Your crawled out of the vent at let your adhesive fingers crawl around the shadows of his cool, airy lair. Your eyes scanned around, it seemed void of any personality, no personal effects or anythint tying him back to his humanity. It wasn’t surprising but…saddening. You crawled further down the wall to get a closer look. It was a mess: broken tech, metal pieces, vials and serums stewn over the floor like it was just collected dust that just happened to land there. You tilted your head even more- there were weights and water bottles everywhere, he must have been extensively working out…or physically pushing himself as punishment. What really caught onto you though was the many monitors that were indented with a fist…his fist. Your mood soured at the latter. Turning your head to his platform, you finally found him, standing snd staring at his orange screens blankly, breathing heavily. His back tense and his gaze weary as he watched the last good memory he had with his daughter play out on his screen. In this light you could see the illumination on his cheeks. He’d been crying. The thought alone made you freeze. The portrait of the Miguel you knew was crumbling between your fingers, as you glanced at the screen you saw him happy, smiling. You weren’t sure if he’s done that ever since then.

You crawled out of the shadows, inching further and further down the wall next to the platform, wanting to make your presence known. When was the last time anyone comforted this man? When was the last time he wasn’t filled with grief and anger?

“Miguel?” You say softly as not to startle him, but with his lack of Spider senses he definitely was startled. He jumped and grabbed a broken monitor and threw it at you, it didn’t take much to dodge him but a look of concern painted your face.

“H-How did you get in?” He bellowed but you just hopped off the wall and onto his platform, not giving him the time of day to adjust himself to the fright you have him.

He definitely was working out again, he was bigger since you last saw him…but face to face, he seemed so deliriously exhausted.

“That’s not important right now.” You responded nonchalantly but oddly seriously at the same time.

“Why are you here?” Miguel eyes were gleaming red, he had a particularly awful few days, weeks, he didn’t need to see the horror of another face seeing who he really was. His nostrils flared as you acted so careless, who the hell did you think you were?

Your back leaned against his desk as you paused for a moment, not sure if you wanted to be truthful or not. “I wanted to see you.” You say sincerely and Miguel shot you a perplexed look. No one saw him for the sole purpose of just seeing him, not that he can recall anyways. “You aren’t the easiest person to get a hold of right now.” You raised your eyebrow at him.

“I don’t want to be.” He grunted truthfully, averting his gaze away from you before turning into the snarky Spiderman he’s known to be. “But yeah, adorable. Really, really interesting, very cute. I was going to say fuck off and leave instead but yes, this is worth my time.” He bit back sarcastically. Anger was running through your veins at his response. God, he was such an ass sometime and he needed to know but instead you did the thing you were sure to regret later: being kind to him when he was like this. You took a deep breath to regain a cool and sentient composure.

“Look, I know you’re going through a lot right now so I’m going to disregard that.”

“I don’t want you here.” Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose and fell back into his chair, completely finished with all of this.

“Well tough shit.” You glared at him, sighing and then offering a sympathetic smile.

Miguel didn’t say anything, he knew a battle with you would pour salt into the wound and prove to be fruitless. So you both sat in silence and observing each other’s purpose. The tension between you both was palpable, so you decided to test the risky waters.

“How old was Gabriella?” You say gently, giving him a trusting look. If only you could get him to open up, the panic and anxiety would start to decrease if he just talked about all of this to someone who cared about him. As much as you hated to admit it, you did.

Miguel’s face froze as you asked him that, he wasn’t sure whether to lunge at you or not by asking him such a thing. He was too tired to argue or fight, he didn’t have it in him anymore. He was breaking and he didn’t want it to be infront of you.

“Nine.” He mumbled, staring away from you as if he was ashamed. “When I lost her…she was nine.” A sliver of sadness fell through you at the sentiment. It’s a new feeling for Miguel, someone actually having the guts to ask him these things. His suspicious look starts to turn into a frown, a mixture of anger and sadness. He didn’t know what to feel.

“I know I don’t matter at all in this situation, but it’s not your fault and you deserve forgiveness.” You say sincerely, surprising both him and yourself.

