#but then wouldn’t the blood they have in their veins clot if its not flowing

[someoldfires]

an unexpected challenge when writing about vampires is that it is really difficult to describe people’s internal and external reactions to stimuli when those people do not have a heartbeat or need to breathe

#this is about wwdits fic of course #i know a lot of people write them as breathing out of habit but they still wouldn’t be like. panting from exertion or anything #vampire physiology in general is just ??? #like in wwdits we know vamps have blood in their veins #cause turning involves the sired drinking the sire’s blood #but is that just the blood of their victims that ends up in their veins or where does the blood come from #also is it just stagnant or how is it flowing #because them being pale is because of a lack of blood flow right #but then wouldn’t the blood they have in their veins clot if its not flowing #or is it like some magical substance thats not the same as human blood #see this is why i can’t write anything short i get way too caught up in world building and lore #also its so funny how everything i try to write from this fandom becomes quite dark and serious #and then im expecting the fart jokes show to like. provide me with good vampire lore #fine ill make it up myself

[davosmymaster]

To the Ends of the Universe

A/N - Hello!!! How’s everyone doing? Just wanted to say thank you to the people who left a comment/liked the post about this one shot. I really hope this fic won’t dissapoint anyone.

Special thanks to @wonders-of-the-multiverse​ who has been there from the very first second. This fic initially started as both of us just daydreaming about the Master as usual and well, here we are XD. She was also my incredible beta reader.

As some of you know, English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistake. This is also my first fic on tumblr YAY

I really hope you have a good time reading this!!!

WARNINGS - Blood, mentions of nightmares, it’s pure fluff basically with hints of angst

PAIRINGS - Dhawan!Master x Reader (The Master x Reader)

WORD COUNT - 6,062 words

TO THE ENDS OF THE UNIVERSE

 The dimly lit hallways exploded in a bright white light as you rushed to the medbay, the loud thumping of your heart stuck in your ears as you forced your legs to keep the pace for just one more second.

 As Opposed to The Doctor’s, The Master’s TARDIS had always looked quite dark and unwelcoming, almost as if it wasn’t pleased with having anyone wandering around inside her. This time, however, a white flickering light guided you through the maze-like corridors to your destination. It was a big change from the dirty tricks she used to play during the first few months of your stay.

 The floor under your shoes quaked as the ship took off, the harsh trembling sending your body forwards and your shoulder crashing against one of the metal doors. You rubbed the tender spot for a second, the worry that had overwhelmed you at the sight of blood quickly being replaced by a wave of pure annoyance and agitation.

 “You could help me a bit here” you whispered through gritted teeth towards the TARDIS, the pain in your shoulder slowly dissolving into numbness.

 A low groan seemed to come from the walls and the energy inside it. The metal disappeared as the door slid open to reveal the grey colour of the medbay.

 “O-oh” you gasped “sorry”

 Once inside the room and without a thought, your body automatically went for the second drawer in one of the cupboards.

 Traveling the stars wasn’t as safe as you would have liked, and both the Master and yourself had gotten hurt more times than either of you remembered. As years and years passed you had surprised yourself in the most appropriate situations, becoming aware of the fact that you could find almost anything in the medbay at this point; even if you couldn’t understand the advanced medical technology a time lord could have gathered all over time and space for god-knows-how-long.

 “I’m back!” you announced when the control room appeared in front of your eyes again. The figure of the Master was leaning against the console, eyes too focused on his own empty fists to be considered normal. His hair was more disheveled than usual, the fringe coated with blood as it brushed across the top of his eyes. “Master”

 He jumped in place at the sound of your voice, one of his hands instinctively going to his coat’s pocket as a reflex. The wound on the side of his head was still bleeding, although the oozing flow of blood seemed to have lessened considerably since you had last seen him. His skin was much paler than usual and the dark rings under his eyes were looking much worse than that morning. You couldn’t help but think that he looked miserable, even beyond the blood staining his face and clothes.

 “Are you alright?” you whispered. You took a step forward cautiously and didn’t look away from his eyes, trying to find all the answers to your questions in those big brown orbs.

 “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 He quickly backed off, putting as much space between the two of you as he could. You watched him wander the room, walking in one direction before changing his mind the next second. You clenched your hands around the medical supplies, the weight of all the things you were carrying reminded you why you had left the room in the first place.

 “Have a seat somewhere” you demanded, although it sounded angrier than you had intended, almost like a bark. “You’re still bleeding”

 “YOU DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!”

 Your heart hammered in your chest as a response. The silence fell between the two of you, the atmosphere suddenly running out of air. He looked like a madman right there in front of your incredulous eyes, bleeding and pointing at you like he pointed at his enemies after stating a threat. He had never glared at you with angry eyes before.

 The Master had been acting odd for some time now. It all started with a change in his plans. One day, for no apparent reason, he took you on a trip to one of the most beautiful planets in the universe. The blue dunes of sand under an orange bright sun permanently eclipsed by one of its forty-three satellites. It seemed to be the perfect place to have some rest, at least it was until some of the natives recognized the Master and threatened to kill both of you.

 Surely ‘the most beautiful’ didn’t imply ‘the safest’, as the few civilizations that lived there had been at war for more than a millennia. The only thing all those aliens had in common was, somehow, the desire for the Master’s dead body. When the TARDIS set off again, as far away from the planet as she could, you realized he had done the first good action in a long time: he had left behind two civilizations unified for a cause greater than themselves, to get rid of him once and for all.

 Most of the time you couldn’t choose where to go, he always traveled whenever and wherever he needed in order to gather weapons or artifacts. Other times it was merely to have some fun, and on some rare occasions you would manipulate him to use his bloodthirstiness to do some justice.

 Those trips weren’t as usual now, or maybe he just had stopped telling you the truth about his intentions. Burning planets, dangerous ships and poisonous waters became beautiful trips to sightseeing constellations and the most delicious dinners served next to the colorful Medusa Cascade. No matter how beautiful or safe the place seemed to be, there was always someone or something interrupting the dates you were trying to enjoy with the Master. Not that he would call them dates, anyway.

 You used to read him like an open book. When he said “you’ll slow me down” in reality he meant “this is gonna turn nasty and I want you as far away from here as possible”. When he said he wanted to be alone, that was probably the last thing he wanted. And most of all you were almost a hundred percent sure that the strange words he whispered into your hair when he thought you were asleep meant “I love you” in Gallifreyan.

 But you still hadn’t managed to persuade the TARDIS to get you a Gallifreyan dictionary with the words’ pronunciation. It was definitely a work in progress though, or it had been until you realized that the Master and yourself had been slowly growing apart for the last few months.

 “(Y/N)” he said, his voice almost as low as a whisper “I- I shouldn’t have-”

 “You’re right, you shouldn’t have” you responded firmly. There were a lot of things you were willing to forgive him for, but yelling and mistreating you wasn’t one of them.

 He groaned in pain then, drenching his fingertips in the blood clot in his temple. Your own heart shivered in your chest at the sight, concern quickly burning your insides as a white hot fire ran through your veins.

 “Don’t touch it!”

 You quickly walked the space keeping you apart and gave him a gentle smack to his wrist. He avoided your eyes, fixing them instead on the rolls of unopened gauze, alcohol, towels, and those strange alien band-aids that accelerated the healing process up to five times faster.

 In a flurry of movement the Master moved, his hands quick to try and snatch them from you. But you had known him for a long time and knew exactly what he was like.

 “I can do it myself, I’m not a child”

 “I know you can-” you replied softly, your mind trying to convince itself that he was acting weirder than usual because you had underestimated the damage caused by the blow he had suffered to the head. “-but I’m not as sure about the rest of the sentence.”

 He raised one eyebrow in response and you watched him try not to grimace in pain again.

 “Here” he pulled away from you and walked to the front door of the TARDIS, opening it with ease. The old wood-like doors pulled back to reveal a black nothingness filled with thousands of distant flickering stars “I need some air.”

 The Master took a seat at the border. His back rested against the doors, one of his legs dangling out into space, the other bent beneath him on the floor.

 “You’ve definitely taken quite a hit.” you laughed, “There’s no air in outer space!”

 He smirked with closed eyes, calmly breathing in and out through the nose. “Don’t tell a Time Lord what can and cannot be in outer space. Now get to work, if you’re not going to let me do it myself.”

 You took a seat in front of him in the small space between his figure and the open door, one of your legs also dangling out into space. Leaning in, you pressed the gauze soaked in alcohol against the open wound to finally stop the bleeding. The Master clenched his jaw as much as he could, hissing in pain.

 “Sorry” you apologized, “Keep the pressure on yourself, I’m gonna clean you up.”

 He leered at you, the corner of his lips smirking lasciviously. You rolled your eyes, taking the wet towel in your hands and proceeding to clean the dry blood away from his chin and cheek. You cleaned his short beard the best you could and tried to get rid of the blood clots in his fringe, unsuccessfully to your dismay.

 You could feel his eyes piercing yours, his fingers gently sliding across the skin of your shoulder, softly brushing your hair to get it out of the way. You fixed your eyes onto his own only to catch him avoiding your gaze, his attention stuck on staring out at the endless sight of the universe.

 The Master kept his eyes fixed in nowhere in particular while you worked on his wound. You slowly opened one of the band-aids and tried to avoid his hair as much as possible, so you could place it on the side of his head; just above the temple. Now you just had to wait a few minutes to remove it. You had used those curious things several times before and although the healing was sped up, the thing never failed to leave some kind of scar. But even with those odds stacked against him, the Master was always lucky enough to never get scarred- likely thanks to his own unique biology.

 You let yourself fall limp against the door and tilted your head to whatever the Master was looking for. The sight was beautiful as it had always been, millions of stars were almost swallowed by the black nothingness that separated planets, constellations, solar systems, and asteroids. And even at the incredible sight of all of this, you struggled to find something that could possibly retain the Master’s attention for more than a split second.

 “Are you alright? You’ve seemed a little distant lately” you asked again.

 Fixing your eyes on his features you searched for any sign of discomfort, either physical or emotional. At the lack of response your gaze started to wander, his hand catching your attention as he played with something inside of his coat pocket.

 He was likely twisting and curling the TCE between his fingers. It was a trait you had noticed during your time travelling with him, his fingers fidgeting without fail whenever he was deep in thought. It happened every time, he would either tap four beats on any surface he could find or get something to entertain his restless fingers with, most of the time the ‘thing’ being his TCE.

 The memories from the day filled your head then. He had looked distant the whole time, from the very first second he landed the TARDIS in one of the three planets that formed the solar system of one of the seventeen suns in Kasterborous. It was the closest you had ever been to Gallifrey and, still, it was far enough to not be able to admire the beautiful planet that had watched the Doctor and the Master grow into adults for centuries.

 “I’m just planning my next scheme to trap the Doctor”

 You nodded, although you didn’t believe a thing of what he said.

 The words of what you had been thinking for endless nights poured from your lips before your mind could make up an excuse for his strange behavior, like all the other times. No one could blame you, after all you were just trying to protect your heart and mind from shattering.

 “Is it me?” you asked finally, your voice betraying you and showing more emotion than what you had intended.

 The Master suddenly turned his curious gaze to you. So he was paying attention then…

 “Don’t you think I haven’t spotted how distant you’ve been lately” you added, although lately didn’t seem to be the right word. Obviously you had realized how much time he spent alone in the library and how his visits to the room you both shared were becoming less and less frequent. He always claimed he didn’t need to sleep as much, but you had been apart for enough time for you to notice that it was just a cheap excuse to not be there.

