#bakelite phones

[yourcoffeeguru]

DICTOGRAPH TELEPHONE 11 KEY Console System BAKELITE Fuld Handset made in ENGLAND || mysouthwest - ebay

[sergioguymanproust]

The way it used to be.No internet access, haaa.An the so indispensable Telephone guide with the ubiquitous yellow pages good not only to search for addresses but also to lift a child at the dinner table. Some to light the fire place.Well, I must admit I felt a bit of nostalgia looking at this pic.The typical country home had one in the kitchen and that was it.These days they have become collectible items along with that old black and white tv set and the first vinyl record player. Well, just wanted to mention these things that were part of my generation and in the blink of an eye turn our lives into something special,I guess you could say we had a taste of science fiction becoming a reality.Well,folks no more rotary dial,no more static on the line or collect calls,just silence on the line these days .It’s now vintage stuff.Words by Sergio GuymanProust.

[disgracecadet]

Today everyone in the UK’s phone was supposed to go off due to an alert from the government and mine didn’t. This confirms my suspicion that I am a special girl to whom the rules do not apply.

[grogusmum]

Please Mister Please

JOEL MILLER X F!READER (nicknamed)

SUMMARY: You can't seem to escape that one song even after the apocalypse. Joel and Ellies friendship brings you some comfort, and maybe Joel is interested in more.

WORD COUNT: 1700ish

WARNINGS: None to speak of. Unless you need one for soft Joel. As always, if you see something I've missed, let me know in my DMs, and I'll add it.

A/N: Just a little something inspired by the Olivia Newton-John's song of the same name. (She was in her country music era) It's hardly edited, written on my phone, and Imma just yeetin' it out there. Oops. It's just the usual fluffy hurt comfort. But it IS my first go round with Joel. I hope you enjoy it! 💚

The jukebox was found on a supply run at some honky tonk out Fort Collins way called Sundance something or other. You laughed at your first thought, which was it's wasn't one of those new ones with CDs, realizing "those new ones" were now 40 years old... but this one was truly an antique, with vinyl in it and everything.

A Wurlitzer in all its chrome, brightly colored bakelite, and satisfying push button glory.

You shake your head now, thinking you should have known the moment you heard. Everyone was so excited. Because, of course, they were! How fun is an old timey jukebox full of country-western ballads, anthems, and line dance classics?

It brought an energy into Jackson, the likes you hadn't seen before it. You'd gotten in early on, and watched its evolution from place where people were merely surviving to an industrious hive of busy bees, creating abundance but there wasn't much room for joy and then out of the clear blue sky - line dancing. At first they couldnt keep it plugged in all the time, it was turned on for a half an hour at the end of the day, until they had a good handle on the dam and the power plant was working consistently. You're sure it was the inspiration for Maria's attention to holidays and socials after seeing the excitement and morale lift from it. Suddenly, y'all were living, not just staying alive. So it seems silly, with so much real life and death shit to deal with, to get so hung up on one song, but it carried so much weight for you, you just couldn't shake it. If only it wasn't so sweet, if only it wasn't so catchy… Maybe people wouldn't have noticed it among all the other tracks. But it was sweet and it was catchy, and about making it after all the shit they'd been through...

So naturally, at five songs for a quarter, it ends up in the mix at some point. (It's the only reason the town has any coins. Paying it could have been bypassed, but dropping the 25¢ seemed to be part of the fun.) So when you least expected it, it would start to play, and so far, it continued to flip your stomach and make your eyes glass. And think about how he and you didn't actually make it.

Joel and Ellie have been in Jackson several months now. Ellie dove right in, school, taking care of the horses afterward, trying to socialize. She's a little guarded sure but mostly funny and eager. Joel started helping Tommy right away, but it seemed to you more to keep busy than to join the community. He's wary and taciturn. When they weren't in those organized work times, they stuck close. When Ellie ventured into social activities, Joel let her go, but he was ever watchful, with Ellie checking in often even just a look over her shoulder, just to see if he was still there. He always was. They reminded you of a bonded pair of strays.

You liked your place, Catnip's Apothecary. They'd come in twice so far, once when Joel brought Ellie in for a poison ivy rash and once when Ellie brought a very grumpy Joel for inflammation in his knees Ellie found all your jars of tinctures, teas, herbs, and powders fascinating. Asking what everything did, looking at drying plants hanging from rafters in wonder, pspspsing the cats.

“Are you a witch?”

“Ellie!” Joel admonished, but looking at you for a tell. Were you? You could see him wondering.

You only laughed. Sure you were, but what they were seeing here was hardly witchcraft, just herbalism, mostly. Joel and Ellie are both bright and observant - you're pretty sure they both noticed you didn't answer.

Tonight, Ellie is at the rec center, a movie theater for the evening, awaiting the start of none other than Star Wars.

Where did they find all these 70s flicks? Nevertheless, A New Hope's a great find. You can't resist going, even though you know it by heart, and you'll have to force yourself not to recite all the dialogue. Sitting smack dab in the middle, surrounded by all these kids and young adults, seeing it for the first time, you munch your popcorn and smile.

You don't see Joel, but it's not like you are actively looking for him… just curious, given their penchant to stay together and you figured he will know the movie too, maybe he's more of a Trekkie. When you catch Ellie's eye, she waves animatedly and moves to sit beside you.

“Sssoooo, you're like one of the only grown ups here.” there is a gremlin glint in Ellie’s eye.

“Yeah, I thought there'd be more nostalgia watchers-” you say a little sheepishly. “ But it's okay, I'll see it with a soon-to-be New Generation of Star Wars Fans. Bear Witness!”

“And what if it sucks?”

The noise you make is somewhere between an indignant scoff and a gasp of purest offense. But you rally.

“Oh just you wait padawan-”

"What's a pada-"

As quickly as the lights go down the attention commanding drums of the 20th Century Fox fanfare begin.

“Oop here we go! Buckle up, buttercup!!”

You live vicariously through the new audience for the next two hours, and it is a pure joy.

The young people of Jackson laugh at the Laurel and Hardy comedy stylings of Threepio and Artoo, they eat up the “though she be little she is fierce” snarky spirit of Princess Leia, gasp at Alderaan's fate and Obi Wan's sacrifice, cheer at Hans return, hold their collective breath when Luke turns off his targeting device to use the force, and burst into applause when he makes the one in a million shot, womp rats in Beggars Canyon take heed.

“Aw man I really hope we can see Empire some day,” you say as the credits roll.

Ellie is elated, peppering you with questions about the sequel and then Return of the Jedi as you walk out of the rec center, and everyone begins to head home. You do you best answering, not wanting to spoil too much if she actually gets to watch it.

“I'm this way,” she says suddenly, as she peels off from the town center, “see ya!”

You head toward the Tipsy Bison, to join the adults, most of which took advantage of the kids being off at the movie to do a little drinking and dancing.

