Lisa is in her bedroom when she starts gasping for air while clutching her throat. She is having an asthma attack and does not have her pump

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Kiana Khansmith
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@resuswhore
Lisa is in her bedroom when she starts gasping for air while clutching her throat. She is having an asthma attack and does not have her pump
I just had to draw a CPR scene with human au Lightning McQueen and Doc Hudson 😅
I had no idea what to do with the background as it was already around 1 am xD
Work for a commissioner! Anyone recognize the characters?
This was a pretty interesting commission I got to draw not too long ago! I hope you can tell...I had a great time with the psychedelic's effects
Very cool setting for this private commission. I dont think I've ever been asked for a snowy russian backdrop before :3
Here something i'm working with :3 Hope you like it! Video might come soon :D
not kink related. entirely. but the whiplash from ovulation horniness that makes you borderline feral, to being revolted and irritated by the concept of feeling pleasure during your period, is not for the weak
love how I can bodly announce I have a piss kink, but get all flustered at thinking about mentioning that I'm a nerdy little fetishist that, alongside liking resus (and the occasional piss), I also really, really love (James Camerons) Avatar. and have so many Na'vi resus concepts. cause.... those hot blue aliens are prime real estate.
you have Na'vi/Na'vi and Na'vi/human dynamics. you have the different body types of Na'vi, being so drastically different, them resusing eachother would look so different, depending on those involved. you could have a Na'vi resusing their pretty little human, or vice versa, a human trying to resus this alien three times their size.
hey, my dignity is long gone and I no longer have shamek, so i'm gonna be so nlunt does anyone remember reposting my resus/piss kink post. from my old account (same name, it got deactivated). I want that back. I onyl vaugely remember what I posted. I just know I did and I feel like it was a banger in some way shape or form...
Re: what that last doctor was doing by himself, maybe he was putting a hand on the stomach as it jerked under the LUCAS, letting it ripple into his palm as he watched the piston jam into his sternum again and again. Maybe he was checking the pulse in his wrist and slid his fingers into between the webbing of the patient's own, tracing his lips against his cold knuckles. Maybe he stopped the machine a time or two to make use of those paddles. Sure, no sense shocking a flatline, but what's the harm when he's so far gone? Getting to watch his arms jerk off the gurney and his legs twitch up, shifting the blanket so more of him is exposed. Maybe he kept a hand on his femoral as the LUCAS forced a pulse through his limp body, occasionally shifting to cradle his pale cock and work it with his fingers and palm, even though it remains soft and unresponsive, just like the rest of him. Maybe once time is called, he's the one who insists on taking him to the morgue so as to not let a pretty body go to waste
mmmmmm, yes. hot hot hot.
I love when a practitioner gets a little handsy.
hands wrapping around either side of the patients lithe waist, feeling how muscles have stopped fighting, stopped giving resistance against the LUCAS's efforts, stomach soft and unguarded. bulging. maybe he imagines his cock adding to the assault, imagines feeling his cock adding to that rhythmic pulsing of his stomachs. or maybe just the work of the LUCAS is enough.
little kisses pressed around. maybe the doctor is being particularly gentle after all the work he has forced on this beautiful body. fingers stroke back curls from half lidded eyes, and he shuts them with a kiss to the kids that refuse to stay fully shut. kisses to the pulse point that are still outside of mechanical effort. even his femoral, kissing along the cut of his illiac furrows, until his nose is all but buried in dark curls, before pulling back. kisses to the corner of the lips, beside the tube filling the boy's lungs with breath. going oh so gentle. giving this boy all the kisses he will otherwise miss out on.
he might run the ECHO again, if the machine is still in the room. just to see that pretty heart get pumped. it's such a beautiful oddity to him. it's such a beautiful heart. outside of the fact it refuses to pump, it looks pristine. the theory is that the arrest had to due with something electrical. no Joel's of reversal. so seeing that pretty heart is a joy.
when he stops the LUCAS, or more so, when he lets it run to death and then removes it. carefully letting down purpled and bruised wrists from the straps, kissing them oh so softly, before laying them on the bed. then he rubs that destroyed chest. it feels far too soft. it's been pulverized. he doesn't doubt that nearly every rib has been broken. the sternum shattered. it's bruised a myriad of swirling colors. not to mention how the greying of his skin has taken effect. his chest pulses with breaths still being given by the ventilator, the imitation of life still vaguely present. his belly is soft and still, slightly distended from all the efforts force onto his body, aid and fluid collected there over the course of hours.