 “Do you not want me to be here anymore?”

 He frowned at your words.

 “W-wha-”

 “Are you still happy?” you asked with a hoarse voice, feeling the familiar weight of tears building up in your eyes at the low wheezing sound of the silence. You clenched your jaw and tried to swallow the tears. “Don’t lie to me.”

 He just stared at you in silence for a second, mouthing like a fish out of water, until he finally blinked and tried to make a sound.

 “I-is not-”

 “Just-” you cut him off, feeling again like a lie was about to spill from his lips. “-you seem sad, distant, you’re not happy and you’re lying to me.”

“No-NO!” You snapped when he tried to talk again, “Don’t try to deny it, I can tell. I know you”

 “So…” Anxiously you took a shallow shaky breath “It has something to do with me, doesn’t it?”

 He pressed his lips together for a second but soon relaxed again. Changing his expression, the shimmer in his eyes shifted as he smirked slightly, the dark circles under his eyes failing to achieve the frightening look he was striving for. Maybe it would have worked with anyone else, but not with you.

 “You humans are so vain, always thinking the universe spins around you.”

 “I’m being serious, Koschei”

 He took a breathless gasp, almost as if he had been hit. The name of a time lord was one of the biggest, best-kept secrets in the universe. Only a handful of people had known (or would ever know) the real name of the Doctor, and due to the Master’s lack of sympathy and his trouble to connect with people to an emotional level, even less had known or ever would know his.

 ‘How many?’ you had asked when he confessed his real name one night, his forehead pressing against your sweaty collarbone.

 ‘Only you’ he had whispered, right before kissing your shoulder “and some Time Lords at the Academy, but they are not important.” you heard him take a deep breath, his nose pressed against your throat “All dead now.”

 Those times seemed out of reach. You even asked yourself if he regretted telling you.

 “Not you.” he whispered defeatedly, his head falling to his lap “It could never be you.”

 “What is it then?”

 He shifted his whole body to face you, squirming in his place and unable to keep still. He removed his hand from his pocket, clasping your own tightly.

 “It’s me.” he whispered in a choked breath and looked at your eyes “It’s so selfish of me to want you forever even though I know I don’t deserve you.”

 “Don’t say that!” you replied, struggling to believe the honesty in his voice and eyes. “You’re not serious. You can’t think like that after everything we’ve been through!”

 He focused again on your hands firmly entwined.

 “I believe it because… you’re so good” he looked away briefly towards the stars, before turning his gaze back to you again. “And people like me don’t get good people by their side or moments like this.”

 The Master stroked your palms with his thumbs, suddenly finding them more interesting than his own thoughts. After a few moments he gave a shaky sigh, backing off once more.

 “And if the past few attempts haven’t been proof of that, then I don’t know what could it be.”

 “Proof?” you questioned, “Proof of what? And what do you mean by the past few attempts?”

 He froze in place, and you frowned at his sudden stiffness. His shoulders tensed and body solid as he sighed deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as he tried and failed to relax his posture. The Master grumbled to himself in defeat, his hand dipping back into his pocket and playing with the TCE or whatever he had found to fiddle with once more.

 “I-it’s nothing. Just rambling.” he shrugged in an attempt to consolidate his own thoughts, but not even you believed his body language. “You do it a lot, ramble I mean, ugh, it’s your fault. I’m getting your bad ha-”

 “Does it have something to do with the last few stops?” you insisted, although you knew from personal experience that pressuring the Master to talk more than he wanted was never a good idea “All those… extravagant places, the two dates at the Medusa Cascade…”

 “Dates?”

 You would have laughed at his disgusted look if the atmosphere wasn’t so tense between the both of you. So you just gave him a crooked smile.

 “Yes, Master. That’s what it’s called when a person takes another person for dinner to talk and have a good time, especially when the place is that fancy. I loved it even though...”

 He watched silently as you told him about the whole date and everything that happened afterwards, despite him being there by your side. Although the dinner had started off with good intentions, it had quickly slipped into a tone of awkwardness through no fault of his own. So much so that the chasing and ‘running for your lives’ had been very much welcomed, although he didn’t notice it. He even apologized once you got into the TARDIS. It was fair to say that he was beyond annoyed the first time.

 A month later, when the second date was just another failed attempt in another restaurant in the Medusa Cascade, he had been furious. That was one of the reasons why the console room (or the living room of the house the TARDIS was disguised as) was even messier than usual. He had broken some chairs and cups before following your steps as you had stormed out to the library.

 The Master realized as he watched you talk that there would be no such thing as a perfect time. He silently admired the star light reflecting in your eyes and highlighting your features, oblivious to everything else. He couldn’t believe the fact that fate had found a way for both your souls to meet and connect. It didn’t matter in the end how much he had tried to distance himself from any other form of life in the universe, because at the end of the day you had always been there, always. He didn’t believe in fate, but when he looked back at the few possibilities there was for him to meet a person that he truly cared about, it was hard not to succumb at the idea of a force greater than himself pulling the strings to figure everything out.

 Even if he dared to think for a split second about not seeing you again, he wouldn’t be able to keep his pieces together. The Master wanted to do the right thing for once, and if fate surprisingly existed, he was certain it absolutely despised him. Countless times he had tried to have a full minute in silence with you, just enjoying each other’s company with a beautiful view, and the same amount of times his plans had been ruined by someone or something trying to either kill him, obtain revenge or obtain revenge via killing him. Until that precise moment he had never had regrets about all the people he had annoyed.

 He wondered what he could do now. Kasterborous was the last place on the list, and he was beyond exhausted from trying. On the other hand, he couldn’t give up on you. His best dreams were always about you, but so were his worst nightmares. And whenever and wherever he was he could always be sure about two things: his love for you and his conviction that as long as your heart was beating, so would his.

 How had he expected to make it perfect when your lives had always been so messy? After all, that was the whole basis of your lives: chaos, adventure, nothing ever occurring according to plan. And still, everything seemed to always find a way to fall into place. Not even the tardis had felt like a home before you, but now home seemed to be in his hands whenever he held yours, and he would be so lost if your hand ever left his.

 A sudden current of hope swallowed him whole.

 “Travel the universe with me.” He whispered, loud enough for you to hear.

 You couldn’t help but chuckle at his pleading. However, your laugh died with ease when you turned around to find a pair of saddened eyes.

 You leaned in and stroked his beard in your palm, using a few seconds to admire his lips and features. Sighing, you repositioned yourself with both of your hands in his lap, your eyes staring intensely at his own as you held his attention on yourself.

 “I already travel with you, idiot.” You gave his hands a gentle squeeze, “What’s wrong?”

 The Master took three shallow breaths, his sight lost somewhere in your hands above the fabric of his trousers. You moved away from him again, gazing worriedly to how distant he seemed to be from his own flesh. It was at that moment that his hand emerged from the concealment of his thick purple coat pocket, his fist trembling and knuckles a stark white colour.

 An idea quickly surged in your brain, and you fought to swallow the dry lump in your throat at the fear of something serious happening to him.

 However, that fear quickly vanished when his fist relaxed and his fingers slowly curled open; revealing what was inside for the light of day to see.

 For a split second you thought he wasn’t holding anything, but then your mind acknowledged the shape of a ring sitting proudly in front of your incredulous eyes. The ring was so tiny in his large hand that you couldn’t properly see it until his fist was completely open and flat, it seemed almost a crime to keep something so beautiful concealed in the shadows.

 The ring was silver, encrusted with white circular gemstones that you didn’t even bother to try and name as without a doubt they weren’t from Earth. The central gem shined a dim light almost invisible until he lent his hand to the side. For a second you could have sworn you had seen a fine black line inside of it, the thought quickly dismissed as a trick of the light as your eyes filled with unstoppable tears once again.

 The only thing that could make you look away from the small piece of jewelry was a gentle squeeze to your shoulder, that and the fact that the Master had quickly stowed the ring away in his coat pocket once more. Your trembling body kept your eyes locked on the empty space it had once inhabited regardless, that was until you heard his panicked voice breaking through the loud thumping of your heart in your ears.

 The Master had positioned both his hands against your cheeks which were now wet with your tears, his thumb tracing the contour of your cheek and drawing you away from your reverie. Only then did you dare to look at him again.

 “I-I’m sorry. I-” he took shallow breaths, blinking away the tears forming in his eyes at light speed. “I’m so sorry. Don’t cry, please. Don’t cry.”

 “W-” you tried to ask, but the words in your mouth didn’t seem to appear fast enough in your mind “W-what’s that?”

 He leaned in and pressed his forehead to your own, still wiping away the tears that littered your cheeks with his thumbs. Even from that angle you could discern how one tear slipped away from his right eye, licking gently at the hot skin behind only to die in the corner of his lips.

 “Nothing.” He stated with a shuddered exhale, suddenly cutting himself off by chewing his lip “It’s nothing!”

 “It’s a ring!” You cried in return.

 From all the things you expected from the Master, marriage was very low on the list. He despised most planets and sassily commented about any tradition and culture that wasn’t his own. You had never even bothered to think about marriage, especially after knowing that weddings on Gallifrey were mostly arranged, a mere game to obtain political power and status amongst the community. In Gallifrey weddings weren’t enjoyed and at the end of the day, they didn’t mean anything either; it was just a convenient tool for both parties.

 But you weren’t a Time Lord.

 You were human.

 Just one more human traveling the stars.

 During your travels, you had learned that the meaning of marriage was a timeless concept to the future of the human race, no matter how long someone had been away from Earth or how many millenniums had passed since the Solar System had been destroyed to dust. Some things simply stayed the same.

 So he knew what marriage meant to the human race, and most importantly, he knew what marriage meant to you, for the both of you.

 “No” he tried “No, it’s…”

 “Don’t lie to me” you growled, pushing his shoulders back “Don’t you dare lie to me. I’m tired of getting pushed away. You always, always, do that. And it hurts”

 You buried your head in your knees, your arms wrapping around yourself tightly as tears silently escaped your eyes without remedy. It happened regardless of how you felt, were you happy? nervous? sad? You didn’t even know at this point. The thing with the Master was that he was always so hard to comprehend, despite all the years of traveling and living together. In the end he was always true to his spontaneous, chaotic natures, never failing to surprise you at the least expected moment.

 The Master moved closer, this time pressing his forehead to your shoulder. A second after you felt your own shirt getting damp, your heart tightening in your chest even more, if that was even possible. Knowing that not only was he only trying not to cry in front of you, he was also trying to hide, trying to find somewhere safe to let himself break. It was hard not to think about how much exhaustion and courage it was taking him not to get on his feet and run as far as he could.

 He always had struggled to put his emotions into words, and expressing the depth of his feelings for you was still something he wasn’t quite used to. Even though he had never said I love you openly, you also knew he didn’t need to.

 The Master was the kind of person whose acts always said more than his words. The way he supported you in everything you wanted to do, the soft whispers to wake you up and his habit of making a single cup of coffee in the morning just for you (mostly because he didn’t like the taste). You had spent an endless amount of nights in his arms when you couldn’t sleep, countless days curled up tightly next to him when sickness took over your body. You didn’t remember what nightmares felt like anymore, you hadn’t had one since the first night he shared with you. Yet still, you preferred them to the terror swallowing your body whole when his own nightmares woke you up in the middle of the night.