The spring has brought high spirits, and with it bright chatter and the stomp of line dancing in progress. Grabbing a spot to watch, you order yourself a drink. When the song ends, there's hoots and applause, and the next one is slow and sweet, and it only takes the first note for you to feel the drop in your belly.

Joel saw you come in, he had seen you from the street actually, when the community center emptied after the film, he had his eye out for Ellie and saw her come out with you, talking animatedly and laughing. He smiled. You were his age, or close enough, he guesses, not only from both the smile and worry lines but your points of reference when talking, only missing references that are local to growing up in Texas. It's comforting, you remember Before. You also have a light he can't get enough of. You didn't confirm nor deny it, but he is sure you've enchanted him witch or not. He's just been too, 'shy' isn't the right word... he just hasn't been able to make any sort of move.

Then he does his best to saunter over to your little table, drink in hand. He's pretty sure his sauntering days are over.

Now you sit alone, a moment ago smiling, tapping to the music. He had been taking in some liquid courage, in the form of whiskey, to ask you to dance. But the light in your eyes is replaced with a shine, not in the way he loves. He's seen this a couple times, he realizes. Times when your eyes go far away and a sadness descends on you.

He gets up and checks the jukebox, taking note of the song. He's pretty sure he's right. He can't bypass a song on a jukebox, nor can he tell a DJ to change it. But he's gonna talk to Walt the barkeeper, first chance he gets.

“Hey Catnip, can I sit?”

You look up wiping your wide eyes.

“Oh, sure, Joel, please,” your smile tries to reach your eyes, but it flickers and can't stay.

“So," Joel starts, he's not good at this. He's gotten better but, “You're Still the One, huh? For me, it's Vince Gill- When I Call Your Name ”

You just look at him, and he starts to think maybe he hasn't improved at all.

“I don't know that one, it was kind of a fluke that our song, his song was a country song. It's not my usual genre.”

“Well it wasn't my lady and my song, it was the song that I listened to after she left. Sarah was so little. I felt so lost in those early days. Now I can't even hear the open-”

“Opening chords,” you finish with a chuckle, “yeah, I can't- and now of course it all wrapped up in the Before Times, too. But here it is, in a jukebox of less than 200 songs, the one song that represents my husband walking out on me before the shit hit the fan.”

“I can't even picture anyone leaving you with nothing but a song.”

“Yeah, well, I can picture it quite clearly. I can't imagine someone leaving you with a little baby girl to raise.”

“We are in the same boat, darlin’ until it happened I would have been with you on that. We were very young, 22, she panicked.”

“Aren't we a pair?”

“Why don't this pair go for a walk then?”

Joel holds his breath, looking into your lovely face.

“I'd like that.”

Standing, Joel holds out a hand to guide you up and out of the bar, it settles comfortably on your lower back, the song long over. His hand tingles and theres a flutter in his chest at being allowed to touch you this way.

It smells like petrichor, though the skies are clear. Joel's hand leaves your back to your chagrin, but he gently holds out his elbow, and with a crooked smile you slip your hand in the crux of it.

“Such a gentleman.”

He smiles and brings you to the newly constructed, yet to be painted, gazebo.

You climb the handful of steps and look at the town from this new vantage point.

Behind you, Joel comes close, his hand casually on your hip, like you did this everyday. His mouth close to the shell of your ear and a quiet hum floats in, the controlled breath tickling, you smile knowing the very apt song choice,

“Are you making fun of me Joel Miller?”

He chuckles, then the words over take the hum -

“Please mister, please, don't play B-17

It was our song, it was his song but it's over

Please Mr. please, if you know what I mean

I don't ever wanna hear that song again…”

Joel turns you, arm around your waist, his other hand sliding into yours -

" I'd sound a bit better with my guitar, but when we couldnt dance, so-"

He starts a simple box step, as he sings quiet and low, just for you, while turning you around the gazebo.

You join in singing, whispering in his ear the chorus when it comes again. It feels cathartic. Then you step back - who is this man? Not the guy who came in with a little girl, a gut wound that should have killed him, poorly healed knuckles, and the wary eye of someone who is always waiting for the other shoe to come down on him like it's made of lead. But looking at him now, those brown eyes wide but the little crease between his eyes holding his concern. His jaw soft, making you take more note of his natural pout and the salt and pepper scruff, the little spot that just won't fill in, it looks like a heart… you wonder if it's as soft and smooth as it looks and if he'd let you touch it to find out.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING 💚

Please consider commenting and reblogging. If you are interested in reading more of my writing, you can find my masterlist here. If you would like to be notified when i post more work, you can find my taglist form here.

[directdogman]

Hi! Do you happen to know what the makes of phone are for each dateable and Gingi (and if possible Karen's printer)? Randy's is easy but I don't know how to figure out what the others are. Sorry if you've already answered this, I tried looking for if you've had an ask like this before but couldn't find anything. Thanks!

Gingi is an Ericsson bakelite rotary phone (same as Crown.)

Oliver's a Slaney Telecom Eireann model phone

Karen's head isn't any specific printer, but just the concept OF a printer, modeled from scratch.

Bigfoot's an old disposable camera that was bought at a zoo maaaany years ago iirc.

[irradiatedsnakes]

today on "i got really sidetracked finding art references for dialtown", never realized til this moment that the [-shaped bit on callum and gingi's heads is broken?

like here's an ericsson bakelite of the type gingi and callum's head model is based on:

and here, from the extras menu, is the actual phone their model is referenced from:

note that the little label-holder bit on the front has its bottom broken off!

and for comparison, callum and phonegingi:

their little label doohickeys are based on a busted model! that's why it's not a full rectangle.

this means nothing i just thought it was fun.

[sovietpostcards]

A Moscow flat. Photo by Inge Weidmann (1965).

(Raskladushka (fold-out bed)! Bakelite phone! Radio! Iron! Legged mattress!)

[good-omens-heritage-posts]

do you have that absolutely iconique™ post where someone asked mr. neil what type of phone aziraphale would have, he said a bakelite phone, and someone responded that they disagreed since they headcanoned that aziraphale would have an iphone and be addicted to candy crush? it was one of the first posts I saw after finally reading the book in 2017 and has stayed with me ever since

just found it! :D

[beebobeebo]

Title: Hot to Go

Fandom: Justified

Characters: Raylan Givens & Tim Gutterson

Relationship: Tim Gutterson x Raylan Givens (Givenson)

Summary:

Raylan ain't happy. Raylan's drunk. Very drunk.

Nothin' to do about the happy issue, but he could go for some pizza to help sop up the bourbon and beer.

A fundamental truth of his life is that things just work out for Raylan Givens more often than seems fair. Sometimes, they give him a workout. Sometimes they're an apathetic twenty-something with a questionable work ethic and timing to be proud of.

A.K.A. The Pizza Boy AU

Notes:

I should not be encouraged or enabled.

Thank you to @thylacinedream for the idea for the AU, some of the choicest lines of dialogue, making sure this makes a modicum of sense, and generally putting up with me sending them random passages of Raylan knowing he should shut up and Tim decidedly not shutting up until someone is /nice/.