Miguel felt like he had just seen a ghost, his heart felt slow as the cave of despair started to ache again, he felt like he was being suffocated. Forgiveness? He didn’t deserve any forgiveness. Not after the damage he had done. Not after the pain he inflicted. It clawed at his throat until his breath was perpetually scarce.

“Forgiveness…” He scoffed, completely dismissing the idea. “I don’t- I can’t take your forgiveness. I’m not worthy of it…” He trailed off, the lump in his throat becoming bigger and bigger.

“You work yourself too hard.” You mutter, inching closer to him, staring down at him you raise your hand reaching out for him but he grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t pity me.” He grunted and gripped tighter but you snatched your hand away with a scowl.

“I’m not pitying you. You just…You look exhausted. When was the last time you went home? Jesus, when was the last time you slept?” You ask, genuinely curious. Miguel didn’t know how to answer the question without being slightly embarrassed.

“I have nothing there. I’m needed here.” His tone was clipped and all you could do was sigh.

“Miguel…please tell me, tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me so I can help you.” You say a little more firmly than intended but it definitely got the point across. “I want to help you if you let me.”

Miguel looks at you and sighs, seeming to deflate slightly. “My mind is filled with a never ending list of tasks to complete, a never ending list of dangers to face and battles to fight, a never ending list of problems to solve... I... I don't have much peace." He rubs at his temples. “But you've already seen that, I guess.... I'm not sure how you can help me with any of this." He sighed and winced slightly when he thought of Gabriella. “All I ever wanted was a family, to be happy. Meet a nice girl, have a few kids and settle down…but I love being Spiderman and I tampered with something I had no reason to be messing with. I can’t be both. I can’t have both. Shit as for love, I don’t think I can ever get close to another woman again. I can’t lose anyone else. The last thing I need right now is a lecture about love.”

You give him a small wry smile, your hands reach forward and tuck a small tuft of hair behind his ear. Miguel froze at the small gesture of kindess and tenderness, he hadn’t felt that in so long, he hated he way he was reacting to it. You didn’t know what else to do or say, you just knew what you wanted right now. You leaned down and engulfed him in a hug, your face resting on his shoulder and your arms slung around his neck. His eyes shot wide open at the sudden gesture. He was close enough to inhale your hair and feel your skin, he hugged you back and breathed in and out, finding a semblance of peace, a moment where his mind wasn’t filled with static noise and self loathing. Your scent was…sweet and completely intoxicating if he was being honest. ‘’Thank you…” He muttered into your shoulder.

You let go and stand up straight again, offering a hand so he can stand too. You were suprised that be took it and you were more surprised to feel that his hands were…soft. “Let me take you home. I’ll make you some tea, get you to relax, yeah?” You offer gently with a little smile, hoping he would let you do this for him.

Miguel's eyes widened at your suggestion and he stared at you with hope for a moment. “Why? Why are you doing all this?” he asked. He rarely spent time with anyone outside of work. Why would you even do any of this for him?

“Because you’ve done so much for everyone else and no one has ever taken care of you. God forbid someone wants to help you and all of a sudden theres this hidden agenda.”

The realisation dawned on him, when has he let anyone get close to him? Never. Now a pretty girl wanted to take care of him, listen to his problems and make him feel deserving of the forgiveness he dreamed of. Miguel wasn’t sure if it was a delusion or crazy dream or not but he was relieved to take in your sweet scent. Maybe you had an ulterior motive, the thought made him frown. He hated feeling vulnerable and showing any kind of vulnerability was out of the question.

“I’m not leaving you tonight. Okay?” You confirm sweetly, knocking all of the air out of his lungs. He felt a strange sense of security, he felt…safe at the idea. “Come on.” You fiddled with your multiverse watch and opened a portal to his apartment, you grabbed onto his bicep and pulled him in, landing in the living room.

