#blood disorders.

[blessed-bruises]

˚₊‧ ⊰ ⸸ ⊱ ‧₊˚

[canonkiller]

abjectly refuse to romanticize weight loss and malnutrition. that shit kills you. to starve yourself is crippling¹ even in the ""bearable"" "well I'm just hungry less" / "other people have it worse" / "it's only a few skipped meals" / etc ways. you have this fucking life and that's it so please if you do nothing else allow yourself to actually be alive in it. do you hear me? take your supplements and multivitamins and eat breads and meats and vegetables and fats and sugars and shit that just fucking tastes good okay? thank you

[brotherconstant]

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE 2x06 | Like the Light by Which God Made the World Before He Made Light “Did she take?” “Yeah. Yeah, she is. They're both… on their way. I told 'em to get out of town. They're out of town.”

[dark-dirty-daydreams]

Co-dependent to the sickest degree or it’s not real.

[delidelicate]

Physical pain is insignificant compared to the torture of being without you. I would bleed a thousand times to have you. 🩸

[kkoct-ik]

IT'S FINISHED! I'VE FINISHED IT!

for the past few months i've been putting together a guide for writers looking to make OCs who suffer from DID, since i have a personal investment in good representation and an absurd amount of autism. and today it is FINISHED!!

it's gone up on my neocities, but i really wanted to post about it too.

here's the link

please check it out / bookmark it / share it if you're interested! if just one person finds this useful and makes art from it all my hours of hyperfixation will be worth. ok. love you

[evangelina830]

I’m tired :(

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: APPLE

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, murder mentions, violence, blood

Read after the cut

---

Samhain falls upon the house like the red tongue of night, the rooms hung with bones and branches and the glinting skulls of animals, a morbid elegance to the season's ode.

Hannibal allows you to stand at a partially open window to sniff at the dark musk of the air which like some skilled perfumer you split of its ingredients with a discerning nose: rain in the earth, still pools of gingery leaves, the wind that scuttles the panes in its mischief, and the brew of an oncoming storm, a scent like fire and thunder.

"When exactly am I allowed to go outside again?" you ask, hanging a woeful head as far from the window as Hannibal will allow.

"When I can trust you to stay at my side or return to me," he says, and he draws you gently in again and shuts the latch upon the world.

You gaze at him, wistful and resentful; never, then, you think, unless you have nowhere else to go.

Yet with Will's arrival suspended over you like the immutable certainty of execution you wonder if perhaps you may well leave this dwelling, if only as meat carried in the case of some guest's stomach.

Hannibal surely notices your pensive mood, yet he does not address it, considering it some shade of your illness behind you, perhaps, or else pouting reproach that he had turned you across his knee that morning for hiding a pancake in the sleeve of your pyjamas.

He’d struck you lightly, no more than four times, at that, merely enough to spur a smarting star at your sex in some primitive answer to your embarrassment.

"It appears that I've overexcited you," Hannibal had said, rather seriously. "What is to be done about that?"

He had brought you up into his lap, your back to his crimson velvet dressing gown, and had delivered the rule of his punishment until you ran with the white ink of it, beating your heels against his calves in a pointless drum of hatred.

How sweetly he had set you down, then, touching your sulking lip with his own mouth until you'd kissed him in return to be rid of him.

"I want a bath," you'd said, and he had chuckled.

"As do I."

He'd brought you atop him again in the tub, the slippery passage of his hands pleasant upon you, and you'd wished you’d had the strength to shove him low under the suds to drown him.

But then orgasm had humbled you in your ruminations of revenge, and you’d allowed him to towel you and pull a pinafore over your head with lowered eyes, defeated.

As you’d done so you’d considered if you’d prefer your fathers to raise you in savagery alone, followers of Dionysus tearing apart a grieving Orpheus; you’ve myth on the mind, and all of it at the junctures of dying.

But you are enamoured now by the luxuries of life and body they festoon about you, and to revoke them for the sake of hubris would be to spit yourself in the eye.

You will take their gifts, you decide, even the twist of forbidden climax until you’re away from the house.

This, at least, you deserve from them, a reward for a gruelling actor’s work.

Now you await Will's arrival in the living room, staring with a perpetual absence of inspiration at the bare leaves of your journal as Hannibal oversees this activity from a narrow distance.