It should not feel so damn good to lean against this door, but it's solid and cold against his cheek. He peeks back reluctantly and looks at his car. That is not the parking job of a sober man. Damn it. Answering the phone had been a shit idea. Nothin' good came from picking up the seventh call after six missed ones. Fuck a man for workin'. Maybe there was beer left in the fridge?

After a few solid attempts and half a dozen questionable ones, he gets the key in the hole. Everything inside was a discomforting blend of orange and cigarette-dyed yellow, but he's bedded down in worse places.

He's been in worse places.

He grabs a faded menu sticking out from under the cracked yellow phone. Pizza. Not a bad idea. Not a good one, either, but something had to soak some of this up or tomorrow would be a new circle of hell.

He pulls out his cell, because he's not touching a phone that's probably seen more heavy breathing than the bed he's eased down on.

The call's perfunctory, the guy on the phone knows the address, just needs a room number. Thirty minutes or it's free. He lies back and shuts his eyes. Shit.

There's the knock in less than thirty minutes. Fuck. Wallet.

The kid at the door looks like he's as happy to see Raylan as Raylan is to be him in his current state. Kid can't be out of his twenties. He's wearing a sour face, stained shirt, and a worn baseball cap.

"Twenty bucks," the pizza boy drawls and holds out the box.

"Hello? How are you? Any of these ringin' a bell?" Raylan asks as he attempts to operate his suddenly complicated wallet.

The kid sighs

"Man, it's twenty bucks. That doesn't include the tip."

Raylan pulls out a twenty and eyes the kid.

"You look like someone knocked your dick in the dirt."

"You smile the entire time you're at work? This is my job."

Raylan digs out the rest of the cash in his wallet and hands it over. The kid scowls at it.

"Your generosity is as great as your commentary."

A sober Raylan would have the good sense to be sheepish. He was not sober by any stretch of the imagination. "You cleaned me out…"

"Tim," the kid answers with an almost audible eyeroll.

"I apologize for my meager means, Timothy. I'll—"

"Tim." The kid shoves the money in his pocket and dryly, robotically says,"Thank you for your order. Have a great day knowing you got the right slice at the right price."

He turns to leave and Raylan watches him walk back to a newer sedan. Bit rich for a pizza boy, but not unbelievable if he had supportive parents somewhere with better fucking manners.

The way his eyes drift down the kid, Tim, gives him a moment's pause. He needs to eat something and fuck off to sleep.

Looking at the hotel room's Bakelite clock isn't doing him any good. Another rough phone call leads to another night of attempting to drown his sorrows. 'Cause his sorrows aren't even swimming; they're floating like they're enjoyin' the goddamn lazy river at Dollywood.

The overwhelming urge to fix something settles in his chest. He hates this. There's some deep psychological reason behind it, this impulse, but fuck if he's goin' there tonight. Tonight he is goin' to turn on a movie with more violence than plot…and order a pizza.

"Just makin' it up to the kid," he defends himself to the tacky wall-wide mirror over the room's peeling dresser. That's all. No reason he broke that hundred into twenties. Life just works out for Raylan sometimes.

He calls the pizza place. The man on the phone seems a bit off about having a repeat customer, but Raylan shoves it off and asks if Tim is working. He starts to go into a drunken explanation but the voice on the other end of the line tells him they only have two drivers and you get who you get. Raylan starts to argue, but that would be fuckin' weird, so he just thanks the guy.

The knock on the door jolts Raylan out of his skin.

He opens the door. The kid, Tim, is standing in the sickly light of the bare bulb next to the door. They take measure of each other. Tim wears the same disgruntled look and stained shirt over slouchy jeans as before.

"Twenty bucks. Doesn't include tip," Tim pointedly says as he shoves the pizza at Raylan's bare chest. When had he taken his shirt off? He was hot and then there was a knock.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. Workin' on it. Your manners haven't improved."

"Has the tip?" Tim says with a barely raised eyebrow. When Raylan hands over the forty dollars, the kid makes a show of clutching it to his chest. "It's an honor contributing to the destruction of your girlish figure, sir," he says in the flattest voice Raylan has ever heard.

"Kid, how old are you? You makin' a career out of pizza delivery?" Raylan leans against the door frame to steady himself against the whiskey and the audacity of this little shit.

"Older than you think." Tim scoffs. "And why? Worried I'll move on and you'll never see me again, Stranger Danger?"

"Nah. Just thinkin' you might be doin' more than this." Raylan says and immediately regrets it. Tim squares his shoulders, proving he is capable of upright posture.

“We all make sacrifices to live the dream. Can’t imagine what it’s costing you to keep up a place like this with them chargin' by the hour and all.”

“Why do you think I care so much about the thirty minute guarantee?” Raylan plonks the pizza down on the table by the door and crosses his arms over his chest.

"And you're wastin' time jawin' with forced company instead? You go down the street thattaway you'll find a whole mess of people to give you time for forty dollars."

Raylan sniffs."Then what would I eat?"

They both decidedly let that one lie.

"Gotta go," Tim says as if though the very thought of existing bores him.

"Goin' on intrepid pizza boy adventures?" Raylan asks with more of smirk than he intends. Tim shrugs.

“At least until Daddy John releases me at 2:30am. I’m kinda a hot date.”

Raylan goes to scratch idly at his stomach before some sense slips through. "A hot date at 2:30am? Because so much good happens then."

“Well then I’ll be the best show in town," Tim says over his shoulder as he walks back to his car.

Raylan takes a beat. "You gotta buy a ticket to that show?"

Tim turns and walks backward for a few feet as he says, “Tickets? I don’t whore out for cash. Five hundred word essay on my desk by morning.”

“And should I drop that off at y'all's location on King Street or the one that used to be a gas station?”

Tim manages to look terrifying while smiling as he answers,"Fuck off. Three o'clock."

And Tim is in the car and gone.

Raylan? Raylan's a fucking idiot.

The knock at the door comes at a quarter before three. The kid is fucking punctual if nothing else. When Raylan opens the door Tim is standing with a half handle of Jim Beam, not unlike the one Raylan finished killing a half hour ago. Kid's thrown on a flannel, but is otherwise the same petulant little shit who walked off hours earlier.

"Hey." Raylan steps aside to let Tim enter. "I see you made it through the trials and tribulation of deliverin' pizza."

"I see you didn't bother to put on a shirt." Tim lounges into the chair next to the rickety table that's holding a half-eaten pizza. The kid actually looks bemused. "You've been eatin' the pizza?"

"What the hell else would I do with it?" Raylan asks incredulously as he grabs a pair of plastic cups from the sink. He knows he's simultaneously furrowed his brow and widened his eyes because the kid mocks him in a damn good impression.

Tim pours without being asked. "Man, no one eats the pizza." Raylan drinks his cup down as he ponders the implications of all that. Tim smiles into his cup. "You got no fuckin' clue, man."