his thumbs rub over soft nipples and his knuckles rub into that sternum one last time, as if to try and will the beauty from his eternal slumber, paired with some... extra stimulation... as his hand finds the soft cock between his legs. a Hail Mary... of sorts. that's what he calls it anyways.
he technically hasn't called time yet, so maybe he gives a few compressions of his own. just to know that he did. that he tried. that he felt that body breaking under him. that chest submit to him. the sternum sinks in far too deep. he's working on a corpse, but he doesn't stop he pumps away. he compresses over the breaths still entering his chest. the effort gets his hard, cock aching in his pants.
it's not helped when he slathers the boy's lurching chest with conductive gel— the glistening substance has always been more satisfying than those frankly ugly pads. and he's all alone with time to spare to fetch the bottle —using more the necessary. he watches the still monitor for a moment as he presses the paddle into the boy's chest. asystole still. that hadn't changed. he cranks the defib up to it's max settings. pressing the paddles even deeper, ensuring contact is never broken.
he shocks him once. the body spasms hard. his back arches. his hands squeeze shut and his arms pull up to his chest. his face flutters with a false expression of pain, throat spasming to buck the tube. he's so reactive. it's gorgeous. the doctor is even more disappointed they never managed to truly shock him. he would have reacted beautifully when there was still a whisp of life in him.
he shocks again and again, never lifting the paddles. they press into broken ribs relentlessly, sending shock after shock after shock into the dead little heart inside. frying it beyond saving. it never had been. but now he knows for a fact it is done. and watching the body beneath him pulse again and again, spasming violently, is worth it. he goes again and again until the defibrillator is spent and can't independently recharge. soaking up every second of this that he can.
he calls times when he himself is too exhausted and worked up to continue.
and then maybe add a little groping while they get all the gear off too. pulling IVs first, and gently kissing and bandaging each site. soft words cooed as a comfort to the still body. chest wiped of all that gel, a rough towel rubbed over that shattered, bruised chest, but left still glistening. the monitor shut off and leads removed, along with the BP cuff and clip.
finally the ET tube. first he disconnects the ventilator, shutting it off, and then he assesses the tube. it's full of fluid. edema. the gauze ties are cut and the cuff is deflated and it slides out without resistance, dripping, the patients throat gurgling slightly. a little pressure the chest has pink-tinged fluid spilling from his mouth and nose. his kindeys have beyond failed. all that fluid pooling in the lungs. maybe the doctor will spend some time on that, if he had the energy, working the patients chest and abdomen with his head to the side, to pump fluid out, before suctioning him dry. just to have an excuse to spend some extra time with him. groping and assaulting his soft chest and softer belly, working it all out of his patients chest, thrusting hands into him. he can imagine how nice it would feel to have his way with the still body.
with the tube out, maybe he gives some mouth to mouth, kissing the boy firmly, taking in the feeling of his cold, wet lips. of his warm breath entering cold lungs. his hands gently cradling that pretty face and head of curls.
and once he's done have most of his fun, he can formally assess him for death. he knows he is, but it is procedure after all. he looks at the patients chart, his name is Noah. beautiful name for a beautiful boy. he calls his name, rubbing his chest, first with the soft heel of his palm, then again, more firmly, calling them name louder, then a third time, pressing knuckles into the broken sternum, name all but shouted. nothing. no reaction to stimuli. the body remains still and limp. it's unnecessary, and is even frowned upon in other cases, but he does a final stimuli test, squeezing the soft brown, now grey-tinged, nipple of the boy, feeling them between his fingers. he squeezes hard with a twist. no reaction.
then he takes out his stethoscope and listens for a heartbeat. pressing the head of the stethoscope deep into the flesh at each auscultation point. there's nothing. he feels for a pulse in the femoral and carotid, fingers pressing to the latter and his whole hands groping his illiac for the former. he waits longer then he has to, enjoying the sensation as the skin rewarms beneath his hand. still nothing.
there's no effort of respiration, but he waits for that too, passing the moment he is supposed to watch by groping the still chest. listening with his stethoscope, hearing his the chest reacts to a compression, hearing fluid filled lungs gurgle. how the pressure changed causes a miniscule little breath in. and as with everything else. there's nothing. nothing of Noah's own accord anyways.
then it's pupils. he pulls open those grey kids to expose lifeless blue eyes. there's no reaction to the penlight. not a flicker. they don't even roll back. they just stare up at him.
he makes the necessary notes.