 “Of course it’s a ring.” he finally admitted, “Im selfish enough to not want you with anyone else or anywhere else. I want you here for as long as we have.”

 His confession was sealed with a feather light kiss against the exposed skin of your neck. “I’ve been trying to ask you for a long time, but it never works out. I fear this will have to do”

 When you pulled away, he quickly wiped all the tears from his face in a rapid and almost angry manner. But even with his cheeks partially dry, you could still see the redness tinted around the edges of his eyes and the tip of his nose, still spot the remnants of tears clinging to his eyelashes.

 You pulled his hands away from his face and cleared away the final tears that slipped across his cheeks. A choked sob tearing from his throat as he tried to take a steadying breath. You could clearly see the conflict he waged with himself, especially so when his hands turned into fists and his jaw clenched so tightly you feared he would break a tooth.

 Pressing the tip of your thumb against his lip, you caressed the soft skin you were dying to kiss. Looking deeply into his eyes, you could tell he seemed to be finally paying full attention.

 “Look at me.”

 “I’m looking at you.”

 “No, you’re not.” You exclaimed, “You’re thinking, not looking. Stop torturing yourself in that head of yours and just… look at me and see.”

 Frown lines marked his face and you took the chance to get rid of the white band-aid that stuck to his forehead; revealing the pristine healed skin underneath.

 “What do you want me to see?” The Master ventured after a moment of silence.

 “How much I love you.” You brushed the tip of his nose with yours and slid your hand against the soft hairs in his jaw. “You need to see it, and believe…”

 His short chuckle was melody to your ears.

 “It's impossible not to see it, love.” He smiled sadly, your skin shivering under his touch as he slid two fingers under the fabric of the shirt’s collar. Lazily he outlined your collarbone, his hands roaming and exploring your skin as though it was an uncharted planet.

 You smiled to yourself, knowing it was yet again another sign of his nervous quirks; the constant need to entertain his fingers with something.

 “It’s there every time I look at you.” The Master continued, “And unfortunately, I never believe what I see.”

 Somehow, you already knew what he was going to say, the words nestled deep within your heart. Closing your eyes, you gently pressed your lips against his own, the moment brief and chaste before backing off almost immediately afterwards.

 “I’ll have to make you then.”

 Leaning forwards your hand reached outwards, pulling the pocket of his coat round as you brazenly dug down into his pocket. It wasn't hard to find the tiny piece of jewelry, but it was definitely harder to free your wrist from the Master’s grip.

 “Please…” he begged with pleading eyes “What are you…?”

 Eventually, and without a word, he let your wrist go. You licked your lips, feeling the coldness of the ring nestled against your own palm but too afraid to open your fist to give it a proper look.

 Taking a deep breath, you finally encouraged yourself to do what had to be done.

 Even before giving the ring a second look, you slowly slid the piece of jewellery on to the place it belonged; where it would always belong. Then with baited breath you drew your gaze carefully across every inch of it, committing every shine, every detail to memory. The circular gem in the middle caught your attention for a lot longer than when you had initially seen it, and you found that the more you fixed your eyes on it, the clearer the thin black lines became inside of the gem.

 You could tell it was gallifreyan, the entwined circles were hard to mistake for any other language, the black dots inside the circumferences were almost impossible to see. You struggled to find the meaning, even with the knowledge from the classes that The Master had given you in the past.

 He seemed to be holding his breath when your eyes watched his features again. Noticing your eyes on him, he swallowed loudly. His whole figure relaxed. His shoulders falling back against the wood-like door, his constant frown fading and hands falling limp in his lap. With nifty fingers brushed away his fringe in an attempt to remove the hair from his eyes.

 He was clearly overwhelmed by the situation and you did understand his reaction, after all he had been trying to propose for a long time.

 “What does it mean?”

 His grin was the biggest he had ever made, his eyes recovering that special shine you hadn’t seen in months.

 “Why do I even bother trying to teach you?”

 “Why do I even bother treating your wounds if you make me want to punch you in the face afterwards?”

 “Uhm… let’s see…” He jokingly teased. Catching your left hand, he brought it closer to his eyes, his gaze fixated on the ring perched on your finger.

 With a steady voice and growing confidence, The Master pronounced a series of sounds that you couldn’t quite comprehend, your mind still flaring with recognition for them as the words he always whispered in your hair during the night.

 Before you could protest about not speaking gallifreyan, he promptly translated.

 “Hold my hand to the ends of the universe.” He took your hand and gently pressed his lips to the ring and the skin around it.

 “This is my promise” he finished with a whisper.

 Your breath was caught in your throat. You only remembered you needed to say something when he warily gazed to your own incredulous eyes. You had no idea what he would decipher in your gaze, as your own torrent of emotions were hard to decode even by yourself. But you caught sight of the huge amount of hope installed in his eyes and your heart hammered in your chest at the sight.

 “Yes, I do.”

 The Master chuckled, your attention catching a glimpse of the happiness exploding in his eyes. It was like watching a supernova explode in before you. He let his head fall to your intertwined hands once again, sliding his fingers to tighten his grip around your own as he held your hand.

 “I wanted to propose to you.” he smirked, “Not marry you on the spot. We have time for that.”

 You chuckled and he lent in, his lips gracing your cheek as he kissed you once more. With his breath hot against your skin, the Master released a shaky, relieved whisper.

 “Thank you, love.”

 With a gentle touch, his hands wandered to the small of your back urging you to lay down on top of him. You followed his guidance with little resistance, hands pressed against his chest as you could hear the rapid beating of his hearts despite the numerous layers of clothing he always wore.

 Excited at the sound, you shifted your hand directly above his hearts, the gemstones in the ring sparkling and reflecting the flickering light of the stars on your finger.

 “I love you.” You whispered as his hands traced circular lines in your back. He made an amused sound and kissed the top of your head.

 “I love you too,” He answered without a moment's hesitation.

#dhawan!master x reader #the master x reader #master x reader #doctor who #doctor who imagine #doctor who fanfic #doctor who x reader #sacha dhawan #the master #dhawan!master

[missingartist]

The Witcher’s Mate Chapter Five

I have had an awful week at work! But all your likes and comments have made me feel so much better! Please keep commenting!!!!!!!!!

Requests are open! 

Geralt quickly snatched the women from Jaskier’s arms before placing the young women on what he could barely call a bed. It was a straw mattress lain against the far wall; her body was limp against him as he arranged her body carefully in an attempted to slow the bloodflow. The bottom of her blouse stained a rusty red as the blood slowly seeped from the opened wound.

‘Igni’ With the muttering of the word, a flash of light flickering on the dozen of candles around the room, washing them in a warm glow. ‘Jaskier are you just going to stand there? Grab me a cloth.’ Geralt grunted as he pressed his hand against the wound.

Jaskier pulled a drying cloth from a nearby rake and tossed it at the steely-eyed Witcher. Geralt tenderly soaked the blood with the rag, pressing it the wound to get a clear look at the offending incision. The golden eyes drank in damages. There were five claw marks that left thin veins of red against her porcelain skin, faint and light, they had started to clot, and the bleeding had all but stopped. Above the slivers of red, just above her hip, a weeping gash of blood poured from a gnarled wound. The knife had been blunt, and when the insane Tradi had lunged for her soft skin it tore and ripped. It was not a mortal wound, no organs or arteries damaged but the blood that seeped out of the slash was alarming. Cersi was across the town and even on the back of Roach there was no guarantee that she would not have bled out. Geralt could stitch her up or brand her with an iron to cease the bleed, but even with his mutant eyes, he could not see the damage inside. Even unconscious, her body was so reactive, a slight shimmer of sweat began to develop across her skin, and every muscle was tense.

‘Fuck……’ Geralt pulled back and fished a vial from his pouch.

Uncorking the bottle with his teeth, he pulled back the cloth and tentatively poured the liquid on the bleeding. Swallow was toxic, he had never used it someone who was not a Witcher, but Geralt had been a Witcher for longer then he could remember, and the times he had heard it used the people died horrible deaths, burnt from the inside out. If they did their life was not worth living, driven made or deranged. The two men watched her skin bubble and shift as the wound sealed itself smooth, no rough scar tissue, just an angry patch of red. He let her eye search the area; just a few freckles dotted across her hip. His cat's eyes raced to her face looking for the signs, anything that could betray the damage on the inside. Gradually her body relaxed, melted into the thin mattress, sighing in contentment.

It was only now that he let his eyes scanned her body. The clothes she wore where ill-fitting, hiding a feast beneath. In the commotion, her skirt had racked up bunching around her waist ,revealing smooth shapely legs, thick and chunky thighs. They travelled up under her potato sack skirt to a work of art, her waist was narrow, flaring out to round plush hips. Travelling up her breast stood firm, parting to the side as she lay on her back. Most women wore corsets, but her figure stood proud and firm, unaided but the amour like clothing. Her neck was graceful, swan-like, leading up to her face, her curls swirled around her like a hallow, the light highlighting the gold of her curls. Her face was peaceful but dark circle marred underneath her eyes, and her cheekbones looked hallow, dehydrated. Her beauty was mesmerising but confusing. Geralt was thankful but concerned. He wanted her to survive but he knew there was something, something strange. Nothing he had ever heard of could endure a Witcher’s potion. A less … no it wasn’t possible

‘Hmmm,’ Geralt hummed as he picked up a moth-eaten blanket and draped it over her exposed body.

Jaskier stared over at his friend. The white-haired man was staring down, pensive at the women on the floor. Witcher with a heart he mused. It would be a great song. Or bedding the grateful damsel in distress whom he rescues from the clutches of death. Even better. Jaskier turned his eyes to the man on the floor. The mage, Tradi, he was cold and death, throat cut open, twisted in anger. In his hand there was a heavily ornated journal, it was a deep purple with what looked like peals sown onto the cover and gold thread stitched into the spine of it.

‘Well, what do we have here… he won't be needing this anymore. I could rebind it and put my song it …..I could even have is published. The Tales of the Witcher and the Bard….no the Bard and the Witcher.’ Jaskier pondered as struggled to release the book from the death grip of the corpse. Brandishing in the air in success.

The scent of the pages hitting the air cause Geralt's nose to twitch. A mixture of sour milk, pig and decay. Human Skin. Without a thought, Geralt snatched the book from the victorious Jaskier, inhaling deeply he could smell it now. Some of the pages where old, 30 years at least, and somewhere new, recent, days old. Probably from the victims of the Griffin. A Mage would never use human skin; only the most despised magic was held on human skin. Old magic, evil magic that even Elves feared, not even using it when the humans massacred them.

‘Geralt…. You get the join. A bard cannot live on his art alone.’ Jaskier whined, attempting to reach up to The Witcher.

‘Human skin possess bad magic… igni.’ Geralt growled as the book remained unheard against the fire smell. ‘This must be destroyed properly, in a purifying ritual.’ Geralt bite out as he tucked it into his bag, his eyes training in on the girl.

Jaskier eyes followed Geralt’s. The girls stirred slightly and curled into the mattress; a pained hiss escaped her lips as she grimaced, brow furrowed. The bard's eyes soften, she was a beautiful thing, it surprised him that she would be working in a tavern which was little more than a high-class brothel. Adva looked almost childlike, innocent and sheepish, dressing in rags, making her look frumpy and older. She could be little more than 20, an orphan probably or sold to the tavern as a child, didn’t know anything better and properly wouldn't leave till she died, either and the hands of disease or a patron. But then again he had seen her throw a gigantic ball of water at the monster, powerful enough to stun to allow Geralt to strike the fatal blow.