"Raylan."

Tim chokes into his cup."That was a quick assumption," he says as he laughs and looks up at Raylan.

"No, you little bastard, my name is Raylan."

"What kinda name is Raylan?" Tim has perked up ever so slightly at the very idea of that even being a name.

"What kinda name is Tim?" Raylan's jaw works as he leans down to rest his hands on the arms of the Tim-filled chair.

"A human one," Tim says before catching the back of Raylan's neck and pulling him into a kiss. Raylan forgets how annoying the kid is the minute their mouths are together. Tim is quick to use his teeth and beg forgiveness with his tongue. Raylan contemplates spending all night leaning over this chair to keep feeling this pressure, this heat. Tim has other ideas and shoves him back. "I gotta be out of here at five so no use pussy footin' around."

"That your hot date?" Raylan says as he backs up to sit on the edge of the bed. Tim follows tossing his shirts behind him.

"More like an appointment."

Raylan leans back so that Tim can straddle his lap.

"Appointment? At five—"

"You ask a lot of questions for someone who wants a fuck." Tim leans in and bites Raylan's bottom lip. "You bathe in bourbon?"

"You always complain so fuckin' much, Tim?" That sets the kid off. The little shit is digging red crescents into Raylan's shoulders as he forces them back against the bed. "You wanna try that again, Raylan?" Raylan's slides his hand down Tim's back and into his jeans to grab the mouthy fuck by his ass. He guides Tim's hips to grind against him as he leans up to bite at the curve of his throat. He's rewarded with a soft, low sound slipping from the younger man's mouth. The answer to this is clearly more teeth.

"Fuck," Tim groans out followed by a less impressed, "Fuck, man." He slides a hand between them and expertly frees Raylan's dick which is at best half hard. Tim is pulling out every step to rectify that. Kid is thorough,but—

"I've seen the commercial. You're not supposed to be embarrassed about this. Disappointed. You should be very disappointed," Tim drawls with a tinge of annoyance.

Raylan sinks his teeth into Tim's shoulder.

"Maybe it’s not me. That mouth of yours do anything else or just spit out bullshit?”

Tim lets out the softest hiss. "Did you just blame me for your whiskey dick?" He scoffs."My mouth works just fine. Not a complaint one."

Raylan rolls them with a surprising amount of resistance. The kid certainly had some fight in him.

"Show me." He grabs Tim's jaw and slides his thumb between his lips. Tim promptly bites down. Raylan stares down at him with no reaction other than a smirk. "Nice try, kid. Show me."

Tim snorts, but drags his tongue up Raylan's thumb, purposefully catching his bottom lip on the top. "Can't even get it up for this?" He drags a hand down Raylan's chest as he sinks an eye tooth into the meat of the thumb and sucks at the wound.

"Fuck." Raylan wants to strangle the kid. He wants to shut him the fuck up, but he also wants more of whatever the hell this is.

"What is wrong with you?" He replaces his thumb with his tongue. Tim seems no less enthusiastic for the swap.

Raylan pulls back so he can stand and shuck off his pants and boxers.

"An impressive sight if it, you know, worked," Tim says pushing up on his elbows. Raylan proudly notes that in spite of everything the kid's breathing is rough.

"More than one way to skin a cat."

"Hmmm, thought the lack of cat and cat-related words was the point of this," Tim says gesturing vaguely around them. Raylan rolls his eyes and gets to work seeing Tim, who watches with the idle boredom of youth, undressed.

"You could help."

"I could also just enjoy the view. Which do you think I'm gonna do?" Tim smiles like the cat who got the cream. Raylan leaves the grinning ass with his jeans around his boots to grab a bottle from the nightstand.

"Gideons know you're keepin' that there with their bible?" says a far too amused Tim until Raylan presses him to the bed with forearm across his chest.

"You gonna behave?" Raylan slides his coated hand between them so that he can tease at himself, preparing for exactly what the little shit deserves.

"Prolly not,"Tim says, his eyes barely widening.

"Didn't fuckin' think so." Raylan kisses him roughly. He's about had enough lip and isn't keen on the fact that he's stretching himself when he'd rather have Tim writhing underneath him. But a man makes do.

Whenever Tim gets the notion to find some relieving friction, Raylan's forearm rolls forward making him momentarily gasp for air. Raylan isn't surprised how much they both like that. He's more surprised that Tim has shut the fuck up for the last bit so they can both enjoy what's coming next.

Raylan sits up straddling a stomach that might actually put his to shame if he was in the mood to give the kid credit. He's not.

"You have some sort of plan here?" Tim says as he regains the ability to be an asshole.

"Yeah." Raylan grabs Tim's cock and lines him up with his ass. "I'm fuckin' you until I wipe that look off your goddamn face."

Tim groans as Raylan eases himself down. It's been a hot minute since Raylan's played reception, but he knows the game. What he refuses to acknowledge is how starry-eyed he feels as Tim looks up at him with something finally bordering the lesser side of petulance and disdain. "Fuck."

"Yeah. Fuck." Tim starts to raises hips and Raylan is quick to press his forearm back to his chest. "No. Don't fucking move."

"You're gonna be beg—"

Raylan rides the little bastard, hand moving to rest against his throat if he decides to get smart or worse interrupt this feeling. Fuck, the kid probably knows exactly what he has that's why he doesn't have a problem runnin' his mouth. He doesn't slow down until he hears Tim whimper. The smug look on his face replaced by wide blue eyes when Raylan's ass meets his hips. The bastard is coming and all Raylan can think about is how he wants to complete some fucked up circuit and ram his tongue down Tim's throat. He gives in to the impulse and takes his finally responsive cock in hand and thrusts into it until he coats Tim's chest.

Rolling off to the side was a good idea, but now his head is next to Tim's and the pathetic part of him, the part that always returns those fuckin' calls wants to kiss his neck and smooth his damp hair. He closes his eyes.

"Ain't you got somewhere to be, kid?"

Tim, who has been remarkably silent for the last few moments nods. "Gotta leave before five. Appointment."

"Fuckin' five o'clock mystery appointment."

Tim rolls over and goddamn snuggles up to Raylan.

"Yeah." He kisses Raylan's shoulder. "Hey, don't watch the news today."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Means I gotta go." Tim is awkwardly tugging up his pants and going to the sink to clean himself off. "Can't be late."

"You workin' tonight?" Raylan asks the younger man now half trapped in the shirt he's tugging over his head.

"Nah. Got the night off. Pizza'll have to deliver itself."

"Come back by after nine if you want." Raylan says as he decides he should probably clean his ass up before even thinking about work.

"If I want," Tim sounds too pointedly petulant for either of them to doubt he'd be back.

"Yeah."

"Bye, Raylan." Tim has one arm in his flannel as he's barreling out the door.

"Bye, Tim."

After he'd showered, Raylan passed out for a few hours. He finally stirs around nine and clicks on the TV. "Don't watch the news." What the fuck does that even mean? He turns the TV over to channel five, worst case he sees the weather.

