#anaesthesia

[thefloralmenace]

Same energy as when I received my pre-op phone call for my surgery, and the lady said I could drink whatever I want the night and morning before surgery except red gatorade or other red drinks, and I went full chemistry mode thinking that the red dye must bind to anaesthesia or something, and she was like "No, anaesthesia makes a lot of people nauseous post-surgery, and we really don't want to guess whether or not you're throwing up blood."

[catrianaghvst]

Anaesthesia.

MASTERLIST || 1K

postsurgery!simonriley x reader

He accidentally spills a massive secret about a ring when groggy from anaesthesia after surgery.

The recovery room smells like antiseptic and recycled air, and you’ve been sitting in it long enough that the bad coffee has gone cold in your hand. You set it down on the plastic chair beside you and check the time. They said twenty minutes, maybe thirty. It’s been forty-five. You’ve read the same NHS poster about handwashing three times without retaining a single word.

Then the door swings open, and a nurse backs through it pulling the far end of a hospital bed, and there he is —your six-foot-something, usually-immovable man, flat on his back under a thin blanket with the tucked-in, slightly helpless look of someone who has absolutely no say in how they’re being transported right now. His head lolls toward you the moment he clears the doorway, and the second his eyes find your face, they light up.

“Babe.” He raises a finger and points it in your general direction, missing by about a foot. “That’s my person.” His voice is louder than it needs to be. The nurse guiding the head of the bed is staring very hard at the wall in front of her. “That one. Mine.”

You stand and cross to him, pressing a hand to his forearm. “Hi, love. How are you feeling?”

Simon stares at you with deep, grave seriousness for approximately three seconds. Then his whole face softens into something so unguarded it makes your chest ache a little, and he says, very slowly, “You have two heads.”

“I don’t.”

“Two.” He blinks, squinting, like he’s working through something genuinely complex. “Both beautiful. Don’t know which one to kiss.” He attempts to sit up, is immediately defeated by his own IV line and the fact that his arms have apparently stopped cooperating, and sinks back against the pillow with a defeated expression.

You laugh and press your hand gently to his chest to keep him still. “Maybe focus on one for now.”

He doesn’t hear you. He’s already tugging at the blanket tucked around him, studying it with intense concentration.

“I’m a burrito,” he announces.

“You are a bit, yeah.”

“You like burritos.” He says it like a fact he’s just remembered, important and certain. “So I’m… your burrito.” A pause. He blinks once, slowly. “That’s good. That’s very good, actually.”

The nurse at the head of the bed makes a quiet sound that she turns into a cough. You are half-embarrassed and entirely melting.

“Can you believe,” Simon says, voice shifting to scandalised, “they just let me sleep in there?”

“That’s generally how surgery works.”

“I closed my eyes for one second.” He holds up a finger from where his arm lies flat on the mattress. “One. And then—” he waves the same finger vaguely “—appendix. Gone. Just taken.”

“They did tell you they were going to do that.”

“Did they?” He looks incredibly uncertain. Then, with suspicion: “Was it a prank?”

“It wasn’t a prank, Simon.”

He absorbs this and then frowns at the ceiling. “Feels like a prank.”

The nurses finish their handover and quietly take their leave. You pull your chair flush to the side of the bed and settle into it, threading your fingers through his where his hand rests heavy on top of the blanket. He looks down at the contact, and something passes over his face—slow and warm and unhurried.

“You stayed,” he says.

“Of course I stayed.”

“Didn’t have to.”

“Simon.”

“Just saying.” His thumb moves over your knuckles, back and forth, back and forth. He’s watching your joined hands like he’s not entirely sure they’re real yet. The anaesthesia makes everything about him loose and unfiltered—no armour, no careful restraint, just him, sitting just below the surface of everything he usually keeps so close to the chest. “You’re the best thing,” he says quietly, to no one in particular. “You know that?”

“You’re a bit biased,” you say softly.

“‘M not.” He shakes his head against the pillow, slow and certain. “Ask anyone. Price’ll tell you. Soap’ll tell you—well, Soap talks too much; he’ll tell you a lot of things—” He pauses, reconsidering. “Maybe don’t ask Soap.”