Jesus, it looked like it hasn’t even been lived in. Everything was clean, too clean. “Nice place.” You half joked and Miguel just shot you a smile that he was trying to conceal, it didn’t really work. Miguel felt his neck heat up, when people got to know him he was actually really shy. He sat himself on the edge of the couch, planting his elbows on his knees and raking his hands through his hair. His kitchen was walk in, expensive. As you were brewing his tea, you caught glimpses of his back, he really had been working out. You stop your mindless gawk and find his mugs and place a tea bag in two of them, you also search for his whiskey. As you poured the hot water, you splashed a little bit of whiskey. God knows he deserved it.

You walked around to couch and Miguel’s head shot up as you stood infront of him, offering him the mug. As you stood, he took an opportunity to really look at you. To survey and study you. You were…attractive, that he had no problem admitting but this…This was a new side of you he had never seen. You were showing him kindness when he didn’t even deserve it. Miguel winced slightly at the idea of letting another woman into his life, the last time that happened he lost everything, he was still weary of your intentions.

He grabbed the mug and you sat next to him, curling your feet up and facing him, gawking at him more like as you sipped your tea. This scene felt…very domestic. “Thank you…” He said, not showing any emotion, being stoic as expected.

“God stop thanking me. It’s the least I could do.” You said with a shy smile.

“It’s just…different. No one has really- Well, I haven’t been looking after myself.” He muttered

“When was the last time anyone looked out for you?” You ask, genuinely curious. He had the whole world at his feet, yet it was like he was lonely.

“Years ago, my brother Gabriel…I don’t really see him much…” It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it, but he missed his brother, he hadn’t seen him in a while. While you were in the kitchen, you saw a frame of him and his brother when they were about teenagers, playing. It warmed your heart slightly to see that he did actually care.

“You can’t let the mistakes in your past define you. It’s not who you are. Bad people don’t worry about the pain they caused. You are good.” Miguel took a moment to ponder your words, averting his gaze and then turning his head to face you.

“No you’re good.” He said gently. “It’s like being good is all you know…I’ve lost myself beneath violence and blood and chaos-“ Miguel sighed as he put the mug down on the coffee table, losing his cool for a second.

“Hey,” You grabbed onto his bicep and he shot you a startled yet curious look. “Do you trust me?”

Miguel paused, he didn’t trust people easily but after you so patiently listened to him and did all of this for him, he couldn’t say no to you. “Yeah…”

“Turn around.” Miguel did as he was told, a little confused at first, but his back was facing you. You brought your hands to his shoulders and kneaded his tense muscles. God, he was so rigid. It’s like he had never relaxed in his life. “These broad shoulders must be so exhausted.”

“Yeah…” Miguel closed his eyes, revelling in the feeling of your fingers gently caressing him. Jesus, his body was coming undone with just a few touches. Your fingers pressed and massaged his sore muscles, travelling further and further down his back.

“Is this okay?” You whisper.

Miguel let out a deep sigh, his muscles loosening under your touch. “Yes...keep going please.” Miguel's voice was still quiet but clear, and he even let out a soft groan of relief.

You travel lower, caressing and massaging the pressure points of all his soreness. “God, there’s so many knots in your back…when was the last time anyone did this for you?” You question eagerly.

Miguel closed his eyes. “...never,” he replied, his voice slightly breathy. “No one has ever..." Miguel paused. “These days no one has ever cared enough or been allowed to be so...intimate with me.” He was caught off guard by what he said. He just screwed his eyes shut and let out a deep sigh. Your presence and your soft caresses calmed his mind to his very core and relaxed his body. You noticed that Miguel, who usually always carried himself with professionalism and control...was now like a deer in headlights, unable to comprehend your touch.

You stop your actions for a moment to contemplate what he said, he’s so touch starved, he hasn’t felt the warmth of anyone else in so long. It surprised you to an immeasurable degree, women must throw themselves at him. Instead you just wrapped your arms around him from behind, nuzzling your face into his neck to take in his scent once more. Miguel was stunned into silence, you were so surprising, so understanding of how he gets, how he lets himself go. He wasn’t sure whether to cry or not, you slung your arms against his neck and all he could do is grab your hand and kiss your palm. He didn’t know how to thank you. He swore he would never get close to another woman ever again but here he was, broken down and completely at the mercy of you. He could kiss you…but then he would shatter the promise he made to himself. He would be vulnerable all over again, he’d mess it up again. What kind of idiot would he be if he didn’t learn from his past mistakes? His worst mistake? But your scent, your presence, you were just so damn inviting. God, he was a man after all… but would making you his ruin you?