You've been continually defended against his evils by Will's attachment to you, yet should he choose to turn on the monster you may go down with him, taken off over Hannibal’s shoulder to some unknown country, or else killed and so tossed to the wolves of the press for their fodder.

It had been a fool’s hope to think that Will would betray his friend and bring down the Bureau in a surge of his most righteous instincts. Still there may yet be some chance of it, for as he enters at the front door you interpret from the brusque landing of his footfalls the extent of his wounded temper.

A sick pass of cold raises the hairs on your arms, and Hannibal gets up from peeling an apple for you with a pretty little knife to drape a blanket about your shoulders.

“If you’d agree to gain some modest weight you wouldn’t suffer like this,” he says, then glances up, distracted, as Will clears his throat at the threshold.

He is severe, almost refined in an expensive black sweater and jeans, his hair—worn in a shorter cut—combed back from his forehead in a gelled wave. There is a new scent on him, not the ship-bottled spray of the norm but something deep and rich, reminiscent of libraries and dark, polished wood.

You’re so startled by the alteration in him that you release a nervy giggle, shielding your mouth behind a hand as Will’s eyes glide coolly over you.

"Hello, Will,” says Hannibal. “I'm glad that you could make the time to see us.”

Will nods shortly, his critical gaze panning the room.

"You decorated,” he says. “Do you celebrate Hallowe'en in Lithuania?"

"Traditionally, we do not. But I've always enjoyed the holiday's pagan roots, the themes of warding away spirits at a time the wall between two worlds is thin."

The younger man's mouth quirks into something not quite a smile.

"That, and you just wanted to spoil her, as usual."

Hannibal's head tilts at a slight angle as he surveys Will’s expression.

"Our Little One has struggled as of late,” he says neutrally. “If I might lift her mood in this small way then I'm only glad to be of service."

He touches your shoulder, and in a panicked awkwardness you comment, "I really wish the decorations were on display all year. Hi, Daddy, by the way."

You stand up to kiss Will on the mouth, which he coldly allows, his arms tense as a general’s at his sides. He doesn’t meet your eyes as you look, imploring, into his, only pushes you lightly back into your seat and glances towards the kitchen.

"Something's cooking."

"Yes,” says Hannibal. “I thought a seasonal stew would be pleasant for this time of year."

"A stew,” Will repeats, with a hard, false innocence. “What's in it, specifically? Any particular ingredients I should know about?"

You glimpse suspicion descend over Hannibal like a winter dawn, his nostrils flaring.

"Would I be correct in thinking that there are unspoken layers to that question?”

"Seemed appropriate considering the undisclosed intentions behind some of the meals we've shared together, Dr Lecter."

You cannot yet tell whether he refers to the matter of meat or the other contents, nor does Hannibal, for though his hand returns to the apple knife it is only to cut the fruit into slender arches on a plate.

"You suspect me of poisoning you in some manner, I presume," he says, at last.

"This is beyond suspicion,” snaps Will. “You guessed that I had encephalitis— knew that I did. Probably sniffed it out the same way you've picked up on cancer, and you pretended ignorance. Comforted me while serving up anything you could think of to trigger another episode for your own entertainment. Riveted by the rat in the maze."

Hannibal makes no attempt to deny the accusation, merely continuing to cut the apple with slow, artful strokes of the wrist.

"She implicated me, I presume."

"Don't make this about her. I want to know why you did it.”

Will takes a step across the room, seeming drawn into habitual closeness to Hannibal despite his anger with him.

“I've remembered other things,” he says. “Bright lights. Your voice in my ear. Your hands on me. Moments that were already starting to surface. All this time you've been pulling my strings and I could never quite see it.”

Horror at his words torments you like some dungeon machine. You begin to shake, only the soft fabric of the couch cushioning the sound of your distress.

"You're aware of how close I've come to thinking I was responsible for murders I didn't commit,” says Will. “That I've contaminated crime scenes. Woken up at the side of the road with no idea what happened to me, or if I'd hurt someone. Hurt her—"

At this he jerks his newly sleek head towards you.

"That you would never have done,” says Hannibal.

"Don't try to comfort me with your empty platitudes. You wanted me to go over the edge. To make me kill again under different circumstances. Tell me I'm wrong."

The air in the room is all cinnamon and cyanide, the stench of lies dug up like a grave. Hannibal sets the plate of fruit before you and lifts his face to Will’s. When he speaks it is with the soft urgency of desperation, the equivalent of begging on his knees.

