myinky-cloak

[myinky-cloak]

I saw this on Art Deco perfume bottle from Czechia from the 30th and needed to share it with you. Isn’t it gorgeous?

Oh it IS gorgeous! Czech Art Deco glass is broadly excellent stuff but WHAT an example, look at the tiny spider. I am in love with it, thank you for sharing!!

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Ha a lélek vándorlásában hiszünk, el kell fogadnunk hogy ha zenészek voltunk, zenészek maradunk akkor is, ha négy lábbal újraszületünk..

[myinky-cloak]

I think you're looking for Run Away (But We're Running in Circles) by @five-and-dimes If not you should go and read it anyway as it's great.

this might be quite a hard question because it’s like.. the crux of every dreamling fic ever but i’m trying to find one i read awhile ago about how dream believes no one truly loves him for himself. i think it had hob and death trying to prove it to him in different ways? it’s driving me insane, does it ring any bells?

It, as you suggest, rings a huge number of bells which I think may be a problem here but let's throw it open and see if anyone can name the specific fic you're looking for!

[myinky-cloak]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

and a merry boop to all <3

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boop ~(=^‥^)ノ✨

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There's a tourist attraction in Glasgow simply labelled "Freddie" and when i clicked on it it turned out to be dozens of pictures of the same orange cat

HE'S GOT 77 REVIEWS

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For the @dreamlingbingo adoptable prompt: bound and gagged

—

Hob Gadling is not about to pretend he’s never been tied up, gagged, had a hood thrown over his head and been thrown in the back of one variety of vehicle or other on, if not a frequent basis, at least a fairly regular one.

He hadn’t realised he’d made any proper enemies this lifetime, but this feels a bit like a cult—the black robes are a dead giveaway—so they probably want him for his immortality. Not the first time that’s happened, either. Funny how no one quite seems to grasp that it’s very difficult to sacrifice an immortal. On account of how he can’t die.

He would explain this to the… head priest? Whatever the weaselly looking bloke in the horn-rimmed glasses with the big fuck-off dagger is styling himself as, but they’ve got him gagged. His reputation in the running his mouth department might have preceded him.

Anyway, they’re chanting something in a language Hob can’t even begin to identify. He’s lying shirtless on a cold granite slab in a dingy basement. There’s a dagger poised directly over his heart. He’d be more worried if he didn’t know just how much force it takes to get a dagger like that into a human body, and how little force investment banker types tend to be capable of. The eighties had been a spectacular decade for disappointing fucks.

Anyway. Bloke in glasses. Dagger. Chanting.

And then all the candles and things flicker out at once. So they have summoned something, then.

A smarter man would probably be worried. Hob’s desperately curious. He’s never met a demon. Or an old god or whatever it is they’ve—

“Hello, Hob,” says a bored, familiar voice in the dark.

Dream?

Hob laughs around the gag. If he weren’t gagged, he’d be warning everyone present about how fucked they are.

As it is, he waves as well as he can with bound hands.

The candles flare back into life to reveal all the cultists on their knees, prostrating themselves. Hob watches Dream look them over with only the barest trace of bored contempt.

Then he waves a hand, and they all collapse into heaps where they are. Asleep. Hob’s fairly sure it’s just sleep.

Dream wanders up to the slab Hob’s been laid out on and looks him over.

“Are you quite well?” he asks.

Hob shrugs and makes as much of a can’t complain noise as he can around the gag. All in all, this has added a little excitement to an otherwise uneventful Thursday evening. Plus, it’s turned into a surprise visit from Dream. Can’t be all bad.

Dream nods, reaching out to touch the ropes around his wrists. Hob expects them to dissolve, but they don’t—instead, they turn to something softer. Silk, if he had to guess. Dreamsilk. He knows the feel of it well.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Impertinence aside,” he says. “They have made me a very fine offering.”

Oh.

A twinge of lust pinches deep in Hob’s belly. His evening keeps looking better and better.

“Though not, I note, a virgin,” Dream adds, the barest flicker of a smirk passing over his face. Then he tuts, and runs a hand along Hob’s bare arm, from shoulder to bound wrists. The bindings are good and tight, but all in all, fairly comfortable.

“All the same,” Dream says, tilting his head as he takes a firm grip of the ropes. “It would be rude not to accept such generosity.”

Several days later, Hob engages Johanna Constantine to track the cultists down for him. So he can send them a gift basket.

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Freddie as a guardian angel!

He’s playing his music from a magical recorder that reaches whoever needs it ❤️

For mrbadguymercury

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New Twine game just in time for Halloween!