Raylan goes about getting dressed, the low hum of a story about a dog to adopt and a report on a possible thunderstorm playing in the background of his making himself presentable.

When he sits on the edge of the bed, the lady reporter is going on about some top story about a prison transfer gone wrong. He brushes it off. Occupational hazard. But everyone's fine except the man who got five years for a list of things that give even Raylan pause. Single gunshot to the head from what had to be far enough off for the poor bastard driving to not see the shooter. Hit a red light and the piece of shit in the back is dead at exactly a quarter to five.

That's…shit.

[yourcoffeeguru]

Vintage DICTOGRAPH TELEPHONE 11 KEY Console System BAKELITE Fuld Handset made in ENGLAND

[the-acid-pear]

Bakelite telephones are so cool — literally!

[fleckcmscott]

Haunted Heart

Summary: Mabel invites the Flecks to visit for the holidays. On Halloween, more than trick or treats await them.

Words: 5,606

Warnings: Swearing

A/N: In this oneshot (twoshot? 🤫), I wanted to revisit Y/N's family in Missouri, catch up on how Mabel and Ed are doing, and give Arthur a new way to celebrate the holidays. This Halloween story is a tad late, but I hope you all still enjoy it. 😊 Much gratitude to @jokerownsmysoul for beta-ing and @sweet-nothings04 for her kind support and encouragement. 💜

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The notion had sprung from Mabel's gut, not her head. Flown out of her mouth like one of Jason's fastballs flying past home plate.

"Why don't you and Arthur come down for the holidays?"

The plea disguised as a question hung, waited. Tick-tocked in the air and her heart. A sitcom's muffled dialogue came from the other end of the phone line, canned laughter directed squarely at her. The tap of Y/N's fingernails on Bakelite. Once. Twice.

Silence pushed Mabel to continue the sales pitch of the year. "Two weeks would be enough time to do Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. We'd be happy to have you stay here, if you're ready to try that again. Not that before was your fault, I mean- That's not what I mean." Shut up, shut up, shut up!

The airy idea had taken on the sudden heaviness of urgency, paired with an awareness of how much she craved this, how much she had to make up for. Yeah, Y/N had forgiven her. But the wheels of self-forgiveness spun at two miles at hour. And though her sister wasn't one for drawn out heart to hearts, Mabel felt an acute need for amends.

It manifested at the oddest times. When Ashley had taken her first steps, and Mabel realized Y/N had witnessed their dad's last. Or when Jason had gone to the prom, and his date's baby blue dress had reminded Mabel that she'd missed Y/N's wedding. The Widow Brown shuffling through the produce section with her walker; catching Murray Franklin with Ed; card games on family nights, new since Ed's demotion. They induced the pang of not being there. Of not having been there.

The last two years they'd made real process. Weekly calls and surprise cards and quite a few I love yous. They continued to work their way back to each other.

Last summer, Mabel had downed a mint mojito in the airport bar, clung to Ed and the kids, and boarded a plane to the Great Wilds of Gotham, where Y/N and Arthur let them further into their lives. Shown them Dube & Ellis's office building, the city's zoo and botanical gardens, and Amusement Mile. They'd even made reservations at a fancy Italian joint called Bamonte's and caught a show at Pogo's.

At Gotham Beach, Y/N had taught Brian how to skip stones, and Ruthie had returned her magic coin to Arthur. Running down the shore, Ed held Ashley above him like an airplane, zoom zooming all the way. For the first time, Mabel had seen the ocean. Standing on the rocky beach, toes digging into broken shells and jagged pebbles, the water was endless. So vast it could have swallowed her up.

Starting, she'd stumbled back, feeling foolish for never being the type of girl to leave home.

She folded deeper into the den's easy chair, squished herself into the worn leather. "We just love you and would love to see you again."

A click of the tongue across the miles. "I don't see why not. It's one of Arthur's busier seasons, but he doesn't take enough time off, anyway. I'll talk with him. We'd love to see you, too."

Mabel rushed out a breath she definitely knew she was holding. "Really?"

"Yes!" Bright laughter that dimmed to an ahem. "I...can't make any promises about our parents or going to Sunset Hills. Please don't ask me to visit. If I can, I'll tell you. All right?"

Mabel's chest tightened. At least getting this out of the way would result in fewer eggshells. The curly phone cord wound between her knuckles. "All right. I hope to make the bed for you soon."

~~~~~

Arthur couldn't have agreed faster than if Y/N had asked him to marry her (which he would do again and again and again.) Spending the holidays in the countryside? With his nephews and nieces and in-laws? Even without snow, the celebration would be worthy of an Irving Berlin song, a postcard to paste in his journal.

And, after the tidal wave of their last visit, he'd get to see how Y/N would do.

When she'd mentioned the trip, there'd been none of the pursed lips, the fleeting fear, the cryptic conversation that'd made him wonder what she was hiding. Just a simple matter-of-factness that her family was worth having to make small talk with perfectly nice people she never wanted to see again. A weird notion, yeah, but within her realm of weird, the same realm that made her love Gotham and him.

On the flight down, he turned to a fresh page and jotted a title in the top margin: "Our Trip to Missorie."

Welcoming and warm, Mabel and Ed were as kind as Arthur remembered, an imprint on his heart. Before they had a chance to drop their suitcases, Ruthie and Brian rushed them for hugs, while Jason held back in the way happening teenagers do. Sitting on the play rug in the corner of the living room, Ashley waved and smiled. "Hi! Who you guys?" Hard to believe they'd fed and rocked her a blink of an eye ago.

With Halloween only two days away, they got right to work.

Having an entire porch to decorate, an honest-to-goodness front yard, tickled Arthur's mind, made it whir with creative flair. Not that he didn't love the small touches Y/N put together back home. Die-cut cardboard cutouts on the windows, a jack-o-lantern he lit and set outside the door. How her cat costume cradled her curves and that teasing tail.

Their celebrations were sweet and understated, wholeheartedly them. But compared to an apartment, the possibilities here were endless.

On the way to the supermarket, they'd stopped at a clapboard farmhouse that took the holiday as seriously as evening news. Spooky sounds echoed, an audio effects cassette on infinite loop, howls and screams that prompted a shiver even in the day. Plywoods gravestones - at least a dozen - loomed over coffins, from which rubber masked ghouls climbed. A hooded creature lurked behind a crooked tree, a scythe in its skeletal hand. A guestbook lay open on a music stand by a makeshift crypt.

Arthur declined to sign. Instead, he chose a friendly competition.

"Miller's has cornstalks for sale," Mabel said. She and Arthur were in the basement, digging through box after box of goodies. "We can get some this afternoon. Hay, too. But we'll want to decorate tomorrow - the squirrels'll tear it up, otherwise." She knelt by a plastic milk crate of props and lifted a rubber rat by its tail. "This'll look good on the stairs."

He blew dust from the ears of a blow mold horned owl. "I don't understand how you can love Halloween but Y/N doesn't."

A pause, a gulp loud enough to make him turn. "The kids help," Mabel began. "The first year Jason was supposed to go trick-or-treating, he had a fever of a hundred and two. The poor thing wore his Daffy Duck costume and watched cartoons. Arthur, look at this."

Scooting beside her, he studied the object in her hands. A pumpkin shaped doily, vines winding into curlicues at the edges. It'd ridden in directly from the fifties, akin to Y/N's needlepoint apron, the one her mother hadn't gotten to finish. Mabel's fingers curled as though holding a fragile treasure, stained-glass that'd been cloaked in dirt for too long.

When his gaze met hers, there was melancholy mixed with merry. "Do you wanna use it?" he asked, indicating it with his chin.

"Yeah." Thumbs caressed the seams once more. "Mom would hang it on the door after we carved pumpkins. Did Y/N tell you about that?"

"She doesn't talk a lot about the holidays." A grimace twisted the corner of Mabel's mouth. Leaning into one of the earliest lessons he'd learned, he sought to cheer her, raised a palm in a Hold On gesture. "She tells me more than she used to - about you and your mom and dad. But I think it's still hard. Please. Don't be upset with her."

"I'm not, not at all." Mabel said with an emphatic shake of her head. But she didn't meet his gaze. "What did you do last year?"

The tastes and sounds and sensations of that evening roared through his head and heart. He sought to keep his cheeks from turning crimson through sheer will. "Um. Worked on one of her cases and baked a cake." He cleared his throat twice. "She does like to catch B-Movies on TV in October."

Mabel chuckled. "That's an old tradition. One night she took me to see The Blob at the drive-in. She was always so refined and smart - I had no idea she had such bad taste."

"I don't like them, either. But I watch with her, try to plan something special, you know? Make it about us? There's a Grand Halloween Ball every year. At Wayne Hall. I'd love to take her there someday."

"But she'd have to get better at dancing."

A snort wrinkled his nose, shoulders raised in an agreeable shrug. "Well, loving her makes her easy to dance with. It's just it’s the one thing she's shy about."

"I love her, too." Mabel folded the doily into quarters, grabbed a steel support post, and pushed herself to her feet. "This should be enough to knock the neighbors dead. Help me lug all this upstairs."