‘Will she be okay?’ the bard asked.

‘Hmmm’ was the only reply that Geralt gave. As he wiped her brow of a kitchen towel found on the back of one a chair. The white-haired man crammed his bulking frame a ragged chaired she had in front of a large desk. The chair was possibly the nicest thing in the room, soft and padded; it looked like it had once belonged to a wealthy merchant, woven with vivid colours and threads. Settled down into the chair, the thin, timid legs at the bottom snapped causing the base of the armchair to hit the floor with a thud.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glistening leather of a burgundy book, a journal that was too elegant for a mere kitchen maiden. Pinching it from the desk he examined it at the page it fell open. The words were curvey and neat; one letter flowed to the next if they could be called letters. It was not a language he had ever seen- not Elvish or the Elder language.

‘Fuck’ Geralt growled, wiggling himself into a comfy position and stretching his long let out in front of him as he settled his eyes on the women in front of him, the book lying in his lap.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx When the sun was finally up in the sky, Geralt left the woman sleeping, watched over by Jaskier. Geralt was certain that the Swallow he had used would take to ill effects of her, she slept peaceful and undisturbed even though Jaskier strummed his lute and practised and pondered his new hit. The tavern was now alive with the sound of life; they squeaked and squealed about the sounds of last nights battle. When the sun was high in the sky Geralt, with sword in hand, struck the head of the Griffin ignoring the cheer from the crowd that gathered at the back of the Tavern. The Witcher made his way through the town; no one bothered him, the people cleared a path, the sight of him bloody and carrying a severed head was enough. The guards at Lord Brightwater’s manor stepped aside without questioning him.

The Witcher found the way to his meeting room with ease. The scent of him was robust, old parchment and cheese, but it was mixed with another smell, the smell of Cersi, roses and honey, a sickly sweet smell that lingered in the air, temping. A smell mixed with the salt fragrances of sex. Sure enough, Cersi sat prompt up against a vase stand, looking at the greying lord as he busied himself with the accounts in the same dress as yesterday.

‘I have slain the beast.’ Geralt uttered, dropping the severed head of the mahogany desk, causing the Lord to look up from his papers.

‘A Griffin…you were right.’ Cersi grinned, cat-like as she moved to examine the head.

‘Interesting… it looks like the creature was hit with a water blast of some kind….whats wrong with its eyes’ the mage questioned as she examined it.

‘The price has doubled.’

‘I paid you to dispatch the beast, and you did. I will pay you the agreed amount.’ Lord Fagen gritted out, pulling open a drawer and tossing a large coin purse at the monster hunter, who caught it with ease.

‘Wasn’t as ssimplyas that, the best was being enchanted, controlled to stalk the people of Brightwater. I had to dispatch him to.’

‘Tradi’ Cersi winched as she sat upon the edge of the Lord's desk.

‘You knew?’ Geralt snarled at the sorceress.

‘I had my suspicions. Tradi was alleged to have been dabbling in dark magic, experimenting on his King’s people. The guild could never prove aanything, but it was enough to get removed from court. A mage without a king such a sad thing.’ Cersi shrugged.

‘Didn’t think to mention it before?’ Geralt nostril flared, as he looked at his friend with angry.

‘I didn’t have a lot to go on. Besides, I was quietly confident in you.’ Cersi spoke sweetly, playing with her blonde hair.

‘Hmmm. Doesn’t change a thing, the price has doubled.’

‘It is out of the question. The town has been damaged far too much. We will need every coin to rebuild, better and stronger.’ The lord bit back, acidly.

‘Now now, Fagen. Honest pay for honest work. Maybe we can bargain with Geralt. He is reasonable after all. There must be something that he wants. Or perhaps someone.’ Her tone was dripped in honey, but the inference was there, steel-edged and obvious.

There was silence between the three as they watched each other, ‘Tradi attached Adva. Wanted something from her. I will forgo the payment for Tradi for her. Her… powers would be helpful on the road.’ The Lord stood and slammed his fists onto the desk, enough for the whole room to vibrate at the force. ‘I will not allow you to take here anywhere. She is safe here. Take your money and go Witcher. Before I call the guard.’

Geralt grunted out violent puffs of hot breath. Something primal within him howled at this man; a poncy lord thought he had the power to separate him from Adva. He was never one to be told what to do, especially when it came to women. The magic he felt between them was intense; he didn’t believe it was a soulbond, things were myths, told to doe-eyed girls to give them hope in the bleak futures married to ignorant or foolish men. But he would be damned if he let Adva stay here. The two men inched closer together, centimetre by centimetre

‘Boys enough. Fagen…Love let me deal with this. I know what needs to be done. Go?’ There was an edge in her voice; it was forceful and almost harsh. The Lord slowly left, not before casting the evil eye at him . Awww the things a man in love will do. Geralt mused as the man slammed the door shut.

‘Sleeping with a Lord now? Ordering the poor man out of his own chambers. Hmm,’ Geralt folded his arms, looking down at the women.

‘Fagen is… protective. He was the one who found her abandoned all those years ago. He never had children; I suppose he looks over her in a way.’ Cersi sighed as she stood, brushing her hands over her crumpled dress that had probably spend the last night on the floor, before moving to the desk and pulling out a long dry bit of parchment.

‘Then why not adopt her? Why send her to apprentice at Tradi for him to abuse or to work in a whorehouse.’ Geralt snapped.

‘It is complicated Geralt…Sending her to Tradi was a mistake, caused this nasty situation. You need to take her away… far away. Take this’ Cersi spoke with a tired voice.

The parchment in her hand was a certificate, a certificate of service. Such documents were standard among orphans, women placed in service till they where 25, past from one owner to another. Only when the orphan married or was old enough was the person free, that was why most only lived very short terrible lives.

‘You want to help?’ Geralt was no fool, Cersi was a excellent mage but not without her own motives.

‘I don’t think Brightwater is the right place for Adva anymore. She seems to have outgrown it. You can buy Adva from Vivian, 500 coins should do it, and the young sweetling begins the new life together with an honourable Witcher. How long are you going to deny your bond? Take her with you there isn’t a force in the world that can keep you apart now.’

‘I don’t think Adva would be very happy to find her being sold from one person to the next. I don’t think she had a very good opinion of me after our first meeting. I have known you too long. What are you getting about this?’

‘Maybe not but entwined destinies will stop at nothing. Soul mate is soul mates Geralt, you know better than to mistrust fate. I am merely trying to stop your mistrust of emotions from killing you both. But heed my warning take care of her Geralt or dealing with me will be the least of your worries. Come you need to leave soon.’

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx A hot sensation was the first thing she felt. Searing. Groggy, Adva woke, her body ached, and the right side of her body felt tight like the skin was too small for her body. Light pooled through the narrow window and onto a vicious read stain that smears from one side of the room to the next. It looked like…blood. Tradi. God, what had he done? Anxiety rose within her, eeverythingflooded back to her. The gods the glowing-eyed Griffin, the pain, the evil look that consumed Tradi’s features, the knife, the cut. Adva’s hand flew to her side, blood-stained clothing remained but no wound no scratches. She felt the pieces of her knife from Tradi hands; she knew she collapsed. After that, she had no idea.

‘The sleeping beauty is awake; you gave us quite a scare. Never seen Geralt so worried. Watched you will the sun broke in the sky.’ The companion spoke as appeared from nowhere.

‘I…What….Thank you…’ No word would work or seemed appropriate.

‘Jaskier…humbled bard at your service.’ The brown-haired man bowed with a flourish causing her to laugh.

The bard had a kind face, that was permanently smiling, even at the town square he looked happy, approachable, warm; a contrast to his friend. Adva couldn’t help but smile at him. Sitting up she cast her eyes around her room,; bookspulled from shelves, pages torn, most she never got to read, she had been trying to learn the ccommonlanguage, it was hard and so different from what she had been taught, she had been so close, but now it seemed impossible. Casting another glance around the room she spied broken furniture, herbs and potions spilt onto every possible service, it broke her heart a little, she had very little and what she did have was precious to her. Now she had nothing. Her blues eyes fell to her desk; her book was gone, the one thing she had from before, the last thing she had of them, her family. Tradi must have taken it… but the witcher killed him — the Witcher.

The man's voice broke through her thoughts as raised voices filtered through the worm-eaten wood. An argument, she felt the vibrations of the voices rather then what they were actually saying. Jaskier seemed to hear them too, as he inched towards the door.

‘My mother always told me it was rude to eavesdrop, why don’t we go and watch. I bet Geralt is going to cause a fight, he always does. Come on.’ The singer squeaked excitedly as he broke through the door.

It all honestly it was the last thing she wanted to do, last nights events had drained her, but she wanted to know what was going on and if the Witcher had her book. Standing caused her to groan, her side was on fire, red and inflamed, whatever they used worked, skin smooth and as it was, but whatever it was was slow to heal whatever damage was on the inside. Hobbing forward, she braced herself along the wall and down the hall to the main tavern.

It was still early, and few had graced the parlour, the only ones in the room were Vivian, Nesta, Cersi and Geralt. Jaskier perched on the sidelines. Nesta wrung her hands nervously, eyes widening as she saw her, instantly rushing to her, her light irises searching her face before she hugged her close, hard.

‘You must run. Vivian is selling your service to the Witcher. Take this. It not much but all I can spare. Take it an run.’ Nesta whispered into Adva’s ear while pushing a handful of coppers into her dress. Adva pulled back, and eyes wildly followed her friend's frown. A joke surely, but the concern that burnt in Nesta’s eyes was real and true. They were as close as a sister and looked out for each other. Adva would brew potions and balms to help with overactive clients, keep Nesta healthy and pretty and Nesta would mother her, keep away unwanted advances.

‘550 is our final deal’ Cersi spat.

‘It’s a deal of 550 coins. I’ll sign her over. Pleasure, I will be happy to take her back when your bored of her…. She can be a bit of penny pure pants, it attractive in a way but get a little boring after a while.’ Vivian purred and she strolled away, jiggling a coin purse as she went.

‘Cersi! How could you?’ Adva gasped, backing towards the door, wincing as her tight skinned pulled around her healing skin.

‘Adva my dear… I didn’t want you to find out like this. Please understand it isn’t what you think… it will become clear soon.’ Cersi walked over pleading, pulling on of her hand into her own. Snatching her hand away and stood back. Adva couldn’t help it, but she felt disgusted, she knew what happened to most of the orphans who were sold, they would go from one person to the next, most didn’t make it to 25. Slavery was what it was, just because she had no family, she had survived Tradi and she didn’t want to know what was worse than him.

‘Don’t touch me. I thought you were my friend… I am not going anywhere with anyone.’ Adva hissed.

‘I am sorry. I hope you will not hate me for this. Take this with you. It will help you understand. Please forgive me.’ Cersi pleaded, pushing a book into Adva’s hands.

Adva stared at the book for what felt like ages. The Witcher- A history. Turning her head up again she opened her mouth to speak, to argue, to plead but as soon as her eyes met Cersi’s a cloud of yellow flew out of hands, and she inhaled a lungful of bitter herbs, sour and nasty. The room spun, and her eyelids felt heavy, her feet could no longer support her body. The last thing she saw before her vision fell black were Golden orbs and the fate sound of a voice.