#miguel o’hara angst #miguel o’hara #spiderman #spiderman 2099 #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel ohara x fem!reader #atsv miguel #spiderman across the spiderverse #miguel ohara x y/n #miguel ohara imagine

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trishxtrix · 3 months ago

Text

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

Part 1 | Previous | Part 10 | Next |

Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

——————————————————————————————————

Mia

The kitchen didn’t have a door—just a frame that gave the illusion of separation. But in moments like this, even illusions were precious.

I stepped past the threshold and lowered the lights just enough to take the edge of the overhead glare. Cynthia stood by the sink, arms crossed, not pretending to relax. Reeva took a seat at the kitchen table and immediately began sorting her notes into small, precise stacks. Morales, still in her coat, stood near the wall, close enough to listen, far enough not to crowd the room.

Frank hadn’t followed.

Good. He needed space and deserved privacy.

“We’re tight on time,” Cynthia said softly, casting a glance toward the living room, her voice practiced-low. “He’s barely discharged, and it’s already feeling like we’re late.”

“We’re not,” I replied. “But we will be if we don’t keep this pace.”

Reeva didn’t look up. “We’ve bought ourselves maybe forty-eight hours before Abby makes a move—passive or otherwise. She knows Frank should be home. Every day he stays gone, is leverage slipping out of her hands, and she’ll notice.”

“She’s calculated,” Morales said, adjusting the position of her watch as if time was something she could reset. “She might not come out swinging. She might wait. Smile. Document his silence. Use it.”

“She’s done that before,” I informed them, “he told me she rewrote their last six months in emails. Told the school he was unstable. Started staging the narrative before she ever pushed him hard enough to leave.”

“Then we need to act before her version becomes the default,” Reeva said. “We file what we can, prepare for what we can’t.”

Cynthia unfolded her arms. “We still have no physical documentation of the abuse. No medical records. No police reports. That puts us at a disadvantage if Abby plays clean in the next few days.”

I didn’t mean to speak as angrily as I did. “I have logs. I took notes. Pictures. Timestamps. I kept every time he came to me with bruises or worse.”

Reeva glanced up, telling me again what she told Frank. “You’re not a neutral party. What you have matters, but it won’t be admissible without corroboration.”

I look down, jaw tight. “I know.”

“And even if it’s not in court,” Cynthia added, gentler, “we need more than one person saying, ‘I saw what she did.’ We need her to show it.”

“That’s why we’re considering the return,” Reeva said. “If Frank goes back—briefly, cautiously—and Abby slips even once, we’ll have enough to go beyond statements and assumptions. Surveillance. Monitored comms. Trigger texts. Every second inside that house becomes context.”

Morales shifted her stance. “But if he does it, it has to be airtight. Exit strategy, backup alert, live phone pings. I’ll have a plainclothes officer parked on a nearby block if we greenlight it.”

I nodded once. “I can call in favors.”

That made the room still.

Cynthia looked at me, cautious. “What kind of favors?”

“The kind that can…fill in blanks. Quietly.” My voice didn’t shift tone, but everyone in the room understood the weight behind it. “If we need supporting files—evidence that matches what we already know—I can make that happen. With quality that passes inspection. Chain of custody. Metadata. The kind of work that makes people question their own eyes before they question the file.”

Everyone went still.

Cynthia looked at me carefully. “Would it cost you?”

I didn’t answer right away.

“Yes,” I finally said. “But if it gets Frank out of this for good…I’ll pay it.”

No one spoke for a beat.

Reeva, finally, placed her pen down and looked at me directly.

“We’re not there yet,” she said. “Don’t cash that favor unless we’re out of road. Because once you do, that part of your life gets reopened—and I doubt it’ll close cleanly.”