You laugh, squeezing his hand. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He falls quiet for a moment. The monitor beside him beeps steadily, and somewhere down the corridor, someone drops something metal, and the sound echoes and fades. Simon’s thumb has stilled against your hand, but he hasn’t let go. His eyes drift half-closed, then open again, fighting it.

“Got you something,” he mumbles. “Well. Not here. At home. It’s at home.”

“You got me something?”

“Mm.” His brow furrows faintly. “Well. It’s more… it’s more for both of us, really. Well—it's for you. And for me. And for—” He stops. The frown deepens. “It’s a ring.”

The word lands in the room very quietly.

You go still.

“A ring,” you repeat.

“In my sock drawer.” He says it with immense seriousness, as though the location is the important part. “Second one in. Behind the grey ones. Been there three weeks, I keep—” He shifts against the pillow, blinking. “Keep waiting for the right time. Was gonna do it somewhere nice, but I think it should be more personal. Have a whole—” Another slow blink. “I have a plan.”

Your heart has done something that makes your ribs feel too small for it.

“Simon,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“You’d say yes,” he says, like it’s not a question, like it’s just something he knows the way he knows north from south. “You’d say yes, wouldn't you.” Still not a question. His eyes are drifting again, the pull of sleep getting heavier by the second, his words softening at the edges. “You always say yes to me. Even when I’m—even when it’s hard. You stay.”

You press your free hand over your mouth for a second.

He lets out a long, slow breath. His grip on your hand slackens slightly, not letting go but going loose and easy. His head settles deeper into the pillow, the line of his shoulders dropping as the tension finally, fully, leaves him.

“I want it to be perfect,” he says, almost to himself. “But suppose it’s—s’fine either way. You’ll still say yes.”

And then, with all the unbothered peace of a man who has absolutely no idea what he’s just said, he falls asleep. Completely and utterly out, breathing slow and steady against the hospital pillow, hand still curled loosely around yours, a little furrow between his brows the only remaining sign that he was ever awake at all.

wrote this manually with paper and pen btw

[resus-girl-2]

A couple of extra pics, including one for those with a thing for masks.... 😊

(Love the smell of the black rubber, makes playtime feel extra 'medical'...)

[gasmask-nitrous-smoking-fetish]

Breath In and Breath out

[drferox]

Here you go folks. How to actually sedate a werewolf. Or, more likely, anaesthetise.

One part fantasy/cryptid speculation, one part anaesthetic refresher. All parts hypothetical.

(Featuring Pancake and Dingus)

[nordicmedfet]

Surgery Q & A

Done something like this a few years ago, now i felt its time for a surgery themed one :D Here we go!

General, local or spinal anaesthesia?

If general anaesthesia -> mask ventilation or intubation?

What type of airway maintenance?

What surgery speciallity?

Dream scenario?

Ever had fantasies about surgery scenario?

Eyes taped or not during surgery?

What made you enjoy surgeries?

Ever been aroused thinking about surgery?

Ever had surgery before?

feel free to come with any suggestions of other questions!

[elysianightsss]

ANAESTHESIA | PART THREE

“I’m not under your guidance and you weren’t on site at the time of the emergency. Personally I think you’re out of line.” You scoff. “I guess you’ll just have to find out tomorrow.” You turn around and pull the door open before throwing over your shoulder, “You haven’t changed a bit Si.” Before walking out.

Simon lets out a deep breath. You were cold, rude and had you always been that beautiful?

-

The conference room was heavy with the smell of burnt coffee and disinfectant, the low hum of chatter dying down as John strode to the front. His presence demanded silence; even Simon, sulking in the corner, straightened his back.

John cleared his throat, his accent smooth as he flicked on the projector. “We’re here to discuss the emergency neurosurgery performed yesterday,” his eyes cut briefly to you, and you swore you caught the tiniest twitch of his lips. “I’ve reviewed the records, scans, and timing.” He clicked to the next slide. “And I can confirm—the surgery could not have waited.”