Trick-or-Treat is a little twine game that takes you virtual trick-or-treating. Choose your costume, pick a porch, have an encounter, and see what kind of spooky treat (or trick!) you get.

Over 30 possible treats to collect 🍬

Spooky vibes 🎃

Contains bats 🦇

Experience either childhood nostalgia or what television has taught me trick-or-treating looks like in the US 🧛

Note: this game absolutely does not contain screamers, jumpscares, strobing lights, or anything of that kind. Tricks and/or treats are in the eye of the beholder. Personally, all possible options register as delights to me.

[myinky-cloak]

Autumn glow by John Atkinson Grimshaw

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An adaptation of Sherlock Holmes set in a world in which the fictional character/literary juggernaut Sherlock Holmes, and all the subsequent adaptations thereof, still exist.

Sherlock Holmes (pronounced Holl-mess, as he is constantly reminding people) just had the misfortune of having parents who really liked the books, and his attitude towards his fictional counterpart is pretty much the same as that of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock runs a Youtube Theory channel called Mysteries Unwrapped with Sherlock Holmes. He has received no less than seven cease and desist letters from the Conan Doyle estate, all of which he has so faded managed to rebuff by pointing out that that's literally his name.

(No he won't change his name. He's Sherlock Holmes the real live human person. Let Sherlock Holmes the non existent fictional character change his name.)

John is Sherlock's flatmate. Sherlock almost refused to live with him once he realised that it would mean staying with a medical student named John, and only gave in once John pointed out that: a) he's a biomedical student, which is completely different from an md, and b) his surname isn't Watson.

It's now been three years, which is long enough for them to have developed a genuine friendship, and for John to have a) started working towards his PhD in biotechnology, and b) for him to start dating somebody with the surname Watson.

Sherlock can feel the narrative closing in.

His Youtube channel is meant to be focused on lost media, fan theories and stuff like that, but he keeps accidentally stumbling upon and then solving genuine crimes.

His brother Mycroft may or may not have chosen that name after he transitions specifically to annoy him.

He doesn't even live in London, but somehow the only flat they could afford was on a street named fucking Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes and the Unescapable Power of the Narrative.

[myinky-cloak]

Happy Birthday to the One and Only Consulting Criminal!!

To Everybody's Favourite Hot Priest!

To the Theatre Actor Extraordinaire!

To The Fashion Icon!

To The Man who Knows the Importance of Lifting Heavy Things!

To The Best Renaissance Painting Subject Come To Life!

To Our Favourite Disturber Of The Peace!

Happy Birthday Andrew Scott!!

[myinky-cloak]

It Started With a Whisper Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling || 6k || T || 1/6

Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Getting Together, Mother Night's A+ Parenting, Father Time's A+ Parenting, Entirely Too Much Chemistry, Both of the Interpersonal and Scientific Sort

Hob, a werewolf from a grotty little estate on the wrong side of London, still can't quite believe he's starting his first term at St. Ignatius University. His goals don't extend very far beyond playing some quality football on the scrim league, and becoming the world's first (and best) lycan astrophycisist. Then... he meets Dream.

Hob is lamenting his life choice of science as he stumbles into the lecture hall at eight in the morning, shoving the last of his toast into his mouth in an attempt to mitigate the damage to his stomach lining from his nuclear waste espresso. He can’t believe he’s going to have to do this five days a week for an entire term. It’s unjust. It’s sadistic. How is anyone’s brain functioning at this hour. Charmed coffee should be subsidized.

The Hall of Sciences permeates an unholy combination of ammonia, sulfur, formaldehyde and Zoflora Linen Fresh, which Hob knows he will eventually adjust to, but right now it’s putting his teeth on edge. This is not helped by the crush of noise around him as students file into the lecture theater, all of them too loud and too close and if one more person steps on the back of his shoe Hob is going to actually snarl. 

But then—

It all stops. 

Everything goes quiet. 

Because the most gorgeous boy to ever exist is sitting at the very top of the lecture theater. 

He’s a fey, gothic creature—and Hob grew up with a few goth kids on the estate, okay, he’s used to smudgy eyeliner and artistically placed safety pins—but if those muppets had been dressed for school picture day, then this boy has been professionally styled for the runway. A high-collared black jumper, a subtle rim of eyeliner, an artfully styled mess of black hair, and just a hint of impassive disdain on his delicate features. 

He’s got an older-looking guy to his right, and an empty seat on the left. 

An empty seat with Hob’s name on it. 

Read on AO3

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Me and my mutuals rebloging the same post