‘Take care of her Geralt. If not for her sake for yours.’

So what do you think???? Let me know your predictions or what you want to see! 

#Geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt x oc #geralt smut #geralt reader #the witcher #witcher netflix #witcher geralt

[words-and-knives-leave-scars]

Self Harm: A Journey.

tw: self-harm.

i’m trying to remember the first time, and the why of it.

it was in the bottom of a shower, and i think i searched til I found the sharpest thing at arms-length: i think it was the bottom edge of a conditioner bottle - the kind you get from a hair-dye box.

i can’t remember what i thought, exactly - i feel like it was along the lines of: ‘why not?’. i scratched and scratched til it hurt, til it grazed, but i don’t think the blood came. but it hurt. and that felt good.

i graduated after that to something sharp - a needle i got from a doctor for one reason or the next. in the science classroom there were a pile of proper razor-blades but i was too scared at the time - it was too sharp, too serious. i stuck to the scratching on my right thigh. i think i used tweezers once or twice.

at some point i used those tweezers to take out a thin blade from a razor and i think that was when the satisfaction began its transition from pain to blood.

‘patches of filth’ i called them. i stuck to my right thigh at first, and then slowly spread - my left thigh, my left shoulder, my ankles. i didn’t touch my arms - i was too scared, they were too obvious, too cliche. then, at some point, i did.

i stayed away from my wrists at first, mid-arm, and light. light enough that the therapist shrugged it off and told me to ‘get a handle on that’, dismissively as she wrote on her clipboard.

the blood flow increased, steadily. i was content with the small red beads - more and more of them. i used them to paint a series of pictures in my art diary. i still look at it sometimes, and the words i wrote over the blood are sad and hopeful, and miserable and still true.

the number of cuts increased - and the depth of the cuts increased; the beads began to run together; enough to smear across my arm but not yet to drip.

i told my mother, showed her the scars. ‘there’s nothing there’, she said, dismissively. ‘it’s not enough; it’s not bad enough’ - i thought. i slashed at my skin, over and over and over: “cross-hatch, warm bath, holiday inn after dark.”

when there was no blades, I used my nails to scratch and scratch and scratch at my thigh; at my arms, where i wanted the cuts to be. i disliked the skin beneath my nails, the ripped skin; ugly and torn and deeply grazed: primitive. but the pain came rough and appeasing enough.

i went through multiple skinny razor blades over many years until finally, for whatever reason at whatever time, i finally procured those blades i had been too scared to take from the classroom all those years before.

they are smooth and shiny and easy to handle; easy to control, clean: the slice, the cut, the scratch - all number of options and ways to hurt.

when the thought to harm comes, i obey it with only minor hesitation at first; but i retrieve the blade and take it to the bathroom and sit it on the counter beside. i shower - wash my hair, shave and exfoliate: completely clean. then i sit in the bottom of the shower and stare at it, in its little casing, and I consider, without thought - it’s a feeling.

then, if the urge is still there, I take it from its case and pick it up; look at it, see the water droplets on its shining silver face. if it’s been a while, i hesitate then - it will hurt, it will bleed: the consequences: i will have to wear long sleeves, I will have to hide it from the people who know, i will have to hope it heals quickly so i don’t have to stick band-aids up and down: they’re too obvious, too noticeable.

- there are times when the feeling is a scream, and all is overwhelming and i scream at myself not to do it, not to give them the satisfaction: but no, this is for me: i do this on my own terms -

if the urge is still there, i choose a number: a number for the number of letters in a relevant word, or the number of words in a relevant sentence, or just a number between 1 and 10. with this goal, this step, this focus; i make the first cut.

and then another and another and joy fills my soul: a dark, fucked-up thrill of seeing the blade flash, the skin part, the moments it takes before the blood reacts and rises from the depths. i cut and cut and cut, horizontal from just above my wrist to just below my elbow, and then i fill the gaps; make sure the cuts are deep enough: bad enough; satisfying–

the pain is like an orgasm; toe-curling, breath-taking, back-arching… it’s a delight; it’s a relief - the afterglow: the blood dripping heavy, swirling, congealing; rolling cold against my throbbing skin.

‘my other arm has to match. i wouldn’t want it to feel left out.’ depending on the satisfaction of the left, the right might be less or equal.

once both arms were slashed from wrist to shoulder.

the sight of my own bloody handprint on the white tiled wall makes me smile.

my friend, who pains herself time and again, once told me i never had to hide my scars from her. i took off my jumper, damp with sweat in the summer heat, and i saw her stare. her scars are valid - i don’t want to compare - but though she cuts, hers are not filled with such vigour and fury and determination as my own. at least the ones i have seen. i don’t mean to compare. her pain is as valid as my own. but she stared. and was quiet. i couldn’t meet her eye.

but i don’t really feel shame. though it is a secret i vehemently hide, it’s more because it is a personal affair: my pain is my own - it’s private and its mine.

i’m not crying for help. i’m medicated and treated and it has been years since i was carrying the blade in my pocket to uni and having anxiety attacks on the bus because all i wanted to do was hurt myself - years since i stained the sheets red and left beads to dry on the bathroom wall. back then i suppose i wanted not to tell someone, but for someone to notice.

no one did.

cutting is for special occasions now: an argument with a friend, an encounter with a despised family member, a reminder that my parents could not give less of a shit about me. holidays: my birthday.

but sometimes it happens on those especially bad days when my mind is filled with hate and hopelessness, and i just think, ‘why not?’.

the reason i self harm is the reason a great many others do: the pain is a relief; the wound is proof of inner agony - for many it is a cry for help.

for me it’s like getting off: things build up - things are stressful, i deserve it, i can’t cope with what has just happened - and I need a release and the blood and the pain give me that. it’s deeper than a sexual orgasm - no one else will ever be able to give me the relief and the pleasure and the control that it gives.

i don’t do it cause i’m happy. self-harm is a dark and a twisted and a terrible thing, I know this. i wouldn’t suggest or wish anyone to hurt themselves the way myself and many others do. but i’ve been self-harming for more than 4 years now and the instances have massively decreased since i’ve made several hugely positive life choices. and i know now how to cleanly and efficiently achieve what i want to achieve - ways that satisfy more and for longer.

the circumstances around cutting are always majorly fucked up - after the release, i don’t just get up and walk around happily like everything is fine: once that afterglow wears off it’s very obvious that nothing has changed except now i have to clean up, wait for the veins and capillaries to clot, dry the blade so it doesn’t rust and give me tetanus, and hide it all from the world.

the skin where i bleed is layered with years’ worth of scars. they heal to red, then pink and after a few months they finally fade to appear as simple lines on my skin: but in certain lights and from certain angles, you can see the sharp dip of every old scarred cut.

i’ve normalised this. i know it’s not normal, and that many people i know and love would be horrified. but it’s my normal and i can’t imagine that ever changing. it would have to be organic - maybe that urge will just never arise again and i’ll forget the fucked-up relief and i’ll have only the scars to remind me. who knows.

#cutting #cut #self-harm #self harm #self injury #self-injury #trigger warning #tw: cutting #tw: self harm #tw: violence #tw: mutilation #depression #manic depression #tw: blood #hurt #pain #depressed

[imagineangryspacegrump-blog]

For You

Prompt: "Instead of the reader getting hurt, Bones does? Maybe he protects the reader from getting hurt or something?" -Anon

Warnings: Trashy science stuff that, for the most part, is made up. Angst if you squint

Word Count: 2,099

A/n: This fic is way, WAY overdue, but don’t worry, I’m getting back to writing again. I have been horribly busy. The facts in this story are everywhere, so if you really have the dying desire to know what's real and what's not, message me and I'll let ya know :P

The two suns in the sky illuminated their light softly through a large canopy of trees, illuminating small beams of light through the dense ceiling of leaves. It made the whole environment feel magical, and the mysterious creatures that ran or flew around just added to the feel.

You happily walked around, taking everything in little bits at a time. Your companion though, was having a much worse time than you were, and instead of frolicking around, he was stomping through the vegetation with a deep scowl.

"Can you hurry up and pick a damned plant already? I'm getting blisters on my heels from walking so much."

"Stop whining and enjoy the view!" You stopped and bent over to gently touch a flower that was white with red specks.

Leonard stood behind you and watched your skirt ride up a bit from bending over. Doing so revealed the Starfleet insignia you had tattooed on the back of your thigh.

He grunted. "I am enjoying the view but I'd much rather be enjoying it from our bed, not on some crazed planet that's probably crawling with some sort of deadly space herpes."

You chuckled and straightened out, continuing to walk through the trees. "C'mon, this is is fun! This is probably the only break you'll have in months so enjoy it."

He went silent after that and followed after you, smacking away some pesky bugs that started to hover around his head.

"Woah Leonard, check this out!"

You pointed out a weird looking plant that had spikes along the pod. It looked like a dragon fruit on a stick. The red and brown color's mixed together, making it look beautiful yet dangerous.

Your face scrunched up. "I could've sworn I've learned about this plant before. Does this look familiar, Len?"

Leonard shrugged and hit another bug away. "You're the botanist, not me. I couldn't even tell you what lilies look like. Aren't they white?"

You laughed and reached forward to poke at the flower. Leonard saw the movement in the middle of the flower before you did, so he hit your hand away. In doing so, instead of your finger getting trapped inside the flower, it was his.

The plant had wrapped around his poiner finger and held tight, similar to one of those old Chinese finger traps. The harder he pulled to free his finger, the more it held on.

"What the hell? Can you help me out a little Y/n? The plant keeps pricking my finger."

"Okay, okay hold on." Pulling out a knife, you hacked at the stem of the plant, successfully cutting it in half.

You thought doing so would make the flower let go, but it didn't. So it wasn't the flower? Must be something inside.

"Ok, I'm going to cut the pod open so if I accidentally cut your finger off, I'm sorry."

After a couple of seconds, the hard shell of the plant broke open and released Leonard's finger. The digit was turning purple and had swollen up drastically.

"That can't be good. Umm..."

Turning back to the pod, you nudged the plant with a nearby branch and something fell out.

It was a small caterpillar, almost two inches in size. It's entire body was covered with small, needle like hairs that branched out in every which way.

You blanched at the sight and jumped up. Leonard winced when you grabbed at his hand and ripped off a part of your uniform. While you tied the piece of cloth tightly around his wrist, he started to question you.

"What's wrong? What was that thing?"

"That was a Lonomia Obliqua."

"Ok yeah that helps." His tone was dripping with sarcasm. "I don't speak Botany Y/n, speak English."

"Otherwise known as the 'Assassin Caterpillar'. Very toxic. It uses those little hairs on it's body to inject it's victim with venom that spreads quickly, causing disseminated intravascular coagulation. In other words, you get blood clots in places you shouldn't and you don't get clots in places you should. We have to get you medical help before the symptoms set and you start losing blood flow to your tissues and organs, and start internally bleeding."

Leonard looked a little pale. "Is there a cure?"

You shrugged and made sure the cloth wrapped around his wrist was tightly synched to try and delay the venom from spreading as much as possible. "I think some of the Brazilians on Earth may have come up with something since they have a very similar insect. Hopefully we have the stuff for the cure."