"all done beautiful"
he covers him in a sheet. not before giving him one last feel over. one last gentle caress to the face. fixing his curls one last time. covering up that gorgeous nude body. and wheeling him out. his hard cock is hidden where he presses against the bed. he just needs a moment in the morgue to handle himself, to send this beautiful boy off.
he can't risk cumming in him, he's sure to be autopsied due to the sudden and unexplained death. but the doctor will stand next to his bed, uncovering him the second they're alone and the door is "locked for maintenance", taking in that beautiful body, before jerking off over the boys sunken belly with hand hand and feeling his cock with the other. it takes only s few strokes to cum, getting it all over the boy's bruised chest and soft belly. he wishes he could get Noah off one last time, it would she only been fair, but no amount of tugging at his now-warm cock will achieve anything. but maybe he'll go at it just long enough with some cooed words to feel like he could have achieved something had the boy been alive. only then will he say farewell. laying his cock down. wiping his abdomen off. giving the final kisses. covering him up. and leaving.
what a way to end his shift. such a shame such a young man had to die. but by god was he the perfect little toy. he'll live in that doctor's mind for a while.
there's something so intimate about intubation, especially without a scope.
like yes, let me hover over you. let me take your jaw in my hand and thrust it open, let me take hold of it by the bone itself, curling my fingers around your chin and your teeth, sinking fingers into the wet of your mouth's flesh, and pull it forwards. let me pin down your tongue so it's not in the way. let me gaze down deep inside you, into something so vital and intimate such as your throat, your airway, your means of life. let me guide this tube into your mouth, down deep into your chest, your lungs. let me feel the way it glides against your flesh, down the firm tightness of your throat. let me do so blindly. let me pump your chest full of life as I press my ear to your fragile ribs.
let me take over such a vital and sacred thing as breathing, let me act as something so important as your airway. I will do so with absolute care.
Fuck. 💕
I want to pump a pretty puppy boys chest so rn omfg. like. I went to feel his ribs bending beneath my hands. I was to watch his body spasm with the force. I want to clip a pulse-ox to his grey tongue and stick tubes and airways down his throat. I want to breathe into his lifeless chest. I want to shock him harder and harder and coat his chest in jelly.
continuing this with the specifics of my own fantasy:
a handsome boy, 20 or so, soft with muscle, a decent height, shaggy brown hair, is brought into the ER after being found down for an unknown amount of time. one moment he was fine, then he went into a different room then his roommate, and then 15 or so minutes later he was found in the floor pulseless, half on his chest, knees pulled to his chest like he'd writhed before his heart gave out. all his beautiful muscle was limp, softer then ever, his abdomen unguarded as his roommate turned him over and shook him violently. hair falling in his half lidded eyes that gave no reaction to his roommate slapping his cheek and brushing back the dark strands.
his roommate did CPR for 15 minutes while the ambulance wove through their crowded campus city and to their dorm room. he hadn't known CPR, not truly, but he tried, listening to the 911 dispatcher. he'd pumped down down down on his roommates chest. he pumps skittle too shallow here and far too deep there and his posture isn't quite right, his rhythm is too fast whenever the dispatcher isn't counting for him. the only thing right he does is mouth to mouth, pressing his mouth to his roommates without shame.
he's urinated, bladder giving way to the total release of cardiac arrest, his soaked sweatpants clinging to him, to the outline of his cock. his legs splayed and half-arched, putting him on morbid display.
no amount of begging from his roommate has willed his pulse back, not even for a second, not even a stutter. he just lays dead beneath him. body twitching. not quite violently, his roommate isn't working him hard enough for that. but his twitches and spasms and gasps agonally.
and then the paramedics are there. forcing their way into the dorm. pulling the roommate back. the boy's chest is now being assaulted. a paramedic bigger than him in most ways is pumping his weight deep into his chest. his chest collapses, his stomach bulges, his throat pulses and groans lifelessly. the I-GEL a rape on his unconscious throat, forced into him by steady hands of a second paramedic.
his shirt is cut away and abandoned, exposing his already broken chest, milky grey-tinged skin exposed, nipples soft despite the chill spreading through his lifeless body, ribs showing through his flesh. they move to get him on a 12 lead, gloved hands applying the leads to his chest around the hands currently breaking in his sternum.
they're in the 20th minute of CPR, the first minute of good CPR, and anywhere from 25 to 35 minutes that the boy has been down. he is in asystole. not a flicker from that heart of his. firm hands pull out an arm to place a BP cuff and tape a pulse-ox clip. his BP doesn't even register and his sat is a flat 68%.