"I wanted to erode the barriers that prevent you from accessing your natural instincts. You've lived in seclusion, performing the dull actions of a self untrue to you merely to avoid facing and accepting that reality. I regret my methods, but my intentions were to nurture you into comprehending the remedy to your unhappiness.”

"You have pretty shoddy communication skills for a psychiatrist, Dr Lecter,” says Will, sharp with contempt.

"You believe that I should have asked you for your consent in this trial."

"Yes. Obviously."

You watch the two men with one hand clasped to your breastbone, feeling the lilt of your heart against your fingertips.

"I see,” says Hannibal. “Then why did you submit to waive that right in regards to our unhappy charge?”

"She needs this treatment to survive,” Will barks. “I survived for years without killing anyone. I don't need it."

"And what sort of existence was it to brood, tormented, into a lonely whiskey glass? Severed from love, community, and from the pastimes you craved? I'd argue the lust that haunts you is as necessary to your quality of life as food is to our darling girl."

Will utters a single laugh and turns on his heel as he replies.

"This may come as a shock to your ego, Dr Lecter, but that's not for you to decide."

As Will makes for the door you dart out of your seat after him.

"Wait!” you cry. “Where are you going?"

"To the bathroom,” says Will, “then to make myself another drink.”

"I'll come with you."

"No thanks. Now my encephalitis is on the way out I don't need a chaperone. I can hold it myself.”

He disappears around the corner, a rude breed of rejection.

As you turn back to Hannibal he stands up to meet you, his dominant hand clapping against your face with such velocity that you cannot quite believe what he has done.

You keel backwards, your very teeth seeming shaken in their bed of gums.

“You hit me,” you say, your voice trembling with awe. “But when Will did it you—”

“Will feared striking you in the face would cause you lasting injury,” says Hannibal. “I do not share his concerns. I’ve tolerated your disrespect with more patience than I’m accustomed to permitting without notable consequence. To insert yourself between Will and I with the intent of ending our friendship is unforgivable.”

The apple knife is in his other hand, you notice, though not yet raised to slice through to the red of your throat.

“Don’t hurt me,” you whimper. “Give me another chance.”

Hannibal considers like some poised herald of justice.

“You must rectify your mistake,” he says, finally.

A hysterical, indignant surge of courage comes over you.

“What can I do? He stays for you. This has always been about you. If Will didn’t think so much of you then he would have tattled to Jack, or Alana, or any of them already. He would have turned you in.”

“You’re lucky that he did not.”

“Well, I knew that he wouldn’t,” you insist. “I wanted him to, but I knew it was all totally pointless. And guess what, Daddy— the only reason I said anything about the food was to make him think you’d treat him the same way you treat me. I had no idea it was actually true. How could you? He’s supposed to be your friend. More than that. If he leaves you then it’s your fault, not mine.”

The truth of this crosses Hannibal’s features, and without a word he returns to place the knife back on the table.

In that instant you see that he had never desired to use it, that he’d only been so close to heartbreak that he would have made a regrettable error in the fog of it.

Emboldened, you approach him and put your sweating hand into his.

“You should just tell him you’re sorry,” you urge him. “Tell him how you really feel. I don’t get why you haven’t already. Don’t you think he probably feels the same way?”

You fall silent as Will opens the living room door again.

“Talking about me?” he asks, catching sight of your sombre faces greeting his. “What did I tell you about getting involved?”

This directed at you with a sharpness that you find insulting.

“I was only saying that I don’t want you to go,” you lie. “Not without me.”

Will sits down heavily in an armchair with an air of his old dislike.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? You’re selfish and self-absorbed. You’re needy enough to lap up any attention we give you, but you just love playing us against each other. Sure, you’re scared of where you’d end up if I walked out on you, but the minute you saw a disagreement brewing between us you just lapped it up. Nothing Dr Lecter could make for you could ever taste that sweet.”

Astonished by the attack, you begin, “Daddy, I—”

Will cuts in.

“Admit it. You’ve been looking for an opportunity to set this up for weeks. And Dr Lecter is far from off the hook, but he’s right. You’ve been sticking the knife in so deep it’s struck the bone.

“It’s not just because you hate us, either. It’s because you know that we’re the only ones that can stop you from starving yourself to death. If Hannibal hadn’t taken care of you this week you’d be right back where you were on that first day.”