"You're a real comfort, you know that? Good thing you're not a doctor, 'cause your bedside manner is shit." He watched as you pulled out your Comm.

"Yeah, well, last time I checked, your bedside manner was debatable as well." He lightly chuckled at the remark, and you flipped open your Comm.

"L/n to Enterprise, we have a medical emergency and need to be beamed up immediately."

Scotty's crackling voice rang from the little device. "Aye, lass. Beaming in five."

As soon as you and Bones appeared on the Enterprise, you grabbed his arm and started to lead him to the med bay.

"You're holding me like I'm going to collapse any second."

"If the venom sets in, it's quite possible. One can't be too careful."

When the med bay doors were in sight, Leonard's right leg suddenly gave out. He grunted and held onto his thigh with one hand, while wiping and his nose with the other. When he pulled the hand away, there was a smear of blood on it.

You started spewing curses and pressed two fingers to his neck to feel his pulse. His heartbeat thrummed against your fingers.

"You of all people should know that to prevent toxins from spreading at a faster rate is to calm your heart! The venom is already kicking in. Looks like you have a deep vein clot in your leg and you've already popped a blood vessel or two in your nose."

You wrapped his arm over your neck and helped support him for the rest of the walk. When you walked through the door, two nurses jumped at attention and took him out of your hands.

As they set him down on a bio bed, you started listing off orders to surrounding nurses.

"I need you to thoroughly wash that wound with soap and water, no matter how much pain he says he's in. We don't need any infection. And you, I need you to get adhesive tape and wrap his finger with it, then pull it off. Repeat that a couple of times, because we need those little hairs out of his finger. I need a hypo with antifibrinolytics."

The nurses hopped to work and someone handed you the desired hypo. Leonard flinched when you injected him with the fluid, but relaxed when you lightly rubbed the spot while looking at his vitals. His blood pressure was out of wack, the bed trying to decipher if it was high or low since the pressure was different in separate parts of his body.

Small red and purple dots started to appear through his skin as a sign of more little clots. You noticed he had a slight dazed look in his eyes.

"Leonard? Hey, you alright?"

He slowly looked up at you and scrunched up his face, before looking around the room. "Where am I?"

You took a deep breath. "Shit. Mental confusion, first signs of internal bleeding in the brain. Umm... think Y/n, think. What's the treatment? You learned this."

You hit your temple with the heel of your hands, eyes squeezed shut, trying to file through your memories to the deepest and darkest parts.

"Caterpillar, disseminated intravascular coagulation, internally bleeding, tox-"

It was if a light bulb had appeared and smacked you on the head.

"Toxins. The venom! We can use the venom to make an antiserum!"

You sped out of the room, Leonard calling a delirious 'Noooooooo' when you ran through the doors. After grabbing a mug and plate from the mess hall, you ran back to the beaming pad and instructed Scotty to put you back down in the exact same spot.

He did as he was told and you started pushing around bushes to try and find the little creepy thing. When you spotted it slowly working it's way across the soft soil of the ground, you approached it slowly.

When you got close enough, you lashed out and covered the bug with the mug so it couldn't escape. After carefully slipping the plate underneath the lip of the cup so the bug was contained, you contacted Scotty again.

Leonard seemed to be getting worse. He was starting to sweat and his breathing was getting shorter and shallow. More clots must be building somewhere in his lungs.

Going to the nearest table, you started to make an antiserum. You held the caterpillar with forceps so you wouldn't risk getting stung either, and pressed it's head against the lip of a test tube. What you were doing was similar to 'milking' a snake of its venom. A pale green liquid started to slide down the glass and pool in the bottom.

When you gathered a decent amount, you put the caterpillar back in the mug and put the plate over it to keep it contained. For three agonizing minutes, you worked swiftly on the serum. [A/n: This process takes years to actually finish, but we don't have year’s soooooooo I've condensed years into minutes]

You would watch Leonard out of the corner of your eye, failing to push away the smile that appeared when he said "Ouchie" while a nurse administered pain relievers. Even though he was being adorable, the behavior just confirmed the bleeding that was possibly taking place in that thick skull of his.

When the liquid in the test tube turned a golden color, you let out a happy laugh and grabbed an empty hypo, loaded the serum, and jogged over to Leonard.

He watched with distant eyes as you readied the hypo. "Is that chicken noodle soup?"

You chuckled and lightly rubbed his neck to loosen the muscle. "This is some golden blackmail material."

He flinched when you injected the serum and it seemed the stuff did it's magic. His eyes cleared up and he shot up from his lounging position.

"What the hell? What just happened?"

"Wow, look at that. Symptoms gone just as fast as they came. How are you feeling?" You grabbed a tricorder from a nearby nurse and started to scan him, much to his displeasure.

"I feel like I've been hit by a space station. Twice."

"You look like it too." You gestured to the dry blood that caked the tip of his nose and his upper lip. He glared. "But it looks like all your brain functions have been spared and the internal bleeding didn't get anything important. Although, I'm pretty sure it might've damaged the part of the brain that held the instructions on how to smile."

He scrunched his face up and feined confusion, "What's smiling?"

You laughed and kissed his forehead. He quirked a small smile and moved to stand up.

"Woah, where do you think you're going?" You held a hand to his chest and pushed him back to the bed. He sat down but didn't lay back, so you stood between his legs.

"Back to work?"

You shook your head and poked his abdomen with your pointer finger. "You, sir, almost bled out from the inside, which was mostly my fault. I'm not letting you leave until someone looks you over to make sure all systems are functioning properly."

In his head, he was declining your statement, you could tell, but he never argued with you aloud. He knew you would win the argument.

"Fine." He grumbled. "But," He hooked his feet around the back of your thighs and pulled you closer to the bed. "you're staying with me. Besides, like you said, this whole thing was your fault anyway."

You pouted when he used your own words in his favor. When he started to get closer, you pulled back.

"No. I'm not kissing you until you clean up that bloody mess. I love you, but I don't love you that much."

Leonard caught on to your teasing and huffed. A nurse handed him a wet rag for his face and Leonard started to wipe his face off. You sighed and rested your forehead on his chest, listening to his beautiful, clot-free heartbeat.

Tagging: @outside-the-government @feelmyroarrrr @hellhoundsandunicorns @captian-hannah-kirk

#leonard mccoy #leonard bones mccoy #leonard mccoy x reader #leonard horatio mccoy #leonard h mccoy #star trek x reader #star trek reader insert #star trek imagine #star trek #star trek imagines #bones imagine #bones imagines #bones x reader #star trek reboot

[wordslikeskyscrapers-blog]

Fifildara

A preview of “Wyrd, Her inevitable Fate” a tale of post roman Britain in the migration era.  -------------------------------------------------- "What have we here boys?" Viv roused with the sound of a voice she didn't recognize.  She tried to open her eyes,  was sure her eyes were open, but only pain greeted her, blinded her, then finally light, flooding in, burning through to the back of her skull.  A noon day sun baked her from above, as the sound of the ocean, impossibly close, made her head throb.  Ocean... …she vaguely remembered the journey, like a half dreamt dream.  She couldn't quite form the thoughts yet, to think of where she had come from, where she was going, or why.  But hadn't she been with someone? Where were they now? And shouldn't there be others? She was fairly sure she was no sailor.  Maybe...  

She reached up to touch her head, her arms heavy and stinging from sun burn, and dragged down by her well soaked shift and dress.  She shifted her weight in the sand, freeing her arm to tent her hand over her eyes shielding them from the Sun's burning gaze.   The view such as it was consisted of an endless world of sand, and then a sand coloured blur.  Raising her head, or trying, she found her face was cast in wet sand, tieing it down in a vaccuum hours in the making.  Her mouth seemed to have been filled with it, now just grit in her teeth and dried around the corners of her mouth.  She pushed up with one hand, while she brushed back her matted blond hair with the other.  She coughed, the pressure pushing her headache from a murmur to a roar, and found that her lungs were heavy, and she spat out salty brine and seaweed. The nodules and plushy stems stuck to the insides of her mouth and she gagged, as she collapsed back into the sand. and threw up more salt water.  From somewhere behind her a chorus of growly guffaws greeted her grotesque display.   A brutish brigand pointed his saex at Viv like a long metallic finger. Somewhere between a knife and a sword, the deeply angled head of the blade glinted in the morning sun, running down to an ornately carved bone handle, wound a few times with a well worn bit of leather strapping.  The man waving it in her face was not a tall man, nor a thin man, nor a handsome man.  His patchy beard and scraggly hair framed a rugged wind burned face, blotchy and grimy with months maybe years of salt baked sweat and dirt.  A smattering of pock marks littered his red rosy cheeks, the signs of an ill lived life.

In her wretched, sun stroked mind, she heard her father's words now, reminding her to never give an inch, to never surrender the upper hand.  To always control the situation – words could be a weapon.  Speak with authority and you will have authority.  

“You will  take care to not wave that thing in my face, bratt.“ she said indignantly, "Modebroth!", she swore, using a curse she heard her mother use more than once in jest against her father. Well and sometimes not in jest.  She knew that when her father had wanted his men to pay attention and mark him, he would swear at them and they would jump to their tasks.  She hoped this commanded the same respect, though she had no idea what it meant.  It was simply the only curse she could think of in the moment, stolen from her mother’s homeland wherever that might be.  

The lot of them sucked in their breath as she scolded them, and then burst out laughing.  Their imperious leader in particular sneered as he laughed.  "Ho ho! Fancy yerself hwicce then? What kind of witch are ye?" She blinked at him dumbly.  What was he calling her? They recognized her mother’s curse! Her mind was reeling.  ‘Where am I ?’she thought before speaking.  "I am no kind of … witch?"   What started as indignation ended in confusion.  This last word turned badly in her mouth.  The heavy asiprated consonant sounds seemed impossible for her mouth to make.  She tried to formulate a response to what she was sure was an accusation, if she could just be sure what it was she was being accused of.

"What is … witch?" "Aye, so it be games we play then!  The Hwicce are known for their aelfish ways." He spit in the sand an inch from her face, as she lay still prone at his feet, "They commune with the netherlings and give them their babes in exchange for a sorceress' powers! Duillecraeft, Soothsaying, Gealdorcraeft, and Wicca! So which are you? There is somes that are worth the trouble of not puttin to the sword, and there are somes that are best to just burn and be done"   Viv thought quickly about what she was being told, her head still reeling from the blow to the head.  She pulled a matted blond clump of hair off her forehead to hang heavily down her face as she tried to piece together some reasonable response.  She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, tracing her brow with her thumb, and came away bloodied.  If he intended to kill her, they wouldn't be having this conversation for one.  There had to be an answer that would placate this Saxon, or at least give her more time for a better plan.  There was something familiar in what he said... gods damnable headache!  She cast about, as much to clear the reddening fog as to try to find an answer in the dirt and flotsam that surrounded her.  It was then she saw her mother's satchel, and the possible sanctuary it contained.   "Dd..Duille.... Ll-leaves..." She stuttered, unsure of his pronunciation, borrowed though it seemed.  Her mother had used this word before.  Where had she learned it?   "I am a... ...a leafwitch and my … my bag is there... I can prove it!"