not with IVs in. not with the emergency IO access. not with his lungs being bagged with constant oxygen, his chest rising and falling at its whims. not with all the meds they pump into him. not with his chest being broken in. not with his roommate calling to him.
nothing changes as he's moved to the backboard. as he's rolled and manipulated like a rag doll. as he's strapped down. as AED pads, all but useless for now are applied to his chest. as the arc of the LUCAS is positioned over him. his hands tied up around it, fingers curling against the plastic, black straps cutting into his wrists. the piston pushed down to his sternum, forceful hands being pulled away, the rubber suction paddle pressed down onto his mottled chest, grays and purples swirling with lifeless bruising, the paddle pushed down with some pressure to ensure each compression his the target depth.
his body pulses with rasps as the machine assaults him. his chest caves. even deeper than before, and now it's pumped in at a perfect mechanical pace and depth. his chest is pumped full of breath every couple of seconds via the ambu bag and I-GEL. lifeless groans leaving him with each compression. his fingers pulsing as the LUCAS causes his shoulders to bob and strain, his IV lines swinging slightly where they run from his arms to the bags of fluids and drugs at use, a purple dual-headed extender hanging from his bicep.
he's carried out of his apartment like that, Lifepak between his legs, one medic bagging, one watching the monitor, prepared to stop the LUCAS at the sign of a potential rhythm, while a third and fourth carry the backboard out to the stretcher, before dropping him in it.
they're a collective of calls and orders, a flurry of movement. drugs being pushed, differentials shouted out, hands manipulating the boy's body like it was nothing. and it really wasn't. he gave no resistance.
in the ambulance, his soiled sweats are cut off, down the side seam of his right leg to get better access to his femoral where a medics hand rests pressed into it, trying to feel for any change in the currently mechanical like that denotes life. it also makes it easier to access the IO placed in his shin, no longer having to bunch his pant leg up. the left is then cut with the fabric being left over his cock to keep from unnecessarily exposing him, giving him an ounce of decency. but the beautiful carving of his pelvis and silky trail of pubic hair is still out for everyone to see.
the medics otherwise keep at it, but there's no change, not a single one in the 20 minutes they've worked on him. not a blip, stutter, or flutter.
the ambulance is just the sound of the LUCAS. the hiss thud click hiss thud click hiss thud click. and the thick sound of the suction being pulled against. and the hiss and gurgle of the ambu bag breathing into dead lungs.
even the crew had fallen quiet. there wasn't much to say. little announcements of a med being pushed here, or a vital update there. but otherwise? the latter half of the 20 minute ride was all but silent.
the ER is a whole new flurry, fresh faces and fresh hands that think they have a better chance. the stretcher is dragged off the ambulance with a clatter and a thump, the lifeless body in it jostling limply, only held in by the straps.
he's wheeled into a storm of voices, directing his stretcher to a private bay. the backboard lifted and dropped on the bed. the scraps of his sweatpants fall away, cock exposed for a few moments while other things took priority over covering him up. lines and wires are switched over to the hospital's equipment. AED pads changed out for bright orange gel pads. they pull the I-GEL, coated in drool and mucus, dripping down onto his face as it's discarded, and exchange it for an ET tube and hook him up to a ventilator, synching it with the LUCAS, which he isn't separated from, they see no need in halting such good compression.
but quickly, as tests are run and come back, as an ECHO is done on his chest, during and between compressions, all showing a clean bill of health— healthy heart. no plaque, no visible defects, no clots, no free fluid, no damage. nothing in the tests, that isn't the bodies chemical reaction to death and the organs subsequently shutting down, show anything off —other than the fact he's been in cardiac arrest for the better part of an hour now, they grow... dismal.
nothing has worked. no medication, no intervention, no attempt to resuscitate him has been met with a single reaction.
but he's so young. a college student. his whole life ahead of him. none of them want to stop. so they keep running the code, even if all they can do is try and busy their hands with nothing while machines work on the boy, but even that becomes difficult.
for minutes— 5. then 10. the LUCAS battery is changed. then another 35 —a machine pumps a lifeless chest. air fills cold lungs. lungs filling with fluid as his kidneys fail. lungs that gurgle and rasp. the ET tube had to be suctioned clear more then once now, as pulmonary edema comes into play.