A ripple of murmurs passed around the room. You felt heat climb up your chest, not from embarrassment but from vindication.

John continued, calm and absolute. “Any delay would have risked permanent neurological damage. The attending made the right call.” He looked directly at Simon as he said it, and you didn’t miss the way Simon’s jaw ticked, a muscle feathering in frustration.

When the conference adjourned, Simon lingered by the door. His broad frame blocked your exit. You crossed your arms, already prepared.

“I owe you an apology,” he muttered, voice low enough that only you could hear. “You were right.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilted your head, and let out the sharpest little scoff you could manage before brushing past him without a word. His breath hitched behind you, but you didn’t look back.

Hours later, after another surgery left you wrung out and sweaty under your scrubs, you slipped outside to the hospital gardens. The benches there were shaded by sprawling trees, a rare little haven. You sank down, letting your head tip back, finally breathing in air that didn’t smell of antiseptic.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

You startled slightly as John appeared, holding two takeaway cups. He offered one with a little shrug. “Didn’t know how you take it… figured I’d gamble on something simple. White, one sugar.”

You blinked at him, hesitant, but took it. “Thanks.”

He sat beside you, not too close but close enough you could feel his presence. “Funny, isn’t it?” he said, looking out across the gardens. “Five years ago we didn’t even swap last names, and now here we are—colleagues.”

Your cheeks heated at the memory, unbidden flashes of skin and laughter in a dingy hotel room surfacing before you shoved them back down. “Yeah. Funny.”

John glanced at you then, his expression softer than you expected. “I never forgot you, you know.”

That jolted you. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not properly,” he admitted, a smile tugging at his mouth. “But I remember how it felt. And I’ve thought about what might’ve been… if we’d actually bothered to exchange more than first names and a room key.” His gaze held yours, steady. “To me, you were the one that got away.”

Your stomach flipped, and before you could stop yourself, you gestured too wildly with your coffee cup as you stood up. The drink sloshed, spilling right down his trousers in a steaming splash.

“Oh my god—!” You shot to your feet, napkins already in hand. “I’m so sorry!”

He looked down at the stain, then up at you, utterly calm. “Don’t worry. I’ve had worse.”

“I didn’t mean to—” Your words died as you realized you were hovering your hand over his thigh, dangerously close to blotting. You yanked it back, mortified, face burning.

John chuckled, low and warm. “Relax. It’s just coffee. Besides—” his grin widened, “—gives me an excuse to change before I ask you to dinner.”

Your eyes widened. “Dinner? As in—you and me? No.” You shook your head so fast it made you dizzy. “John, that’s not—this isn’t—”

He hummed, calm as ever, standing smoothly despite the damp patch. “Didn’t expect a yes straight away.” His eyes sparkled when he looked at you. And with a nod he simply said “That’s alright. I’ll ask again later.”

You gaped at him, utterly thrown. Then he winked, turning back toward the hospital, leaving you rooted to the bench—heart hammering, coffee forgotten in your hand, and the ghost of that night five years ago burning in the back of your mind.

The residents’ lounge smelled faintly of latex and stale crisps, the kind of room that saw more stress than rest. Kyle sat hunched over a training dummy on the table, carefully threading a suture needle through fake skin with steady precision. His tongue poked out slightly at the corner of his mouth — concentration written all over him.

Meanwhile, Johnny wasn’t concentrating at all. He was perched at one of the computers, typing away with far too much intensity for what was supposed to be downtime. His scowl deepened as your name flashed across the screen.

“She was famous at her last job,” Johnny muttered, scrolling quickly through old articles and research notes. “Look at this — publications, conference mentions, commendations. No wonder the division head recruited her.” He spoke like Kyle was actually listening.

Kyle didn’t look up, eyes still on his stitching. “Mm.”

“But if you’re so famous…” Johnny leaned closer to the monitor, narrowing his eyes like the screen might confess a secret. “…why move hospitals?” His voice dropped, more to himself now, like he was untangling a mystery. “Why here? Why now?”

Kyle tied off his suture with a neat little tug. “Why don’t you just ask her?” he said dryly.