“I know what I’m offering,” I said, sharper than intended.

Morales didn’t even blink. “Just make sure Frank never knows it was on the table.”

“He won’t.”

No one spoke for a beat.

“I hate this part,” Cynthia murmured. “Knowing we have to let him hurt just a little longer just to have a shot at stopping it for good.”

“We’re not letting it happen,” Morales said, “we’re watching. We’re planning. That’s the difference.”

We all knew it didn’t feel like one.

“We’ll regroup before the end of the week,” Reeva said. “If Frank decides to go back, we pull every safety measure. Nothing rushed. Nothing sloppy.”

She stacked her notes, calm and contained, and left without another word. Cynthia gave me a small look on her way out—one of those glances that said more than comfort ever could.

That left Morales and me.

She lingered just a little longer, gaze on the wall like she was calculating something.

“You didn’t say much,” I pointed out, quietly.

“Didn't need to,” she replied. “You all said what I was thinking.”

She glanced back toward the living room.

“That call you took earlier,” she started, “you want me keeping an eye on it? Quiet?”

“If I need something buried,” I said, “I’ll let you know.”

Morales gave a short nod. “You know where to find me.”

She left without another word.

The apartment finally fell into a kind of stillness that didn’t feel like it was holding its breath anymore—just settling.

I turned the dimmer lower, leaving only the soft glow from the living room lamp. Frank was still on the couch, shoulders hunched slightly, like the weight hadn’t fully lifted.

The manila folder sat in front of him. Still untouched.

I stepped in quietly. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. “They’re gone?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded, like that answer carried more than it should “You came back.”

“I always do.”

A pause. The weight of the statement is not lost on the both of them.

“I hate that telling the truth doesn’t fix anything,” he murmured, “it just…starts a clock.”

“That’s how it works,” I said evenly. “Especially when the truth threatens someone else’s control.”

He shook his head slowly. “So what know?”

“Now we wait for you to decide.”

“But we’re on a clock, aren’t we?”

I didn’t hesitated. “Yes. But you’re not behind. You were discharged yesterday. You’re still in the ‘grace period’. The system hasn’t questioned your absence yet. But it will.”

He swallowed har. “How long until she notices?”

“She already has,” I said. “She’s waiting to see if you crawl back on your own.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow. “If I go back in—even for one night—what if she doesn’t slip? What if she plays perfect?”

“Then we pivot,” I answered. “We play long. But if she doesn’t…if she gets even a little comfortable—”

“Then you’ll catch it,” he finished. “Before it breaks me again.”

I nodded once.

He looked at me then, eyes raw.

“Will you be there?”

“I’ll be on the same block if I have to be.”

That answer settled something in him.

“Do you want to be alone tonight?” I asked, quietly.

He shook his head “No.”

I didn’t move closer. Just sat near enough for him to feel it.

We stayed like that for a long time. Nothing said. Nothing rushed.

Because survival doesn’t always sound like a plan.

Sometimes it sounds like breath shared in a quiet room, and someone choosing to stay when they don’t have to.

#frank langdon x reader #dr frank langdon #frank langdon #dr frank langdon x reader #the pitt #the pitt hbo #hbo max #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fandom #fanfic writing #fanfictions #fanfics #fandom #fanfiction #ao3 writer #ao3 link #ao3 #archive of our own

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usocmedical · 2 years ago

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Top features of IntelliVue MX550 by Philips

Vital signs monitoring is important at all hospitals. It allows medical professionals to orderly assess the well being of the patients. Based on its results, doctors might diagnose a problem, suggest lifestyle changes and conduct further tests. Philips Patient Monitoring solutions and similar systems are widely used to check the body temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, respiration, height and weight of the patients.

Philips is especially considered to be among the most prominent providers of patient monitors. The IntelliVue MX550 is particularly renowned for pairing powerful bedside monitoring with the reassurance of a battery backup. It supplies comprehensive details of the health of the patients, which can make a real difference when multiple patients and priorities require attention.