~~~~~

"Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom!"

Brian rounded the bottom of the stairs. Careened into the kitchen. Skidded to a stop at the oval dining table, where Mabel, Y/N, and Arthur stood sorting candy. A plastic turtle shell, a repurposed sandbox cover, clattered to the floor. Frantic huffs and puffs that left Mabel wondering if she should grab a paper lunch bag and hold it to his mouth.

The boy pressed an orange strip of terrycloth to his forehead. "I can't tie it!" He pulled the ends past his ears for emphasis.

"Honey, slow down." It was just after breakfast, but the kids were determined to wear their costumes all day. She handed a quarter-filled paper treat bag to Arthur. Turned the boy around by the shoulders. "Where's dad?"

"In the bathroom. Ashley missed again."

Mabel rolled her neck from side to side. Though she adored the stork's little surprise, she'd assumed potty training would be behind her at forty. She'd double-wrap Ashley before sticking her in her pumpkin costume. "Put your dirty clothes in the hamper and I'll start the laundry." Mabel tied the terrycloth into a knot. "Did you find your pillowc-"

"Mommy!" Ruthie's plaintive cry from the downstairs bathroom. "I can't find my makeup!" An unsurprising development, given the last-minute switch from Strawberry Shortcake to Circus Ballerina.

Ensuring the headband wouldn't cut off circulation, Mabel stuck two fingers between it and the crown of Brian's head. "All set! Now get your clothes, then go help your sister."

"But my shell isn't on yet!" He pointed at the forlorn accessory.

"Brian, take a deep breath and count to five." Y/N crossed the linoleum to kneel next to the boy. She retrieved the fallen armor, instructed him to hold up both arms. Held his hands one by one to keep his elbows straight and slip it over his green sweatshirt. Once the shell was in place, she tightened the straps on his shoulders, tightened his belt to keep his plastic nunchaku in place.

"There you go," Y/N said, ruffling his caramel hair. "Now let's go find that makeup."

"I don't have green."

"Mommy!" Ruthie wobbled on the tightrope of excitement and panic.

A much-needed referee, Arthur stepped from behind the table. "I do. I have enough for Ruthie, too." He offered his hand to Brian, wiggled his fingers. When he took it, Arthur gave the quarter-filled bag to Y/N. "Save a treat for me," he said, flashing a grin as he was tugged out of the room.

Smiling softly, she studied the crinkly paper, where a scarecrow waved, clad in a top hat, plaid suit coat, and patched pants. "This looks like Arthur's Carnival costume."

On their vacation north, they'd gotten to meet the professional clown courtesy of a special street performance. Mabel opened a box of taffy. "Is that what he wears for Halloween?"

Y/N answered with a nod. "He works most of the day, usually one or two gigs." She dropped a few loose candy corns into the bag. "That reminds me. I've got to dig my cat costume out of my suitcase."

"Not this year, you don't." A skeptical glare shot Mabel's way. She cackled. "All will be revealed. Your hubby shared a smidge of what you two get up to. I'm glad you're making your own history."

"This is for him, mostly This is the one holiday he insisted on." Lower lip stuck between her teeth, Y/N looked in the direction Arthur had gone, gaze flitting back and forth. Then she leaned forward. "You heard what he said on Murray. I don't think he had many traditions growing up."

It was a truth Mabel had locked in her psyche, one that turned her throat to cotton.

"He likes looking through my photo album," Y/N continued. "We've gone through it probably six times. He asks about every single picture. What I got for Christmas that year, or what game we were playing, or what we had a picnic - he refuses to try egg salad sandwiches." Giggles dissolved to a tender hush. "Sometimes I think he wishes he was there. I don't blame him. His father wasn't around, Penny couldn't take care of or protect him.

"There's a file he took from Arkham - that's the state hospital in Gotham - about his mother and what happened to him. He doesn't know this, but I read everything in it, all of it. Part of me wishes I hadn't, but I had to know. What he went through, I-"

One long inhale, the rapid flutter of her lashes. "I know how hard it is to want to look back at happy times and not find them - even when they're there. We've put a lot behind us. It's nice to be able to appreciate Halloween again, to celebrate with someone who can enjoy it." Wincing, she shook her head. "I didn't mean how that sounded."

Lips pinched, Mabel put a bag in the white wicker treat basket. "You did and that's all right."

"I did love taking you house to house. Remember when you drove your bike into a pothole and scraped your knee?"

That hadn't hurt as badly as the scraping of Mabel's heart. After a moment, she pushed the weight of what she couldn't change off her back and went to her side. "You gave me a Clark bar while dad patched me up."

Y/N folded down the end of the treat bag to seal it shut. "Where are we taking the kids, anyway? The mall?"