The lout and his compatriots laughed.  "Suddenly so cocksure are you?" He sneered "A moment ago you were unfeigned of wit.  By all means, prove this little leafwitch, for by your troth your measure increases if this be true!"  He gestured to the edgewise brigand to fetch the purse with a shake of his short sword.  Still snickering the man meandered over to it and scooped it out of the watery logged wreckage.  He came back all swagger, and went to hand the bag to Viv. "Aye not to her!" The leader spat "Dolt!" He smacked the man on the forehead with the flat of his blade, as the rest of the men erupted in riotous laughter.  Then, he looped the rope straps of the bag with the flat of his sword, and let it slide down to hang at the hilt, as the now sullen subordinate let go and took his place at the end of the semi circle once more. With his free hand, the ruffian leader rummaged through the bag.  Viv winced as the precious and irreplaceable glass bottles clinked, imagining the blue glass breaking into shards and spoiling the contents.  After a moment or two, satisfied the grasswoven bag contained no weapon, he pointed his saex at her again, this time with the effect of the bag sliding down toward her.  She reached up both hands to steady it and take it from the blade.  She caught herself as she was about to hug it, and thought better than to give them something else to use against her.   Instead, she placed it in front of her as she shifted her position slowly so she was no longer prone, but instead on her knees.  She looked up at the group and scanned each man for a half a moment before resting her gaze on the sullen man that had retrieved her bag.  His face was plain, greasy dark brown hair roughly hewn, his beard scraggily and matted, dirty and lice infested, as were they all really.  His eyes though, were plaintive, unwrinkled from years yet taken to the oar.  It was then she realized he was merely a boy, not much older than her brother.  Above his left eyebrow, he had a small cut, reopened by the blow the brigand leader had given him for failing to read his mind.   She looked at him, and evinced her best attempt at a piteous gaze, then beaconed him down to her.  He looked first at the leader, like a pup newly beaten, unsure now of whether to sit or soil himself.  The leader gruffed assent, and the boy knelt in front of her, hands on his knees.   She took his face in her hands, as she done to her brother a hundred times, and for a moment she was transported back to their farm at the edge of a wood, somewhere in the Fatherland of Saxony.  Her brother, crying after the inevitable outcome of some child's misadventure, quivering as she applied her mother's remedy.  Yes, this would do. Still holding his chin, she let go with one hand and reached into her satchel to pull out a the only green tinted bottle, a precious keepsake she couldn't remember her Mother ever being without.  She used her mouth to pull out the wax stopper, and nestling the bottle between her things pulled out a single Attorlothe leaf.  She brought the leaf up to her mouth, switching the stopper with the leaf and replacing the cap on the bottle as she slowly and methodically chewed the leaf, just a bit, enough to break up the precious medicine and add some acid from her mouth to hasten it's effects.  She blinked back the tears from the bitterness of the remedy as she worked the leaf into a salve in her mouth.  She spat the chew into her free hand, and reached up to press the matted ball onto the boys wound.   The boy winced and pulled away as the astringent set to closing the small veins opened by the blow to the head, quieting the blood and stopping its flow.  She held his face fast as she applied the salve, working it in, willing the wound to clot, praying to the gods the remedy still worked.  Then, sure of her mother's skill, she licked her thumb, and wiped the blood away.  It appeared as though the wound was healed.   The boy reached up and touched his head tentatively.  The gallery on the sand sucked in their breath collectively as they realized what had happened.   "She is a witch"  

'I guess I am', she thought, hoping that didn't mean she was about to be a dead one.

#historical fiction #character sketch #wisewoman #fiction

[ntrending]

Modern medicine still needs leeches

New Post has been published on https://nexcraft.co/modern-medicine-still-needs-leeches/

Modern medicine still needs leeches

Some hospitals keep their pharmacies fully-stocked with <em>Hirudo medicinalis</em>, or medical leeches. (Deposit Photos/)

It’s not exactly the kind of therapy you’d expect to get at the hospital: a black, slippery, thirsty leech picked up by forceps from a bucket of its brethren and placed directly onto your skin.

But sometimes—­to some patients’ probable dismay—leeches are, indeed, what the doctor orders.

“We always have leeches on hand,” says Vishal Thanik, a plastic surgeon at New York City’s Bellevue Hospital and New York University’s Langone Medical Center. “If you’ve ever seen a leech, it’s crazy looking. And if you’ve never had to use it, it’s daunting. It’s a bit like time traveling.”

The vampiric worms have a storied place in medicine. Their first recorded therapeutic use dates back to ancient Egyptian treatments for ailments like nosebleeds and gout (Chinese, Arabic, Ancient Greek, and Roman medical records also contain references to leech therapy). In the centuries that followed, physicians used the bloodsucking powers of leeches in an attempt to remedy everything from hemorrhoids to headaches, depression, and even deafness. In 19th century Europe, Hirudo medicinalis, the medicinal leech, was so popular that it was harvested to near-extinction. But once medicine abandoned the concept that most diseases were caused by an excess of blood—a theory that often prescribed bloodletting by physicians or their bloodsucking assistants—leech therapy fell out of favor.

Despite leeches’ historic ties to medical quackery, they do have a legitimate place in modern medicine as a sort of reverse transfusion in cases of imbalanced blood circulation. While ye olde physicians thought leeches could cure epilepsy and even large bruises, the contemporary use of leeches is mostly limited to microsurgeons who reattach body parts like fingers, toes, thumbs, ears, lips, noses, or even bits of scalp.

One of the first times leeches were used this way was in 1985 on a five-year-old whose ear was bitten off by a dog. A few days after surgeons sewed the organ back on, “it turned blackish blue from blood congestion,” according to an account in The New York Times. After failed efforts to drain the blood-filled ear with anti clotting agents and small cuts, Harvard physician Joseph Upton attached two leeches and “the ear perked up right away.” Twenty years later, in 2005, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration approved leeches as medical devices for use in plastic surgery (making them, along with maggots, the first living creature the agency green lit for clinical use).

While statistics on their medicinal use across the country are scarce, plastic surgeons say the procedure has unquestionable benefits—when hospital staff and patients can overcome the queasiness of applying the bizarre blood-sucking creatures directly to patients.

“Patients are usually quite shocked by it at first,” says Patrick Reavey, an assistant professor of plastic surgery at the University of Rochester Medical Center in New York. “I wouldn’t say I’m squeamish, but a leech is a little intimidating. It was freaky—you know, it’s a leech.”

Most doctors today, even those who routinely perform reconstructive operations, will never encounter one, but plastic surgeons are at least trained to use them in certain circumstances, says Adnan Prsic, an assistant professor of plastic and reconstructive surgery at Yale School of Medicine.

“We’re probably the only subspecialty that uses it, across the surgical spectrum,” Prsic says. “We’ve been using them for a long time.”

Unlike skin grafts—in which a surgeon transfers a thin sheet of skin from one area of the body to another—these reconstructive procedures involve reattaching multiple layers of tissue and reconnecting blood vessels one to three millimeters wide under a microscope with sutures thinner than a strand of hair.

“It’s really delicate work,” says Rachel Lefebvre, an orthopedic hand surgeon and assistant professor at the University of Southern California’s Keck School of Medicine.

To reattach a severed finger, for example, a surgeon will pin bones back together, connect severed tendons and nerves, re-plumb the vascular circulation, and sew skin back in place. In some instances, newly attached arteries flood more blood into the finger than can be pumped out by newly re-connected veins leading to swollen, purplish fingers. That imbalance in blood flow can threaten the finger’s healing, and, in some instances, prevent its survival.

“You need to get blood out of that finger, one way or another,” Rochester’s Reavey says. “Leeches work great.”

So, in those instances, surgeons and nurses will put a leech on the tip of a congested digit to help drain it, says Thanik, who added he usually does this procedure behind a sheet, for the patient’s sake. Once the leech sinks its 300 teeth into the skin and starts feeding, it can digest up to 15 milliliters (about a tablespoon) of blood over about 40 minutes. When the animals are sufficiently full, they gently fall off, Lefebvre says.

“The connotation of leeches is that they’re slightly terrifying. To me, they’re amazing,” she says.

But leech therapy is not just about blood-sucking. Leech saliva contains various bioactive compounds including anticoagulants, anesthetics, antihistamines, and vessel dilators. “They secrete these substances that are like medications,” Prsic says.

Outside a hospital setting, these secretions ensure whatever animal the leech attaches to doesn’t feel the bite, so the leech can feed uninterrupted. But in a clinic, they provide an added benefit.

“It’s usually painless for the patient—even if they’re a little freaked out,” says Lefebvre, adding that some of her patients actually name their leeches to feel more comfortable with their new symbiotic neighbors.

“People think (the leech) is going to drink a ton of blood or it’s horribly painful,” Reavey says, “They make you think of medieval medicine. But it’s hard to beat evolution; they’ve evolved to do this very specific job, and they’re very good at it.”

There are, of course, some risks to using leeches.

For one, the prolonged application of leeches increases the risk for needing a blood transfusion (“You’re losing a lot of blood,” Thanik says). Since leeches rely on a colony of bacteria in their gut to digest blood, it is possible for people treated with leeches to get a bacterial infection as well. Some recent papers have reported increasing antibiotic resistance in Aeromonas hydrophila, one of the bacteria found in leeches and the most common cause of infection. In one five-year retrospective study, researchers found infections occurred in about 4 percent of people who received leech therapy. A vast majority of the about 20 adverse events related to leeches reported to the FDA since 2004 have involved infections after leech therapy or the identification of antibiotic-resistant Aeromonas by hospital staff in their leech stockpiles.

Risk of infection is one of the reasons why it’s common practice for caregivers to give leech therapy patients antibiotics as a preventative measure (since you can’t sterilize leeches like you can a scalpel or an IV).

In May of 2019, Thanik and his colleagues at New York University’s Langone Medical Center published a study detailing some of the other best practices for leeches in reconstructive surgery by analyzing 201 finger re-plantations over eight years. After quantifying the outcomes of hundreds of cases, they found 4.5 days to be the sweet spot for leech therapy, and suggested other practitioners stick to a general guideline of five days.

It’s one of several papers that, in recent years, has looked retrospectively at case studies in an attempt to standardize leech therapy. Currently, no consensus exists among the medical community for how long leeches should be applied for, or how many to use at once.

“That’s the one thing we don’t have going for us: There’s no diligent studies of this,” Prsic says. “These traumatic surgeries can’t be randomized, so we rely on the evidence we have.”

But Thanik says he hopes his paper will help guide doctors presented with situations in which leech therapy could be useful but is not standard.

Currently, their use is more common at teaching hospitals and trauma centers, like Bellevue, where replantation and reconstructive surgeries are more regular. A 2018 University of Michigan analysis of about 15,000 people who lost their fingers between 2001 and 2014 found that an increasing number of cases are transferred to urban teaching hospitals; there, they are more than twice as likely to be reattached (at an average success rate of about 80 percent). The paper also noted people with private insurance or higher income levels were more likely to undergo finger replantation.

Along the same lines, in 2018, Reavey, Thanik, and other colleagues analyzed tens of thousands of finger amputation cases from 2000 to 2011 using information pulled from national databases. Across all years, they found the majority of hospitals that reattach fingers only do so once a year—and that the number of such hospitals dropped from 120 to just 80 a decade later. A small minority of hospitals perform more than 10 finger reattachments each year, they concluded.

“At many hospitals, they’re probably using leeches once a year or zero times,” Thanik says.