Here are some of the prime features of PHILIPS MX550:

15"-wide touchscreen: Clinicians can find what details they need right away on the large 15"-wide touchscreen. They would be able to recognize the easy-to-use, familiar interface from the existing IntelliVue monitors at the hospital. This would help clinicians to spend more time in delivering care to the patients and less time on device training.

Ambient light adjustment: This feature makes IntelliVue MX550 by Philips a well suited option for the operating room (OR) and critical care settings. For instance, in the operating room, the display adapts to the lights being dimmed or brightened during diverse stages of surgery automatically. This lowers the overall light pollution in the OR.

Connectivity options: The IntelliVue MX550 allows hospitals to enhance their investment by sharing data with clinical information systems. This contributes to a comprehensive EMR. It also helps in lowering complexity and expenses associated with connecting bedside devices to the chosen EMR solution. . Optional Philips IntelliBridge device interfacing makes this possible by doing away with the need for a separate device concentrator and data consolidation server.

Advanced Clinical Solutions: IntelliVue MX550 monitor by Philips comes with has built-in Advanced Clinical Solutions. The system provides valuable tools for summarizing and visualizing complicated clinical data and their interactions. With IntelliVue MX550 monitor, several streams of information come together in a single uncomplicated view.

Portable design: IntelliVue MX550 by Philips has the capacity to deliver the functionality of full-fledged bedside monitor while offering battery back-up that can bridge the occasional power loss. Having a built-in handle, overall rugged design and standard battery operation, this patient monitor can effectively cope with the demanding in-hospital transport that is needed in acute care areas at times. It also is compact enough to be convenient underway.

Details of IntelliVue MX550 monitor by Philips and other biomedical equipment like GE Banana Adapters can be found online.

#GE Banana Adapters #Philips Patient Monitoring #PHILIPS MX550

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darkmaga-returns · 6 months ago

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Bill Gates is funding research to genetically engineer tomatoes to produce insecticides inside their tissues, specifically targeting the reproduction of whiteflies, a destructive agricultural pest. According to a study published last month in BMC Plant Biology, these genetically engineered (GE) tomatoes express proteins designed to infiltrate and disrupt whitefly eggs.

“The molecular tools for achieving both apoplastic and phloem-specific expression of insecticidal proteins are well developed,” the study explains, highlighting the advanced genetic strategies employed.

If commercialized, these “[t]ransgenic plants”—genetically engineered to include genes from other species—could introduce reproductive-disrupting insecticidal compounds into the human food chain.

How It Works

The study outlines the mechanism of these GE tomatoes:

Chitinase Production: The tomatoes are engineered to produce an enzyme derived from the fern Tectaria macrodonta that degrades chitin, a key component of insect eggshells. This enzyme is intended to kill the developing embryos inside the eggs.

Reproductive Hijacking: Using synthetic vitellogenin domains (SynVg), the proteins mimic natural reproductive pathways in whiteflies, ensuring the insecticides are delivered directly into the eggs.

Enhanced Uptake: Protein transduction domains (PTD) facilitate the transport of these insecticidal compounds from the insect’s gut to its reproductive system.

“Phloem-localized expression of mCherry in companion cells could be monitored… where the overall total expression is minimized by using tissue-specific promoters,” the study notes, emphasizing the effort to direct these proteins to specific parts of the plant.

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t0ast-ghost · 1 year ago

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Star Trek II: Wrath Of Khan thoughts:

For this post if I could simply embed the entire movie and just write the word, ‘queer’ I would. Unfortunately you are all stuck with this, happy pride month!

Spoilers for the entire movie will be featured in this post

Going forth:

- I know what the kobayashi maru is so I know they’re not in danger but that’s some good acting Bones

- “‘Physician heal thyself.’” “Is that all you’ve got to say? What about my performance?” “I’m not a drama critic.” Thinking about this pose thinking about this pose thinking about thi-

- “Galloping around the cosmos is a game for the young, Doctor.” He’s feeling something and projecting

- “Aren’t you dead?” That’s certainly a way to greet your husband

- They’re so cute. And sad. And cute.

