anonymous asked:

People think she is dramatic, but I am in groups with thousands of people who have suffered narcissistic abuse, and everyone feels like their souls were nearly destroyed after close encounters with narcissists. They are energy vampires. I Knew You Were Trouble and Better Man are like the anthems for narc abuse survivors everywhere. People posts the songs in groups I’m in.

oooooh this is SUPER interesting

anonymous asked:

literally anything with vampires. fuck. give me the fucking vampires katz i’m begginh you

i really love the tone of absolute desperation in this ask

Vampire subcategories

This is a list of different types of vampire spirits and their subcategories. These are either spirits that I’ve heard about, interacted with, or read about on here. I really love vampires and they are my favorite spirits to work with in all honesty. I have a ton of vampire companions and vampires that hang out in my sanctuary. This list is in no way complete and will be added to as time goes on. I wanna thank the amazing spirit workers @crystallineconjurations​, @witchy-witty-weird​ , @spiritstacia​, and @lsac-cherry​ and Cherry’s mum for helping contribute to the list as well. And of course my own vampire companions who helped. I’ll keep updating this list as I meet other vampire spirits or get told about more.

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anonymous asked:

Hello there, I was wondering if you had time could you tell us more stories about encounters you have had with vampire spirits?

My most recent one was from the last month or so, when I was staying in a house in Surrey, deep within the countryside. I was performing a regular divination session at night in the room I was staying in, and it was then that activity started to happen. I could already feel a cold, unwelcoming presence when I first stepped foot into the house but I chose to dismiss it, knowing that the place was very old and I was the visitor. When I was trying to sleep that night, I kept seeing irregular shadows and cold breezes glide past me like slow breaths. With time I managed to become half-asleep, which is when visions are usually conjured to me - and there I saw a pair of feral, predatory eyes glaring back at me from the darkness. Refusing to submit to my fear, I questioned the spirit but received no answer. The eyes disappeared but the presence still remained. I then fell asleep but it was not soon after that I got woken up in the night by that strange spirit - I felt something tug my bed covers - slowly sliding them off, and I was met with a cold grip on my ankle. Shaking, I jolted up to see a dark figure wrapping its lips around my thigh and taking the ‘damned’ bite. I became paralysed and drifted off into a crippling nightmare. 

The next morning, I woke up with this lovely bruise on the very same place that the spirit bit me. At breakfast I asked the others who were staying with me if they felt or saw anything out of the ordinary, but they did not share my experience. During the day I went out to the local market to purchase a bundle of lavender to keep in my room as a simple charm to ward off evil spirits at night. Before bed, I placed the fresh bouquet beside the window so that it can receive light, and to keep away other spirits from entering. However, when I was in bed reading, I could feel a cold presence becoming angered, along with the sound of crisp flowers wilting and becoming brittle. Looking around the room, I could not see anything so I chose to ignore it. Just before sleep, I could hear the sound of mischievous giggling echoing around the room, and a pair of icy fingers gliding against my spine. Being tired and annoyed, I brushed it off and longed for the morning. When I woke up, my eyes darted to the lavender which dried into a rusty brown - it had completely writhed away and died in the night. I could hear a ringing of that mocking laughter that echoed throughout the night before, knowing that there was not much I could do. 

Wanting to get to the bottom of this, I created a makeshift scrying mirror in the bathroom of my room. I waited for it to become dark so I could turn all the lights off and burn a candle to rest below my chin. I conjured the entity, inviting its form to manifest within the mirror three times. After a few moments of blackness, I could finally see his face. He was completely pale and had the same pair of feral eyes I saw on the very first night. His deep brown cowlicks hung in front of his face as his lips locked into a malicious smile. I asked him what his intentions were, but he laughed and only desired to feed on my energy, toying with me like freshly caught prey. This is one of the only times I had ever felt true fear from a vampire spirit - I am usually adjusted to them, feeling rather comfortable on the contrary. The flame went out and soon my visit would end, as there were only a few more nights left at this house. 

The nights would continue with physical activity, sometimes catching a glimpse of his figure in the mirror, smiling at me like the way before. His hands would caress my body mockingly, waking me up to newly-bitten bruises and a deathly cold room. 

anonymous asked:

Do you have some TV Shows to recommend like The Vampire Diaries? I'm not sure what to watch.

Hemlock Grove


Lost boys (Not a tv show but still good)



Mindhunter is amazing!

Teen Wolf


Fresh Meat

bates Motel



Him & Her

Peaky Blinders


Witches of East end

Being human


i loVE VAMpire money bc its like, the thrust back into real life after all the killjoy stuff?? like that’s evident by how gerard names everyone at the ridiculous intro. also it sounds like the most dynamic intense comic book style credits roll. i love it

Tom and Lin-Manuel: An Appreciation/Jealous Rant

Every writer has a golden period – a chunk of time when her brain is ripest, when the veins he is tapping are the richest, when the ideas, big and small, spill out over the sides of the bucket instead of having to be patiently collected like drops of rain off a leaf. This is true for songwriters, playwrights, novelists, screenwriters, anyone who writes anything in any genre. Go look at John Hughes’s IMDb page and marvel at his golden period, which I would bookend as 1983-1990. It’s outrageous. He wrote Vacation, Mr. Mom, Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, Weird Science, Pretty in Pink, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Some Kind of Wonderful, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, Uncle Buck, and Home Alone in eight years. Eight years?! That’s absurd.