Bewildered, you study his clenched jaw, the white hand worked about one of Hannibal’s wine glasses, and wonder if he’s become inexplicably drunk for you to emerge as the fresh target of his resentment.

“None of this is about me,” you say, and Will chuckles shortly.

“Of course it is. The night of the seizure— when I thought about it long enough I realised that Hannibal triggered it knowing that no matter how much you despised me you’d still reach out to help me. You’re soft that way; he saw that in you.

“If he hadn’t done it we would have kept on wanting to kill one another, and I wouldn’t feel anything for you but obligation. Trapped by your existence.”

“And how do you feel towards her now?” asks Hannibal with the caution of knowing he is still the enemy.

“At the moment, frustrated.”

“But in general?”

Will looks at you, and some of the rage alights from him in a visible loosening of his frame.

“I’d kill for her,” he admits. “And I don’t say that lightly. Whenever I step back and examine that urge in myself I find it repulsive. But I know what I’d do to protect her. Even from you.”

Unsure whether to embrace him or to recoil in terror of his aggression you gasp aloud.

“You’ll never need to concern yourself about me in that regard, Will,” says Hannibal. “As close as our daughter may attempt to drive me to that end, I will not go to it.”

Unimpressed, Will samples his wine, the red on his lips like the quickening of blood.

“Maybe not, but you’ll stand right on the edge. Damaging the people you’re close to is a symptom of caring for them, apparently.”

Amused by the jab, Hannibal says, “Is it not yours as well? Perhaps I should anticipate a retaliatory action, then.”

Their bickering is intimate in a way that you doubt Will is quite aware of, yet that irrefutably exists; why else would he remain in the sphere of a man that has thrust such an assault upon his mind?

Feeling out of place amidst such dangerous chemistry you sidestep towards the door.

Will catches you by the arm as you pass him.

“Wait. We should make the effort to spend time together as a family. Shouldn’t we?”

He glances at Hannibal, a subtle attempt to dominate the room.

“We should,” says Hannibal. “Sit down, Little One.”

You hover, still stunned by the slap, by Will’s avowal of passion, and by his decision to stand by a creature of such evil.

Your younger captor gestures to the arm of his chair, and without a word you sit, starting at his touch at your back. He strokes you lightly, affection and possessiveness in every joint of his hand.

Helpless before such love you lean against him, and Hannibal looks upon you both with what you interpret as longing.

“I realised something about the Lover,” says Will. “I’ve gotten a greater understanding of him over the past few days. Guess you can pat yourself on the back for clearing my head.”

“I take no credit,” says Hannibal. “Your revelations are entirely your own. What are they exactly?”

Will savours a mouthful of wine for a long second before he answers.

“The Lover isn’t a local. That’s why he deposits his victims by or in rivers; they lead back home, or remind him of it, anyway. He’s taking them there like newlyweds the way he hopes to return with his muse.

“Our killer has travelled. Likely he’s changed his name. We’ll find similar murders in other states. They will have been committed when he was a young man. Inexperienced. Hadn’t honed his methods yet.”

Hannibal—who is acquainted with the Lover, could solve this case with the mere utterance of syllables—dons an expression of believable interest.

“You’re implying that he had a previous muse.”

“Yes. The murders follow a very specific timeline. The Lover’s latest paramour probably wasn’t even born yet when he first started killing.”

“She died,” you say suddenly. “His first ‘real’ doll. He killed her?”

“Not on purpose,” says Will, and his hand rises to your waist, drawing you closer to him. “Or only as a last resort. The Lover craves total control over his bride. If she didn’t fall into line, or if his fantasy was somehow shattered then she had to die like the others. This time he’s sure it’s true love.”

*

The evening continues in its implacable tension, and when at last you’re allowed to go up to bed you feel relieved to have escaped it.

You stare at a Clive Barker novel as the storm gnaws at the crust of night, your vision adhered to the same handful of words until they become absent of definition.

Hannibal’s slap is a bruise on the brain, seeping in between each thought until you throw your book aside with a groan.

It’s a new thing to fear that you’ve glimpsed in him, how in a crisis he may, like his friend, be quite rash.

The closer they become even in argument the more their behaviours overlap and interchange— yet Hannibal’s strike was unlike Will’s, you noticed, quick, and clean, and practiced. It is how he must slash a throat or break the neck of any victim, and though you’ve felt death in such proximity you are wet between the legs from the sick exhilaration of having given it the slip another day.