- tiny guys hehe. The boots got sluttier somehow

- McCoy got him glasses cause he can’t read the book without it and bring up that post that’s saying how Spock and McCoy’s gifts go together but McCoy got the logical thing and Spock got the emotional one

- Don’t quote me on this but the things I would do to that man… I wouldn’t.. but holy shit that outfit is killing me.

- hi checkov

- Carol Marcus? Doesn’t she have Kirk’s-? okay then I won’t spoil that just yet

- Creature in a jar moving under the sand

- BOTANY BAY????? Oh wait a sec I should’ve seen that coming it’s called wrath of khan

- Did they kill Chekov?

- hello Khan. That’s a very long and dramatic reveal he’s kinda hot tho

- Thinking about genetic engineering and augmentation and how they’re illegal but star trek presents cases where people now exist and it’s not the fault of the person that they are what they are so they have to question if an entire person should be illegal because of the actions of others… anyway I don’t wanna get deep into this right now, back to the movie

- Are they going to kill Chekov? (edit: not sure why I’m so fixated on thinking they’re gonna)

- WOW THAT IS CERTAINLY A SWEAT DROP

- brain worms… this sounds recently familiar

- HES READING HIS BOOK WITH THE GLASSES THEY DIDNT NEED TO SHOW HIM DOING THAT BUT THEY DID AND ITS ADORABLE OMG

- The conversation between Savik and Spock is so precious. And it’s in Vulcan. And she says “He’s more human than I expected” and it’s like that’s her commenting on Spock’s husband

- Kirk does not want to do this inspection

- McCoy does a little bounce

- “For everything there is a first time. Wouldn’t you agree, admiral” “mmhhmm” “Would you like a tranquilizer?” *Kirk shakes his head*

- I think this one has a more solid plot. I’m enjoying so far :)

- Does McCoy serve on this ship or is he just following along?

- (Had to stop watching around here because I left for the weekend so these thoughts are potentially a bit different)

- wowah! Cool ship!

- uh oh. Chekov on the monitor with the brain worm!

- khan is kinda- yeahh

- I LOVE SAAVIK! RAHHH! Also apparently Saavik is canonically half Vulcan half Romulan according to the trivia

- I like how Bones is just there :)

- Putting Spock in black… they knew what they were doing

- They’re husbands your honour. Spock knows Kirk wants to take command and isn’t to proud to get in the way of making his wife happy

- “You are my superior officer. You are also my friend. I have been and always shall be yours.” Kissing would have been less romantic

- George Takei’s voice is majestic

- “He tasks me. He tasks me and I shall have him. I’ll chase him round the moons of Nibia and round the Antares maelstrom and round perdition’s flames before I give him up.” Not obsessive at all.. nope this is something completely and totally normal to say about your nemesis

- “Uhura, have Doctor McCoy join us (Kirk and Spock) in my quarters.” Hmmmmm.. gotta inform the whole polycule about the shady government experiment

- lmao BOTH Spock and McCoy know who Carol Marcus is

- oh so terraforming… NEVERMIND REALLY FAST TERRAFORMING

- “Really, Dr. McCoy, you must learn to govern your passions. They will be your undoing.” Flirting, gentlemen?

- How and why does Starfleet continually put Spock and McCoy together? Like this alert would be sent out 24/7

- Spock and his awesome daughter Saavik

- falling

- Kirk with the breast flap down

- such a good moment… such a great moment (sorry for shitty photos)

- Kirk has to put on his little glasses <3

- Kirk does NOT fuck around

- Poor Scotty. He’s got so much emotion about his dead crew mate and the doctor apologizing to him 🥺🥺🥺

- Saavik making up rules to make sure the admiral is safe. Love her.

- “Jim, be careful.” “We will.” MCCOY IS SO BITTER. Like ‘no wishes of luck for me, Spock? Fuck you!’