But then look at his next 20 years. You won’t find one movie that is better than the worst one he wrote in those seven years. The vein ran dry. It always does. That’s just the deal.

Tom Petty’s golden period never ended. Or, at least, the silver periods on either side of his golden period were seemingly infinite. No matter where you think he peaked – Full Moon Fever, or Wildflowers, or Damn the Torpedoes – the decades on either side were wonderful. He was great from the moment he released his first album in 1977 to the day he died last month. For forty years he wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and the songs he wrote were good or great or amazing.

Tom Petty wrote “Breakdown” and “American Girl” in 1977. He wrote “You Don’t Know How it Feels” seventeen years later, in 1994. He wrote “You Got Lucky” in 1982, “King’s Highway” in 1992, “The Last DJ” in 2002. He wrote “I Won’t Back Down,” “Runnin’ Down a Dream,” Free Fallin’,” “Love is a Long Road,” “A Face in the Crowd,” Yer So Bad,” and “The Apartment Song,” and “Depending on You,” all in 1989, and they were all on the same album, and that’s absurd.

He wrote “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around” in 1981 and “Big Weekend” in 2006. He wrote every song on Wildflowers – and they are all great – in or around 1994. He wrote fifty other great songs I haven’t named yet, like “Don’t Come Around Here No More” and “Jammin Me.” He wrote great songs you’ve heard a million times, and great songs you’ve maybe never heard, like “Billy the Kid” (1999) and “Walls” (1996) which was buried on the soundtrack to She’s the One.  He took a break from the Heartbreakers and casually released “End of the Line” and “Handle With Care” and “She’s My Baby” with the Traveling Wilburys in 1989-90. He wrote “Refugee” in 1980 and “I Should Have Known It” in 2010. Is there any rock and roll songwriter alive who wrote two songs that good, 30 years apart? (Paul McCartney wrote “Hey Jude” in 1968, and only 12 years later he wrote “Wonderful Christmas Time,” which is so bad it nearly retroactively undid “Hey Jude.”)

He wrote about rock and roll things, like ’62 Cadillacs, getting out of this town, and dancing with Mary Jane. He wrote about love and loss and heartbreak. He wrote legitimately funny jokes, and moribund memories, and personal narratives, and imaginative flights of fancy. One of his characters calls his father his “old man” and it somehow isn’t cheesy. He was from Florida and California and wrote about both of them, and every time I’m on Ventura Boulevard I think of vampires, because the images he wrote are indelible. 

Petty didn’t just write songs directed at women, like most rock stars. He wrote about women, and he wrote for women, and he wrote with women. He treated the women in his songs as lovingly and respectfully as he treated the men. He cared about them as much, he spent as much time thinking about them, and he liked them as much, and all of that is rare.

He wrote simply, but not boringly. He made his characters three-dimensional, somehow, in a matter of seconds. There’s a famous (probably apocryphal) story about Hemingway bragging he could write an entire novel in six words, then writing: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” I prefer the 18-word novel Petty wrote as the first verse to “Down South” –

Headed back down south
Gonna see my daddy’s mistress
Gonna buy back her forgiveness
Pay off every witness

When I was working on Parks and Recreation, whenever we needed a song to score an important moment in Leslie Knope’s life, we chose a Tom Petty song. It started with “American Girl,” when her biggest career project came to fruition. It was “Wildflowers” when she said goodbye to her best friend. It was “End of the Line” at the moment the show ended. For the seven seasons of our show, Tom Petty was the writer we trusted to explain how our main character was feeling, because he wrote so much, so well, for so long.


It seems like a joke, Hamilton – a joke in a TV show where one of the characters is a struggling New York actor, and is always dragging his friends to his terrible plays. Like Joey in Friends. There’s an episode of Friends where Joey is in a terrible musical called like Freud!, about Sigmund Freud, and you get to see some of it, and it’s predictably terrible. Freud! the musical is arguably a better idea than Hamilton the musical.

I’m far from the first person to say this – I’m probably somewhere around the millionth person to write about Hamilton, and the maybe 500,000th to make this particular point, but it needs to be said – a hip-hop Broadway musical about the founding fathers is an astoundingly terrible idea. Lin-Manuel Miranda should never have written it. As soon as he started to write it, he should’ve said to himself, “What the fuck am I doing?!” and stopped. And after he got halfway through, he should’ve junked it, gotten really drunk, and moved on with his life, and made his wife and friends swear to never mention the weird six months where he was trying to write a hip-hop musical about Alexander Hamilton. I literally guarantee you that when Lin-Manuel Miranda first told his friends what he was writing, every one of them reacted with at best a frozen smile, and at worst a horrified recoiling. Some of them might have been outwardly encouraging – “sounds awesome bud! Go get ‘em!” But then later, alone, they would call each other and say What the fuck is he doing?