And even at hospitals where plastic surgeons regularly employ leech therapy, surgeons see it as a last-ditch effort to keep someone from losing their finger or ear entirely. Ideally, it would never come to that—but when it does, Lefebvre says, they’re a handy option.

“There’s a surgical problem I can’t fix—and there’s a creature that can,” she says. “When I fail, they’re an incredibly elegant solution.”

And, as Reavy keenly points out, it’s also a last hope for the bloodsucking worms, too. “The disadvantage to the leech is it’s their last meal,” he says.

Written By Marion Renault

#Space

[abitoflit]

Covered in Ashes

Timestamp: Spring 12, 512 AV Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Dark powder slipped through her fingers. It was frail. Ticklish. Soft. Not at all like when the sands of time slipped through the cracks. The coarse edges of chipped shells and cracked pebbles gliding past smooth flesh. Trickling down, like a rain, or waterfall cascading over the thick, warm, gathered air. She could scarcely hear the soft hiss of it, as it tumbled down, to the puddle of black by her feet. Dried now, by the sun, after the recent storm. The scent of it lingered, in the air. Even as the dark cloud drifted away. It was so soft, so delicate. Offering a hint of the time long past. The smell of the fire- smoke, charred wood and skin. Flesh. Burning flesh, dripping off the ends of curling bone. Ivory singed with the heat. It washed over her senses, even long before she had closed her eyes and images of the day fluttered past. Like the soft wings of a butterfly, gliding on the wind. She could see it all, sense it all in that moment, as the gentle breeze rustled the fallen bits. The shards of split wood. Darkened now, with seasons past, yet worn too, about the edges. So very frayed, to accompany the nature of the fallen house. The simple cottage; but a frame now, dotting an otherwise empty space, close to the sea; and the nearby wood. Fallen beams strewn across the dust, and everything else still left. Seemingly untouched, over the course of time. Yet anyone who knew what had once been could tell, that much had been stripped away. Looted perhaps, although unlikely. Tossed about by the elements, completely torn away, more like. Most of Aello's things rested outside on the grass. The delicate fronds circling them all, as they would hold the dead to their breasts; burying them beneath the deepened edges, long ago gone brown with the cold, and excessive rain. The harsh winter winds; and stormy remnants. Even so, past the splayed edges, split down the center, growing ragged and charred there were dots now. Speckles of green. Bursts of life; soon flattened beneath the weight of the world, and that which the aurist added too. Her things sat in silent vigil, idly watching from that fateful spot, mere paces from where the world had gone black, all those moons ago. When smoke overtook the sky, and flame swallowed all. They couldn't sense it now, the death that hung in the air. The memories of smoke as the world was shrouded in the darkest of clouds. But it didn't matter. Aello remembered. She remembered far more than enough for all of them. Again, Aello pressed her palms into the floorboards, into the small mounds of gathered black and grey powder that had formed over the years. The particles dusted her fingertips as they furled. Drawing lines in what had once been. She could feel it sinking in all the more now. The pain, as her heartstrings were pulled. Manipulated as though she were little more than a marionette within the hands of a skilled puppeteer. A man whose hands dripped warm crimson, onto her toes, as her heart drummed uncontrollably. A simple song, that seemed so solemn, so final. She could sense it pooling as her sorrow gathered, as she fought away the impending wave of tears. Imminence dwelling within as moisture overcame the whites. Widening the winding red rivers, as dirt made way for mud and coal. Darkened pits. Everything stemmed from those dark places, and fell back into them. Yet, everything fell away, as the world became glassy. Cast behind a strange sort of fog; one which refused to relent, no matter how hard one rubbed, or tried to blink it away. It all began here, didn't it? Aello asked herself as she wiped her stained palms on her knees. Forcing her flesh into the folds. Such a pure white; turning to grey. Becoming as musty and uncertain as her surroundings. As relentlessly dark and cold. As desolate. Long forgotten; lingering. She wondered if she'd ever get the mark out. The memory to wash away completely. Especially now, that she had come back to see what once had been. Simply to remind herself it seemed. No, torment herself. Remember the fallen? Remember the dead? She couldn't quite place her finger on the reason. Couldn't quite imagine why she'd drudge this all up, here now. Couldn't imagine why she'd do this to herself. Force herself through endless waves of excruciating mental pain. And it all ended here too, didn't it?

The winds awoke. Called to the aurist by her tears. The ashes danced; circling Aello like it were a hungry hurricane, waiting to strike. Everything was doused in its ethereal sheet, as it swept across the world, scattering, like fallen leaves. Moving as silently as that, save for the occasional drag cast by those burdened with clear beads. Why are you crying? Why are you crying? Don't cry... they whispered. Aello looked up, startled by the softness of the sound. The way it seemed to whisper, and glide over her, as though it were non-existent. A figment of her imagination, and nothing more. Don't cry, it came again, as it crept over her. Curling up in her lap; coiling, before it slithered up the length of her delicate form. Towards her ears. Licking them seductively as it fluttered across her lips, across her cheeks. Wiping away all moisture that had gathered there. Clotting; as it dripped away. Don't... cry... "Who's there?" Aello whispered, as she blinked a few times, washing some of her muddied tears away. Letting them creep across her skin. Draw the earth to her, before boring everything away. She felt a child speckled with wet sand. Buried beneath the weight of it all; losing her castle, losing her fantasy of simplicity. The perfect world, the perfect life. Buried beneath the weight of losing it all. She felt as though she were losing her mind, forcing herself to remember. Thinking someone were talking to her now, when no one but she, seemed to be around. As far as she was concerned, no one was around. "Are you hiding somewhere? Past the bones of this place? The hollowed ribs?" Why are you crying? Don't cry. Don't cry... "Who are you?" Aello whispered as the winds faded, sweeping the ashes away. From them rose vapors. Tendrils of white, which seemed to waver. But the girl would not notice. She wouldn't so much as sense the presence of their source as she stared down at the ground. As the mist strengthened, and molded, gaseous and largely unwilling to change as it was, into something else. Forming curves. Wisps, waves; like sea foam crashing against the shore. Bubbling, bursting with life and intensity, before fading away. The mist formed garments, soft features; sharper ones. Some so uncertain of themselves, that it was as though they weren't there at all. Yet, the eyes seemed so distinct. So much darker, than in life. Filled with everything contained in those last moments. Drawn into an infinitesimal speck, in the pupil's center. A glimmer, mysterious, nearly lost, yet so startlingly apparent. Slender, white fingers came forth, and curled beneath the girl's chin, lifting her gaze into the ghost's eyes. Even past the moisture, she could see. They grew wide, startled. Feeling as though this were no more than a cruel illusion cast by her mind. "Mom?" Aello whispered. The ghost nodded. "It's time to get up again," Myrrh whispered, the edges of her form flickering, as her center, her simple dress, adorned with a frilly white apron, coming to light. "Onto your feet Aello. As is only proper," she added, with a small smile, as her fingers tickled the underside of her daughter's chin. "Mom..." Aello whispered, incredulously, as she rose to her feet, soon realizing, that she had never gone back. Myrrh simply smiled as she glided around her daughter's form, settling behind her back. She seemed such a strong ghost to her girl, and yet, so very weak, and unsure of herself. Aello could sense her cool air as she came to a rest, and her fingers came to cradle her chin, her other hand, the girl's forehead, as though she were taking a temperature. "You're so cold," she added, as her mother pulled her into her chest, and rested her chin upon the aurist's thick mane of dark brown hair. "So very cold." There was a pause, as the scent of roses reached the girl's nostrils. Faint, and fading. Fleeting, as though they had withered and died long ago. Were crumbling away with everything else. Her will to forget; her desire to remember. The remnants of what once was. "Did you miss me?" Myrrh asked, as Aello's back sank into her embrace, along with everything else. Her inhibition. Her desires. Her need to be loved. For although her touch was cool, as was that of every other ghost, Aello could feel her again. As though she were still alive. It felt as though her mother's core was still warm, from the heat of the oven. From the blood that flowed in her veins. Her flesh felt soft, as though she had just been massaged, and oils had been worked into her skin. Her fingernails tickled, sending small tremors up the length of Aello's spine, even long before she kissed her daughter's forehead. Even before her lips pulled away, allowing only her gaze to linger, as she rocked the girl lightly in her arms. The girl who was amazed that they could somehow, be together again. Almost in the flesh. Almost... "Of course mother. I have missed you so," Aello replied, as her head rocked onto her mother's shoulder. Settling there as her hair splayed angrily by her sides. "You don't know the half of it... but, what of you? Of Leon? Have you been here the whole time, with him?" Myrrh shook her head. "No, only for a time. We tend to go where you go, but sometimes, we just stay here, together. Waiting for you to come back." Aello said nothing for a time. "He came to me a few seasons back. My little brother. He seemed well, if not a little haunted, like all of your kind... you don't... know now that I can help you? Go back. Move on. Give you more mist." Myrrh chuckled. "Do you want any mum, are you hungry?" Myrrh chuckled as she shook her head, waving her daughters thoughts and concerns away as she kissed her forehead again. It was just like old times. Like they really were together again. Almost...

"Mum?" Aello questioned, as Myrrh pulled her lips away, prompting a low, rumbling mhm to escape the ghost's mouth. "Why didn't you come earlier? To see me? Why didn't you expose yourself as Leon did?" she asked. Myrrh shook her head lightly. "At times we weren't strong enough to show," she replied. "At other times it didn't seem right, and at other times, perhaps I wasn't there, busy looking for other people." Aello's brow furrowed. "Is that why you haven't gone back then, you're busy looking?" Her mother nodded, "in part." Aello looked up at her, her lips parted a little, expecting more. She seemed to be saying, and what's the rest of it then? For a long time, the ghost remained silent, simply rocking her daughter in her arms, as she might have done when she were little more than a small child. "Leon and I chose to look after you. After the fire, until you joined us." "But you know that I've been well. You've spoken to me now, seen that. Why not simply return to the cycle now?" Aello asked. "Return your life, and this world to a greater state of balance." "It isn't time yet darling," Myrrh commented, as she ran her hand through her daughter's hair. Pulling apart the strands. "Not until I've seen him again." "Seen who?" Aello inquired. "Your father," Myrrh replied, as she raised her hand again to run it through Aello's hair, the young spiritist grew rigid. Her muscles tensed, as her eyes took on many things. Pain. Fear. Confusion. Surprise. Disbelief even. Her brow furrowed as she turned away from her. As her gaze hardened as she forced her mother to look at her directly, in the eyes. "What do you mean?" Aello asked. "He isn't with you?" Myrrh shook her head. "And if he's not with Leon... you don't think he returned without us? Thinking we too had died in that fire. All of us... I mean." Myrrh shook her head. "I don't know baby." A chill shot up Aello's spine as she took a half step back. She glanced down at the ground, just as her mother raised her hand again to comfort her. She was flickering. Fading away. The wind picked up again, tossing the ashes about them both. They seemed to circle hungrily. "Mom..." The ghost flickered. Flickered, like a candle in the wind. Her light was going out. All the lights were going out. "Mom, don't go!" Aello called, as she looked up again, as she raised her hand and reached for her mother's fingers. They brushed for an instant. One fleeting, cool instant. "Please don't go! I can make the mist! Don't go! I can do it... make the mist..." she pleaded, as the ghost vanished, and every trace of her faded away, as the ashes fell. Aello crumbled. Her knees hitting the ground hard. Rustling the ashes. Displacing them. "I can do it now..."

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