futuristic fairytale

the lunar chronicles is so great man like, futuristic fairytales? heck yes. the oppressed standing up for themselves? give me that shit. four different male characters who fall in love despite their better judgement? yes please. and four individual female protagonists who are strong and beautiful and kind in their own way? siGN ME THE FUCK UP.

10 Day Halloween Challenge 

So I decided to make myself a short Halloween photo challenge, even though we don’t celebrate Halloween here in Australia; I personally love it! I know it’s super early but I love creepy things, so if you want to join in and start getting halloweeny early, feel free!! Just tag #10dayhalloweenchallenge and make a sim/edit based around these topics:

Day 1. Salem

Day 2. Death

Day 3. Animalistic

Day 4. Futuristic

Day 5. Fairytale

Day 6. Victim

Day 7. Faie

Day 8. Medieval 

Day 9. Blood Lust

Day 10. Out of this world

These are completely open to interpretation, so go nuts and have fun!! 

WIP - tattoo artist Derek

It really is the armpit of town; foetid, too warm, always uncomfortably damp. It smells like trash too long uncollected, like inhabitants too long unwashed, and no one in their right mind would ever spend their time here.

Good thing no one’s ever thought Stiles was in his right mind.

Certain things just aren’t on the market any place else. If he wants to keep his dad safe from things that go bump in the night, and in the half light, and in the moonlight and the noonlight, then it’s to the square mile around the deteriorating warehouse district where he has to turn his steps. There’s not one bit of neon that doesn’t flicker, not one shabby storefront that’s not at least halfway lying about its wares, and Stiles isn’t the only one who’s declared this place a kind of neutral zone. If he tried to work around here no one would ever sell to him, and he’d be dead in under a week.

Stiles is too used to living to give it up any time soon.

He pushes through a bead curtain that hasn’t done much in its effort to keep off the flies. The woman behind the scarred counter lazily flicks them aside with a fan that could be horsehair, or kelpie, or something stranger. The walls are lined with things in jars and packets, rickety shelves labelled with crabbed writing that’s a struggle to read in the dim light from the kitchen behind the counter; someone out there is watching I Love Lucy and laughing with too much hiss to be human.

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