Johnny twisted in his chair to glare at him. “Why don’t you just ask her,” he mimicked in a whiny sing-song, complete with exaggerated hand gestures. “Because I don’t want to talk to her. Period.”

Kyle finally glanced up, unimpressed. “Could’ve fooled me. You’ve been glued to that screen since she walked in.”

Johnny bristled, slamming the mouse down harder than necessary. “I don’t care about her.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” He bent back over the dummy arm, lips twitching with the faintest smirk.

Johnny turned back to the computer, muttering under his breath — as if the monitor, at least, would believe him.

He scrolled deeper, his jaw tight. Something in the directory caught his eye — a restricted file linked to your name. His finger hovered over the mouse for a moment before he clicked.

The screen blinked, a progress bar loading. As the file opened, his frown deepened, eyes narrowing. He leaned in, lips parting slightly, ocean blues widening and—

The north wing always buzzed with a different energy than the other departments. Brighter somehow, warmer, with the constant chatter of patients and families moving through. You adjusted your white coat as you stepped into the reception hub, where one big desk sat already occupied by two gorgeous women.

“Hi! You must be the new doctor!” chirped the woman with a bobbed haircut and big, round glasses. Her name badge read Bell, and her smile was so enthusiastic it was almost disarming.

Beside her, a taller woman with long braids leaned lazily on her elbow, scrolling through a tablet. She gave you a slow once-over before smirking. “Bell, tone it down. You’ll scare her off. I’m Tanya. Welcome to the chaos.”

Before you could respond, a man in a white coat appeared from the hallway, adjusting his stethoscope. He was handsome in a clean-cut way, with sharp cheekbones and an easy grin. “Ah, you’re the new recruit. Jihoon,” he introduced himself, holding out a hand. “Gynaecology. Don’t worry, I’m not as scary as my field makes me sound.”

Bell giggled. “He’s the one you go to if you need endless snack recommendations. Man knows every vending machine on site.” She grinned like a child on Christmas.

Tanya rolled her eyes but you caught the fondness beneath it. “Just ignore her. I do.”

You smiled despite yourself, tension easing a little. For the first time since arriving, it felt like you might actually fit here.

Jihoon leaned casually against the reception desk, folding his arms. “So,” he asked with a grin, “met any of the other surgeons yet?”

Your stomach gave a small twist. Of course you had — more than met them. You’d been entangled with every one of them in one way or another, pasts knotted so tight it felt like they might strangle you if you weren’t careful.

You schooled your expression and nodded once, aiming for casual. “Yeah. Briefly.”

Jihoon didn’t notice the stiffness in your tone, but Bell did. Her smile slipped into a little frown as she leaned forward over the desk. “Uh oh. Are they being mean to you or something?”

You blinked at her, startled. “What? No. Nothing like that.”

Tanya snorted softly, tapping her pen against the desk. “Please. Half the surgeons here walk around like they own the place. Don’t let it get to you. Give it a week and you’ll learn to tune them out like the rest of us.”

Bell huffed, clearly unconvinced, but let it drop. “Well, if they are being jerks, you just tell us. We’ve got your back.”

Tanya scoffed, leaning back in her chair. “I don’t think she needs our help. Word around here is you beat up mobsters on your first day.” Her lips curved into a grin. “So cool!” she squeaked, the fangirl moment catching even Bell off guard.

You blinked innocently, bemused by her reaction. “That right?”

Jihoon chuckled, shaking his head as he signed a file and handed it to Bell. “Hospital gossip travels fast. Better get used to it.”

Bell giggled, covering her mouth. “Okay, that is kind of cool, though.”

Your lips parted, ready to confirm it — when your phone buzzed loudly in your pocket.

You glanced at the screen. Emergency surgery.

“Duty calls,” you said, snapping the phone shut and already moving. The three of them watched as you strode down the hall, Bell’s excited whisper following you out of earshot.

You changed into your scrubs in record time, hair pulled back, mask dangling from your ear as you scrubbed in at the sink. The water was warm, the smell of antiseptic sharp, your mind already racing through the steps of the surgery.