"Absolutely not. It was a zoo last year." Stumbling through what must've been a thousand people, all for hard candies a grandmother would be ashamed to have in a lead glass dish on her coffee table. "The elementary school's having a fall carnival for the town. Jeff might be there. Would Arthur mind?"

"They met before and got along well enough to gossip about me." Y/N nestled her bag next to Mabel's, fingertips lingering at the seam.

"How have you been sleeping?" Mabel asked. It'd been a relief when Y/N had forgone a reservation at Four Acres, decided to give the old brick house another try. And while she still took morning walks, they were shorter and came only after a decent breakfast.

"Better. It's not easy to sleep in a new place - or an old place. But I'm getting there. This-" She gestured at the festive mess "- is helping me get there."

Mabel blinked back enough remorse to sling an arm about her shoulders and squeeze. "Good. I want this place to feel like home."

~~~~~

Clad as Carnival, Arthur waited on the living room sofa, pen in hand and notebook on his lap. "I think Y/N's halfing a good visit. She wants to talk with me more now and that's a relief. She isn't tossing and turning in bed - so I can get some sleep! Ruthie and Brian let me paint there faces, like I do at work sometimes. But it was nicer because their my neece and nephew (f?) and-"

"Ready or not, here we come!"

In the dining room doorway to the left, Mabel stood with Y/N, their arms firmly linked. Identical outfits forced a doubletake. Claw clips held back cinnamon hair, siren blue headbands sat snug above their ears. They wore Lycra leotards, capsleeve and V-neck, a fuchsia bright enough to blind. Spandex belts flattered rounded hips, what he figured was a family trait, and blue tights hugged their legs. Fuchsia leg warmers and white Saucony Jazz sneakers completed the ensembles.

Rising, Arthur rolled up his journal and stuck it in his waistband, flummoxed but eager gaze darting back and forth between them. "Who're you supposed to be?"

"The Doublemint Twins!" Mabel said, beaming with pride.

Y/N offered the half-smile of the Playing Along.

"Double the pleasure, double the fun! Look, I even have gum." Mabel retrieved a pack from her belt and doled out a stick each, which had gone soft from her body heat. Arthur hated mint gum; it tasted like trying to quit smoking. But, being in the spirit of things, he accepted, anyway. "Ed and I usually do couple's outfits, but he agreed to make an exception this year. No football player and cheerleader."

Y/N asked, "What's he doing, then?"

A guffaw boomed beyond the woman's shoulders. Slicked back salt and paper hair came into view, a face bathed in blotchy baby powder like a 1940s B-movie extra. A faded white short sleeve button-up was tucked into gray trousers, and a plastic cape was tied loosely at the neck. The cape came to his waist, as if he'd borrowed it from one of the kids.

Fingers curled into claws, he lurched forward and slurred through cheap plastic fangs. "I vant to suck your blood!" He grabbed Mabel by the bicep and bent to her neck.

Giggling, she swatted him away. "Now, now, not in front of the guests."

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I can't find Ashley's tights."

"They're in the bathroom." Mabel rubbed his hairline with her thumb, then grabbed his hand. "You need a widow's peak."

Once they were out of earshot, Y/N crossed her arms over her chest. "I think she forgot we're not actually twins. This is too tight for a school party."

When an outfit accentuated her breasts, she tended to avoid it. As Arthur saw it, though, she had nothing to be bashful about. She was lovely and his. Rouge highlighted the apples of her cheeks, violet eyeshadow flattered her brown eyes. Stepping forward, he pried her hand from her armpit.

A timid laugh bubbled up. She tucked her chin. "You're looking at me like you want to eat me up, but I feel more silly than sexy."

"You're always sexy. Especially when you're silly." He pressed a chalky kiss to her wrist, lingered until he felt her pulse. "What is it they say on GMC? When your bad movies are on? Something wicked is coming this way?"

"Not too wicked, I hope," she said, stealing beneath his plaid suitcoat to cup his sides. "At least, not yet." She bounced to her toes, plush, plum painted lips puckered towards his...

"Bye mom, bye dad!" Jason bellowed from the kitchen.

Mabel did not miss a beat. "Hold on a minute, young man!"

Arthur's mouth bumped Y/N's temple as she turned towards the commotion, then started off with an arched brow.

Ashley shoved under her arm like a sack of flour, Mabel marched out of the bathroom. "Where do you think you're going with that?" She pointed at the VCR sticking out from Jason's windbreaker.

"Mike's mom said she'd rent movies if I brought it over."

Felt pumpkin outfit at the ready, Ed jogged to Mabel's side. The toddler's stubby legs kicked wildly. Mabel passed Ashley to her husband and the interrogation continued, questions whipped off a well-memorized list. "Is this a party?"

"No."

"How many people will be there?"

"It's just some friends from school!"

"Will Mike's parents be home?"

"Yes. No. I dunno."

"Your curfew is ten-thirty."

Wincing, Jason leaned his head against the door. "But we won't even get through one movie by then!" He'd reached that age where being cool was of the utmost importance. While getting his driver's license had added a notch to the cool belt, he currently sounded much younger and uncooler than his sixteen years.

Hands on hips, Mabel let out a huff. "Eleven-thirty and not one minute later." Once the boy nodded, she pecked his cheek and opened the door. "I love you. No speeding."

Though agitation lurked in the air, Arthur couldn't help but find the scene heartwarming, akin to a family disagreement he'd seen on one of his old sitcoms. Something he wished he'd had. Maybe a compliment would soothe the situation.

"You're good at that," he said. "Being a mom, I mean."

Mabel shrugged. "He's growing up so fast - sixteen going on thirty. Let me grab this basket here-" she heaved the basket of treats from the table "-and we can be off."

~~~~~

Boonville Elementary and Sumner Middle shared a quad with Thomas Hart Benton High, with the high and middle schools on a hill on Cooper Street, and the elementary on the parallel Locust Road. Victory Field, a football field surrounded by bleachers and a quarter mile track, delineated where the big and little kids played. A baseball diamond was to the left and a playground sat to the right, which had a merry-go-round, a jungle gym, a metal slide that'd scald you when the sun was out, rickety seesaws, and two sets of swings.

The high school's gym bustled, as if the whole town had joined in celebration. Booths and tables lined the walls, manned by teachers, students, and volunteers from the community. A cakewalk with desserts and other small prizes stood in the center. A sign in an urgent font advertised a bake sale, featuring Ms. Chippy's Blue Ribbon popcorn balls.

Brian and Ruthie steered Ed and Mabel through the throng, to a haunted house hosted in the kindergarten classroom. Mabel shifted Ashley from one arm to the other, calling for them to wait up.

Y/N's face was a mask of unwelcome discomfort. Her hands folded firmly together, her Ready for Inane Conversation stance. It was foreign on her, ill-fitting. Arthur cocked his head, wondered allowed what was wrong.