Discomforted, you turn on your side and attempt to commit yourself to slumber. Only by the help of the pills at your bedside do you induce that state, a servant to your captor’s care even in so natural a transition as this.

*

In the night you wake to realise that Will has been watching you sleep, standing back-lit in the doorway as thunder runs like gravel over the house.

You lie tangled in a cirque of sheets, your hair static with fear, and from the storm. The wind breaks its fists against the window panes, and you see the shape of Will's reflection there, a malevolent wisp in the glass.

"You're still here?" you ask, softly, and Will starts, having not known that you’d awoken. "Are you... staying the night?"

"No," says Will, after a strange pause. "I can't. I'm teaching tomorrow. Can't skip it."

He looks damp and pasty in the dim light, a grub dug up from the earth. You sit up in bed, oddly moved and rather alarmed by his appearance.

"You're still sick," you say. “Aren’t you?”

Will shakes his head slowly, coils of dark hair like a coronet on his brow.

"No," he says. “I just remembered something. A dream I had during one of my fevers. About you."

The words send such a chill through you that you draw yourself flat against the headboard, away from him.

"What was the dream?" you ask, although you don't want to know.

Glancing downwards in his own avoidance, Will reads some shape in the dark.

“I don't know if I should tell you.”

Against your better judgement, you enquire, "Why not?"

"Feels like it'd be speaking it into being, somehow."

You wrap arms of ice around your kneecaps.

"I thought you didn't believe in that stuff."

Will swallows audibly, clenching a hand on one side of the door.

"I... don't. But this dream is different."

You feel how he craves to come to you, to hold you, and to be held in turn, both of you vulnerable and pathetic. You know how he itches to run away and to hide in his house, that fortress of solitude.

Still he remains in the doorway, the threshold between these two needs.

"Wait," you say, suddenly. "I don't have to know."

But Will wets his lips and sways like a drunk, and then he says, “In the dream you escape from here. You run away. It's mid-autumn; the trees are dripping with so many orange leaves it's like I'm chasing you through a field of fire. My blood is up at the sight of you like you've triggered some instinctual urge to hunt."

Will closes his eyes in recollection, and you see them flicker below the lids as though he is slumbering, still.

"It's raining," he says. "Just like tonight. It's raining, and your dress is wet against you, and you're dirty, and your hair is full of leaves, and I'm angry because even in that dream I know that you belong with me and Hannibal."

"Don't," you mumble, but Will doesn't seem to hear you, returning to the red place of sleep.

"I catch you from behind," he murmurs. "My arms around your waist, pulling you down into the leaves with me. You're screaming, begging me to let me go, but you don't use my name. You call me 'Daddy', and that's a mistake, because it reminds me of exactly how mad I am that you dared to run away from me. The thrill of chasing you, and all that rage—

"I hit you. I kiss you. I stuff your mouth with dirty leaves like some kind of scarecrow, and I tear your stupid little dress off your body, and I thrust inside you as the rain falls down onto us."

Halting, Will mops his face with an erratic hand.

"Then I enter you in a second way, because I have a knife, and when I stab you it is— beautiful.

You moan aloud in horror, and Will stares past you as though he's forgotten that you're in the room.

"I stab you as I move inside you, and in that moment I can't decide which sensation is more pleasurable. There's warmth both ways, the feeling of taking what I want, of having complete power over you, and it's overwhelming. I woke up from that dream sick to my stomach, but I wasn't as horrified as I should have been."

Stiff and frail as an invalid child you wrap yourself into your sheets as though they might protect you from him.

"I was right," you rasp. "Deep down you want to kill me."

"No!"

This, spoken with an urgency that startles you.

"No," Will repeats, in a softer voice. "I don't. But if you ever try to run away I can't say for sure that it wouldn't end like that dream. It was potent, and it felt... real."

Thunder roars like the pain of a goliath beyond your bedroom window, and you reach up to draw the curtains shut.

"I'll never run away," you say, in a pinched voice. "Hannibal's too smart to let me do that."

At this Will looks at you with eyes of such blue darkness that it's like gazing into the endless graves of the sea.

"He might let you try, some day," he says. "Just to see what I’ll do."

[sacrifiiiced]

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Before & after shower ☆

Time to bandage.

Time to heal.