There is a moment, in Hamilton, when what you are watching overwhelms you. (It’s not the same moment for everyone, but most everyone has one, I suspect.) It’s the moment when the enormity, the complexity, the meaning of it, the entirety of it, overpowers you, and you realize that what you are experiencing is new – new both in your specific life, and new, like, on Earth.  The first time I saw it, that moment was a line in the middle of “Yorktown.” Hamilton sang the line And so the American experiment begins / With my friends all scattered to the winds, and I burst into tears in a way I hadn’t since I was 10 and a baseball went through a guy’s legs in the World Series. Something about how casually he says that – And so the American experiment begins – just settled over me, like a collapsing tent, and this thing I was watching wasn’t in front of me, it was everywhere around me, and it was exhilarating and transformative.

(If I could put this part in a footnote, I would, but I don’t know how to, so: I should mention that I am very far from a musical theater aficionado. I have seen maybe eight musicals in my life. Not only did I not expect to cry, hard, during Hamilton, I did not expect to enjoy it. I saw it like a week after it opened on Broadway, kind of on a whim, knew nothing about it, and the last thing I said to my wife, as the lights went down, was: “We’ll leave at intermission.”)

The second time I saw it, that moment came much earlier (I knew what I was getting into, this time, so I was more ready to be subsumed). It came barely three minutes in, when the entire cast of the show, in a piece of choreography that can best be referred to as “badass,” all walk down to the very front of the stage and stand, shoulder to shoulder, and sing very loudly about how Alexander Hamilton never learned to take his time. The cast has, to this point, trickled on stage, slowly, one by one, telling you Hamilton’s origin story, and then suddenly there they all are, all of them – maybe 20? 50? It seems like 1000? – as close to the audience as they can get, and they are every size and ethnicity and gender, and their voices are loud, and I thought to myself, oh my God, this is a cast of people descended from every nation on Earth, all singing about the foundations of the American experience, and yes I “knew” that, intellectually, but holy shit, now that I see them all, I know it, like in my stomach, I understand it, and what a thing that is.

The third time I saw Hamilton, that moment was during “It’s Quiet Uptown,” when this enormous, sprawling, improbable, otherworldly, multi-ethnic, historical, art tornado presses pause on all of its historical-cultural-ethno-sociological-artistic investigations, and spends four and a half spare minutes with a couple who are grieving an unimaginable tragedy.  Specifically, it was the lines

Can you imagine?
Can you imagine?

What a thing to do, for your characters – to give them four and a half minutes in the middle of an enormous, sprawling, historical swirl, to just be sad. What a piece of writing that is.

(Again, should be a footnote, but: as long as I’m talking about writers here, I should point out that if the late Harris Wittels were alive, he would, at this moment, text me and hit me with a “humblebrag” for writing about how I have seen Hamilton three times, and he would be right. Miss you Harris!)

In the hundreds of hours of my life I have spent thinking about Hamilton since I first saw it – far more hours than any other single piece of art I have ever experienced – I have revisited that same thought over and over: he never should’ve written it. It was an absurd thing to do. It took him a year to write the title song, then another year to write the second song, and how did he not give up when two years had gone by and he’d written two songs?  He must’ve known in his heart it needed to be a 50-song, 2 ½-hour enterprise, and he had two songs after two years, and he kept going. How did he keep going? I’ve been trying to write this blog post about two writers I admire for different reasons since the week Tom Petty died, and I’ve almost given up five times.

At this point, the entire musical is that “moment” for me. It’s the whole thing, now – the thing that overwhelms me is the whole thing. The conception of it, the writing of it, the rewriting of it. The music and the motifs and the themes and the threads and the dramatic shape and the characters and their inner lives, and the eagle-eye writer’s view it took to keep all of that in his head, all of it, the whole time. The writing of it. The utterly impossible writing of it. 

;the touch of silk (m)

pairing: min yoongi x reader, sugar daddy! yoongi, vampire! yoongi
genre/warnings: smut, romance, blood mentions, but nothing too crazy, dirty talk, dom! Yoongi
words: 14,221

:: summary— in a world where vampires coexist with the living, there are many humans looking for a cheap thrill…you’re ashamed to admit you’re curious too, putting to good use a dating app you find…but Min Yoongi is nothing like you imagined a vampire to be…

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✧・゚:* HAPPY HALLOWEEN!! *:・゚✧

thanks for making everyone cool costumes pearl

“Ok, look... I get that objects can’t exactly be drawn super small *and* have full detail...”

Carl the Animator: “Yup.”

Ted the Animator: “…but I feel like this postcard…”

Ted the Animator: “…isn’t the best approximation of this.”

Carl the Animator: “Hey, at least the sky is the same color!”

Ted the Animator: “But… the sun changes corners… and the werewolf entourage turns into a bird…” 

Carl the Animator: “They’re shapeshifters! Y’know, the vicious wolf howling in the night, and all that.”

Ted the Animator: “…and the building is floating in the sky, on the other side from the sun…”

Carl the Animator: “You haven’t been on a real vacation unless the beachfront property had antigravitational capabilities.”