- The collar on that uniform is silly

- hehe McCoy got scared by a rat. OH HE ALSO GOT SCARED BY A DEAD BODY

- Kirk’s little disappointed “oh my god” as he finds Chekov in the cupboard

- “Suppose they went nowhere.” “Then this’ll be your big chance to get away from it all.” McCoy’s not leaving Kirk, but he still looks like he wants to strangle him sometimes

- Kirk not afraid to punch a bitch

- WAIT THATS KIRKS SON?!? Isn’t it?? I thought David was Carol’s brother. But nope!

- aww dammnit I knew they were still mind controlled :/

- Saavik saving David. Y’know it would be pretty cool if there was something about Saavik, David, and Johanna meeting and maybe serving on a ship of their own.. idk just thoughts.

- ewwww brain worm.

- OH THE ECHOING “KHANNN”

- mmmm Kirk without the jacket. The white turtleneck with sleeves… also McCoy and Saavik are slaying with their turquoise and orange turtlenecks

- “Food the first order of survival.” I bet the fanfic writers had a field day with this one (cause cause it’s a reference to Tarsus IV)

- Imagine this: you’re stuck underground with your husband, your other husbands adopted daughter, your ex, her son (who’s also your son), and your old Russian navigator who’s unconscious and tried to kill you while being mind controlled by a worm which came out of his ear

- David’s got Kirk’s curls <333

- Kirk has a thing for people who look good in blue. Change my damn mind.

- “I don’t believe in a no win scenario.” He immediately calls Spock afterwards cause he’ll never lose with his husbands around

- “You lied.” “I exaggerated.” Yep, he IS that bitch

- Saavik is learning so much from them

- They still just.. let anyone onto the bridge. Like David is just there now

- oh no Scotty! Well McCoy was miraculously there to catch him

- CHEKOV BACK ON THE BRIDGE!

- Once again. Kirk does not fuck around! He just killed those guys

- “To the last I will grapple with thee.” WOW. Okay. Well.

- Khan’s about to terraform this bitch

- McCoy stopping Spock from going into the chamber..

- “You’re not going in there!” “Perhaps you’re right. What is Mr. Scott’s condition?” SIKE BITCH SPOCK JUST FUCKING NERVE PINCHED HIM. McCoy you should’ve been tipped off by the fact he 1. Said you were right and 2. Gave up trying to self sacrifice so easily

- wait why’d Spock connect to McCoy’s psi points and say remember? Remember what?

- I like there’s just a sign that flashes the word ‘radiation’ in red letters

- McCoy and Scotty BEGGING Spock not to do this. Break my fucking heart why don’t you?

- Kirk’s little run to the engine room <3

- I know he’s dying but those boots are so slutty

- Solely watching Kirk’s face is already like watching 10 puppies get killed

- “Don’t grieve, admiral.” Has me crying already. Your closest and longest friend is watching your slow descent into death and you ask him not to grieve you. You want him to know your death meant something. It meant he’d be safe and that is nothing to grieve. I’m going to be sick

- don’t touch me I’m thinking about this

- SAAVIK IS CRYING OMG GIRL ME TOO

- Kirk’s voice breaking.. god. Shatter my fucking heart why don’t you?

- if they play bagpipes at my funeral I’m rising from the dead (violins would be nice though)

- NOO HIS CUTE LITTLE GLASSES BROKE

- “They’re just words.” “But good words. That’s where ideas begin. Maybe you should listen to them.” POP OFF DAVID ! Good line

- SON REVEAL! NOT CLICKBAIT

- There’s 8 minutes left of this. Did they leave this one with Spock dead?

- “He’s really not dead, as long as we remember him.” Good words McCoy. But perhaps maybe you might have some.. assistance remembering him?

- got distracted and drew Kirk but I love the last little Spock narration. Really brave to end a WHOLE MOVIE with one of the best most well known characters being dead

Well that movie did have its pros and… khans

…

See you next time

Masterpost

#star trek #star trek ii: the wrath of khan #the wrath of khan #captain james kirk #james t kirk #khan noonien singh #leonard bones mccoy #doctor mccoy #spock #s'chn t'gai spock #carol marcus #saavik #pavel chekov #hikaru sulu #montgomery scott #I’m sorry but I don’t think I mention Uhura in this one

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