they don't call time for a long time. even as members of staff are pulled away to more viable patients. eventually it's just one doctor. he just watches the grotesque scene until the second LUCAS battery dies on the kid. he calls it then. after almost 2 hours. time of death is 6:21 PM. no obvious cause of arrest.
there's something so hot about those last few minutes when the team is considering calling time on a resusee. when the victim has been down for a half hour with no change, maybe not even their first arrest, no reaction to any interventions.
they're intubated and vented and on the LUCAS. still in the chaotic wreck of a trauma bay. life suspended without a flurry of hands. there is nothing else that can be done. all else has been tried.
the team of doctors and nurses and medical staff have al but given up. still holding out hope, but part of them knows it is hopeless. they stand a pace away from the body on the table. waiting. watching the monitor. watching as the only activity is the violent beating of the LUCAS on the poor patient's heart.
the patients chest caves in, ribs shattered and sternum cracked under dozens of rounds of compressions from hands and the LUCAS alike. the piston is relentless. beating in the patients poor sternum to pump the heart. their belly bulges with each one, violently slow, even in the most toned of patients, just because of how forceful the compressions are on such a slack body.
their eyes are staring at nothing. all the light has left. their mouth is held open by tubes and airways and gauze ties. their throat pulses with agonal gasps and gags and spasms, that and the harsh pulsing of the LUCAS. their chest shifts with each breath given.
they're shirtless. abandoned on the gurney. chest, bruised and broken, on display. perhaps glossy from conductive jelly. or maybe AED pads cling uselessly to the lifeless chest.
their arms strewn out and hanging with IV lines from when efforts were still being made, when there were efforts that could be made. there's fluids hanging to one. a syringe of epi still connected to another, about to fall from the bed and hang from the hub line.
there's a sheet over their legs, it's soiled with urine, as a catheter was first an afterthought, and now placing one feels like one last insult to the patient's dignity. hours of resuscitative work, from this code and the codes prior, have kept their struggling kidneys producing fluids that the bladder has failed to retain during the ins and outs of their weak heartbeat.
their skin has lost all warmth. it's greying and cold. their lips are a shade ranging from crimson purple to nearly white, depending on their prior complexion. their eyes have sunken in. there is no life to be found in their face.
and yet still. the LUCAS pumps pumps and pumps away. the ventilator hissssss. click. hissssss. clicks over and over. the two in tandem.
the doctor eyes the clock. one more minute. then his watch. just one more, they can do it. a nurse looks back.
it goes on and on.
💞 would love to open a handsome boy's lifeless mouth, finding it grey with hypoxia, and clip a pulse ox monitor right to his tongue like he was my pretty puppy 💞 feeling the chord and the hard plastic as I press my warm, hot mouth over his cold, limp, grey one to give breaths 💞 using the clip to pull his slack tongue out of his mouth and airway, so I make sure all of my air reaches his pretty chest 💞 doing compressions and watching the clip bob, taking his tongue with it, as his body spasms under the effort 💞 maybe I get to slide a tube down his throat, using only my hands of course, getting to guide it down is airway and into his lungs all on my own, no scope, the process intimate, my hands digging around and manipulating his tongue and jaw to get it in place right 💞 getting to take that tube down and use it, kissing around it, forcine air through it 💞 maybe I get to see some fluid drain out of it like a spout as I do compressions or turn him on his side 💞 getting to see his mouth full and used 💞 getting that pretty puppy mouth all pink again so I can kiss him softly 💞 what a dream 💞
give me fragile ribs bending and breaking under strong hands. give me throats bobbing and cheeks billowing as air is forced into dying lungs. give me blue-tinged lips and greying skin. give my agonal gasps under desperate lips. give my disheveled hospital gowns revealing soft flesh. give my halos of wires and cords and tubes and lines. give me the intrusion of ports and ivs forced into a sickly body, just to keep them alive. give me the tender touches of fixing their hair or wiping the spit from their lips or holding their hand during a rhythm check. give me desperately gentle maneuvers — meticulous jaw thrusts, cradling their whole head in your hands as you attempt to open their airway. apologizing profusely as you swipe fingers into their throat in attempts to clear it. holding them gently as you roll them on their side for recovery position — that convey the love you have for your patient. give me long stretches of PEA, of a tired little heart clinging to life. give me harsh jolts during defibrillation. give me conscious defibrillation, your patient moaning and crying out as you try and shock them back into sinus. give me patients choking on their endotracheal tube. give me restraints to keep them from hurting themselves. give me desperate massage as a patient's heart rate tanks, trying to keep it from stopping altogether.