I could still see the word 'ugly' under the lines, so I wrote a better reminder

I'm 'lucky'

Most people with my illness don't make it to age 30.

I want to get better, for good.

[sysmedsaresexist]

Could you please dive into the RAMCOA controversy that's been going around? I've literally never heard someone say "RAMCOA is antisemitic" until like a week ago and now there's multiple blogs (I'm sure you can guess who at this point) who are saying this and calling RAMCOA a conspiracy theory from the satanic panic.

It's being said by the same 3 blogs that all reblog the same bad takes so I wasn't putting any stock in their word. Just the latest misinfo spreading unchecked, would appreciate your thoughts on this.

You know what, I'm not going to lie, I've been dreading getting this question.

Terrified. Harassment in this area of discussion is rampant.

We are currently debating making a post and how to approach it.

I will make our stances clear right now.

I think the conversation as it is now is full of misinformation and confusion. I think no single post can cover that amount of history and the theories and controversy.

I don't think anyone understands what they're arguing about, or the histories they're trying to bring up, and how they overlap. I think many members of the conversation lack access to resources and education that the mods of this blog DO have access to. Most of the links being thrown around lead back to the same single sources.

To shorten a very long, complex, and honestly unfinished conversation: the satanic panic and RAMCOA are two completely different entities. The satanic panic was a religious political movement of the 90s pushed by conservatives as a way to scare people back into church and scare women back into their "place" at home by attacking child care facilities. It called on a lot of tropes. And many of them were, yeah, ridiculously antisemitic. As the movement got more and more sensationalized, it began to call attention to therapists (some of them bad faith) and to RAMCOA survivors as a "Look! It's real!" kind of thing. If anything, this attention hurt far more than it helped. It painted an inaccurate and insulting picture that's still utilized to harm people today.

To be very clear: programmed DID is a well documented occurrence and it can occur in several ways.

We support survivors, no matter what they call it. We support clinicians trained in treating people who have gone through that extreme level of horrific abuse. We support people learning to separate fact from fiction, in whatever way that may apply to any given situation.

SAS supports ramcoa and oea survivors.

Here's something we suggest reading, though it's very long.

Stay safe, everyone ❤️

[bitemarx]

short comic adaptation of a scene from the haunting of hill house, done for my literature class

[art--harridan]

[Image one: The first page of a digital comic about Miles Morales from the Spider-Verse movies. It begins with two panels of Miles' face resting on his closed hand. The first shows him in his school, wearing his uniform. He looks bored. The second has him in his first, store-bought Spider-Man costume. The forest surrounding Alchemax is behind him. Both of the panels cut off around his eyes. Next to them is two smaller panels, one showing someone in a classic Spider-Man costume swinging on a web, while the other shows their feet flying through the air. At the bottom of the page, there's Miles' legs flailing as he falls during the Leap of Faith scene. A panel is behind them, in a purple halftone gradient. Shards of glass surround the legs like lightning bolts. The page says "you always thought that the scariest part of a leap of faith would be the fall".

Image two: The second page of a digital comic about Miles Morales from the Spider-Verse movies. The first part of the sentence says "but really... it feels like flying;". This is interspersed with close-up panels of Miles in his first black suit. There's one of his outstretched hand, one of his chest symbol, one very close to his eyes and another of his outstretched feet. Behind the panels, there's a rock pigeon mid-flight. The sentence continues with "floating;", followed by four panels of Miles floating as his fall is flipped upside down. The pose is identical in each, but the background gets gradually darker for each one. Then, "free in a way that feels unnatural -" is written, accompanied by a panel of Miles in his school uniform. You can't see above his lips and he's sweating nervously, shoulders hunched. Scribbles, like the portals on The Spot, crowd around him. The sentence finishes with "you love it". The final panel zooms into Miles' hand clutching his backpack strap. His Spider-Man suit peaks out of his sleeve.

Image three: The third page of a digital comic about Miles Morales from the Spider-Verse movies. At the top of the page is Miles' shoes stood on the side of a wall, one foot hanging over the edge slightly. Above it, it says "the fear is in the precipice -". Below the drawing, it says "the edge", alongside Miles standing on a wall from behind, cut off around the ankles. The sentence continues "and what you gaze at beyond it", the last two words in a bubbly black and white font over top of a purple halftone gradient panel. Then, the sentence finishes "(and what you're scared will slink back in)". On the left side there's two panels, one a close-up of Kingpin's tie, and the other shows The Prowler's cape laying in a pool of blood. The other side has two panels set out the same. The top panel has one of The Spot's portals, while the one below it shows Jefferson Davis' glasses discarded and broken, one lens shattered and bloody.