Then another pair of hands plunged into the sink beside yours.

You glanced over — and froze. Simon.

His square jaw was tight beneath his surgical cap, his movements brisk, mechanical.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, frowning. “This is my surgery.”

“I’m taking over,” he grunted, already drying his hands with quick, practiced snaps of the towel.

“Excuse me?” The words cracked sharp in the tiled room. You finished rinsing and grabbed a towel yourself, glaring at his back.

He didn’t look at you, just pushed through the double doors into the OR.

Your pulse kicked up, but you refused to let him bulldoze you. Tossing the towel aside, you followed.

The patient lay prepped on the table, anesthetized, monitors steady. A scrub nurse hovered uncertainly by the instruments. The circulating nurse shifted nervously at the sight of you and Simon walking in together.

Murmurs rippled across the small team.

“Neuro said she was leading…” someone whispered.

“Now it’s Captain Broody?” another muttered.

Simon didn’t say anything — not out loud, at least. He simply slid into the lead position, voice calm and clipped as he instructed the nurses. The scalpel was in his hand before you could blink.

Every muscle in your body screamed at the audacity, but you forced yourself into silence, eyes sharp, jaw locked. An outburst here wouldn’t just bruise your pride — it could compromise the patient.

So you stood by, gloved and masked, forced to watch as Simon took over your case. His hands were steady, movements sure, the team falling into rhythm around him as though he had been meant to be there all along.

And damn it — the surgery was a success.

He peeled off from the table, bloody gloves glistening under the lights. Only then did he glance your way, eyes glittering with that infuriating, cocky edge.

“You can stitch them up, fellow,” he drawled, tone laced with smug dismissal. Then he stripped off his gloves and strode out without a backward glance.

Heat flared in your chest, pride stung raw, but you forced it down. The patient came first. You stepped forward, voice brisk as you called for the sutures.

The familiar rhythm of your perfected stitch steadied you. Needle, knot, cut. Needle, knot, cut. You finished in record time, clean and elegant, the team casting sidelong glances but wisely holding their tongues.

When the patient was safely transferred and your gloves were off, you didn’t hesitate. The doors swung behind you as you stormed into the corridor, scanning for Simon’s broad frame.

He had just pulled his gown off, tossing it into the bin with casual ease, when your voice cracked through the air like a whip.

“Simon!”

He stopped but didn’t turn, shoulders squaring as if bracing himself.

You marched up, jaw tight, fists clenched at your sides. “I am not under your guidance,” you hissed, trying to keep your voice low, professional — but it trembled with rage. “And you were not assigned to that surgery. I was. How dare you undermine me in front of other doctors.”

That made him turn. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, his mask hanging loose around his neck. “I saved that patient’s life.”

“You think I couldn’t have?” you shot back, fire burning in your chest. “You think barging in, hijacking my case, makes you some kind of hero?”

“I think,” he said evenly, stepping closer, “that when a life’s on the line, I don’t gamble.”

The words landed like a slap, the corridor’s silence swallowing them whole. It was bullshit and even he knew it. But basically implying you’re not capable…you fumed. A few nurses passed by at the far end glancing your way before quickly scurrying off — gossip already sparking like wildfire.

Your voice dropped, steel replacing the shake. “If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll take it straight to the board. Do you understand me?”

For a long beat, he just stared — that infuriating, smug calm etched into every line of his face. Then, finally, his lips twitched into the faintest smirk.

“Noted, fellow.”

And he walked away, leaving you seething in the corridor, every nerve in your body screaming for blood.

Tags | @6jack6rabbit6 @misscaller06 @daydreamsareallineed @tabbslouuformer @blackhawkfanatic @kaoyamamegami @multipleinterruptingcats @galactict3a @irohatoms @itsyogirllaenaa @stevebuckysdoll @echo9821 @leon-thot-kennedy

[help-im-a-medstudent]

The labour ward is stocked up with pumpkin hats for the newborns which is so cute but the baby yesterday was so big none of them fit him and he just had a plain blue one