Image four: The fourth page of a digital comic about Miles Morales from the Spider-Verse movies. It begins with Miles' shoes, one planted on the wall while the other hangs is elevated, hanging over the edge. Two panels beneath it show his feet with one lowered slightly, and then both planted on the wall. They're accompanied by the sentence "the hovering moment where you can still simply step back". After this there's two different Miles, standing with their bodies facing the viewer but eyes facing each other. The first is taller, unmasked, and wearing his outfit from the rooftop party. His expression is pinched together, worried. The other is in his ill-fitting store-bought Spider-Man replica suit, body posed as if he's been caught by surprise. His eyes, from what is visible, are wide. Two panels separate them - one is completely black, while one has a spark of blue lightning bursting out of it. Finally, the sentence ends "... but then you'd just be there; waiting, doing nothing".

Image five: The final page of a digital comic about Miles Morales from the Spider-Verse movies. It starts with Miles' hand in the darkness, unfurling as he reaches out his index finger. Blue lightning sparks off of it, leaving his finger like a claw. This is surrounded by the line "and you can't let that happen,". Below that, Miguel O'Hara's gloved hand creeps towards Miles, curled and claws out, like he's just failed to grasp something. It is large compared to Miles, who is swinging through the air, looking back at the hand. His body is fairly loose. The page ends with the line "even if the first step is the steepest".]

looking down

[herbalprism]

Length: Any

GIFs or symbols: blood related?

Theme?: vampire themed?

Emojis?: 🦷🫀 and any other you think would work

You can pick any other details

-🌻❤️

Yeah without a doubt! I love getting asks from you, you always seem to keep me busy when I need to. 💕

Vampire blood theme Simply Plural Alter Template

There is blood pictures top and bottom too but I couldn't fit them in the picture.


🦷⠀◡⠀𓇬⠀⠀┈⠀ *ᑲᥲ𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗌*⠀𓍊𓋼𓍊⠀ 𓂃 

⠀🦷⠀˓⠀*name*

⠀𓆇⠀˓⠀*age*

⠀🦷⠀˓⠀*gender*

⠀𓆇⠀˓⠀*orientation*

⠀🦷⠀˓⠀*pronouns*

🫀⠀◡⠀𓇬⠀⠀┈⠀ *᥆𝗍һᥱr*⠀𓍊𓋼𓍊⠀ 𓂃 

🫀 ˓⠀*Terms*

⠀𓆇⠀˓⠀*quirks*

🫀 ˓⠀*aesthetic*

⠀𓆇⠀˓⠀*languages*

🫀 ˓⠀*extra*

🦷⠀◡⠀⠀☼⠀┈⠀ *ᑲ᥆ᥙᥒძᥲrіᥱs*⠀𓍊𓋼𓍊 𓂃 

⠀🦷⠀˓⠀*touch*

⠀𓇬⠀˓⠀*petnames*

⠀🦷⠀˓⠀*flirting*

⠀𓇬⠀˓⠀*Interaction*

⠀🦷⠀˓⠀*compliments*

🫀⠀◡⠀⠀☼⠀┈⠀ *⍴ᥱrs᥆ᥒᥲᥣ*⠀𓍊𓋼𓍊⠀ 𓂃 

⠀🫀⠀˓⠀*nicknames*

⠀𓇬⠀˓⠀*birthday*

⠀🫀⠀˓⠀*species*

⠀𓇬⠀˓⠀*Triggers*

⠀🫀⠀˓⠀*likes*

🦷⠀◡⠀𓇬⠀⠀┈⠀ *sᥡs𝗍ᥱm*⠀𓍊𓋼𓍊⠀ 𓂃 

⠀🦷⠀˓⠀*role*

⠀𓆇⠀˓⠀*type*

⠀🦷⠀˓⠀*Source*

⠀𓆇⠀˓⠀*sourcetalk*

⠀🦷⠀˓⠀*family*


[synchrosummonz]

Cour 3 is about to ruin my life

[meshumo]

day 10 - castle

[delidelicate]

Suffering is sweet when I know it's for you. Every cut is a testament to my eternal commitment.