Skeptical glances scanned the room. "The last time I was here was my high school reunion ten years ago. And I hated every minute of it." Before he could ask for more details, she took hold of his collar, rubbed the worn cotton between thumb and forefinger. The corner of her lips quirked, her crow's feet softened. "But with you here, it'll be worlds better. Should we bob for apples or play bean bag toss first?"

Delighted, he pressed his nose to hers, marked her with a faint streak of white.

They ambled along, Arthur adjusting his wig and tiny hat. Local dentist. Dr. Young manned a completely abandoned station; the red delicious apples and toothbrushes on offer belied why. A tween girl wrapped in swirled, turquoise scarfs and gaudy rings on her fingers, ran Madame Trudy's Palm Reading. Arthur dropped a dollar in the donation jar and held out his left hand.

"You're married," Madame Trudy said with the enthusiasm of the voluntold. A cheap trick, give his wedding ring and the woman at his side. But she was just a kid, and her next prediction made it all right. "You'll be married a long time."

A wizened old crone in a witch's hat and warted rubber nose waved them over. To his surprise, Y/N wore a warm look behind her makeup, the most genuinely welcoming he'd seen when meeting a stranger from her past.

"This girl was one of my best students," Mrs. Spencer said, patting Y/N's hand. Mrs. Spencer was a forty-year veteran of the English department and prided herself on never forgetting a face. "She sometimes got her is and es mixed up, but she always asked the right questions."

Arthur palmed the small of Y/N's back. "That makes sense. She's my best wife."

"I thought I was your only wife," she said, elbow nudging his ribs.

"Come around here," Mrs. Spencer instructed. The pat of Y/N's hand became a firm grasp as the teacher guided her former student to her side of the table. "Tell me all about what you've been doing and the big, wide world you moved to."

~~~~~

Sipping spiced cider by the snack table, Mabel and Ed made pleasant chit chat with Brian's teacher, Mr. Webb. The boy had a knack for natural sciences, and Mr. Webb had a plan for leaf graphing to help him earn his Nature merit badge. Mabel was grateful the boy had a mentor, if not a pal.

In some ways, Brian was younger than his years. Smart and good at school, but he tended to struggle with his peers, miss the social cues that'd turn classmates into friends. Luckily, he'd been enrolled in special classes in the resource room twice a week and good progress was on its way.

Just then, a woman in a sock hop costume came to the table, a woman that Mabel had the misfortune of recognizing. Replete in poodle skirt and saddle shoes, she poured herself an orange drink from a large, yellow cooler.

The prim and proper nurse was a longtimer at the hospital, had won local recognition for excellent patient care. But her method of handling family members should've resulted in a rusty iron medal.

Whenever their dad had been admitted to the hospital, the nurse had admonished Y/N with accusations. That he'd had pneumonia because she'd fed him too quickly. Or that she hadn't turned him enough in bed. Or that he wouldn't have had a UTI, if she'd washed her hands before changing his catheter. How could she not know the basics when her father was a doctor? All as if Y/N were a reckless child, with no acknowledgment of the dreams she'd abandoned to care for him. A realization Mabel had been too immature to recognize.

Though seven years had passed, the disapproval the nurse had displayed - and Mabel's own inaction against it - made her blood slow to sludge. She crumpled her paper cup, steeled herself against recollections that barged in like wanted guests.

"Mom, look!" Ruthie ran to Mabel's side, ballet flats smack, smack, smacking the linoleum floor. "I won it in the cakewalk!" she said, shoving a book at her.

Mabel took the slim paperback, studied the cover of vibrant purple and velvet black, where two tiny ghosts stood before a crumbling castle. The full moon shone through jagged clouds, illuminating a path to a splintered door. Bats and spiders snickered, waiting to greet them with screeches and snares. With a soft sound, she flipped the book to read the synopsis.

Searching for the best treats, sisters Anne and Amelia stumble into a haunted castle. Through phantom wails and creaky hallways, only by facing their fears together will they be able to break free!

Water stung her eyes, lips parted then pursed. She was stricken. Once again the silly girl at the edge of the ocean, taken aback and barely able to breathe. Sisters who were freed by facing their fears together...

"Uncle Arthur can read it to me tonight!" Ruthie said, oblivious to her mother's sudden turmoil.

Mabel wouldn't have had it any other way. Bending to return the book, she offered a tight smile. "That's my girl." She reached into her bra, dug out a five-dollar bill. "I'll be back in just a little bit. Go get something for you and Brian at the bake sale." The girl ran off, darting towards dreams of sweets.

~~~~~

Sodium vapor lights cast shadows across the playground, long, spindly fingers bent at unnatural angles. Leaves rustled in the light breeze, warm but with a nip at the back end. Through hopscotch and four square courts, Mabel hurried across the pavement, steps quickening towards the swings tucked into the furthest corner.

She sat on a worn rubber seat, knees pulled in tight, hands rubbing her upper arms. The earthy smell of wood chips, normally a familiar comfort, failed to reassure. No moon shone tonight. A new moon. If only that wasn't the only thing that was new.

This town was supposed to be familiar and friendly and safe. But while she'd gotten all the safe, it seemed as though Y/N had gotten all the thorns. Even when her divorce had been behind her, the inquires about it hadn't. She'd mentioned it more than once over beers at the Silver Spur. Innuendo in the guise of polite curiosity. The way friends they'd made as a married couple had fallen away.

And when their dad had gotten sick, there'd been enough questions put to Y/N to fill the entire room. How their father was doing, what he needed, but not how she was doing or what she needed. - something Mabel herself had been guilty of far too often. Y/N's eyes glassing over as she tucked her hair behind her ear, always answering the same.

For her, Boonville had been a blackhole. Cold and dark and lonelier than ever.

A silhouette slid into Mabel's peripheral vision, stood a few yards away. Before whoever it was could get closer, she swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

The shadow stepped forward. Teased hair, spandexed hips, headband that nearly glowed in the dark...

"Shit." Mabel cleared her throat, consciously eased her voice like the best Beauty Boutique sales representative. "I'll only be a minute, Y/N." She swiped a stray tear from her cheek. "Are the kids all right?"

"Ed's getting Ashley a snack. Arthur's taking the others classroom to classroom to trick-or-treat. I don't think I've ever seen him smile so wide," Y/N said, sitting on the swing beside her. "When I told him I didn't want children, him being fine with it was a relief. But I love seeing him be an uncle. He wouldn't have had that chance - I wouldn't have had that chance - without you."

Mabel winced against her gratitude, the last thing she wanted.

Y/N pulled a long blade of grass from the A-frame's post. Rubbed away the wispy seeds. "You and I haven't talked about the hard stuff. Not yet. It's easier with Arthur because he wasn't there."

"I wasn't either," Mabel said. With all her missing in action, she should've been a regular confidant.

"You're here now and that's what's important to me."

A soft sniffle forced itself out of Mabel's nose. She'd invited Y/N here to atone, to recapture the holiday magic they'd loved as little girls and lost for too long. And here she was being comforted instead. God, how it irked her. She didn't want to burden Y/N, didn't want to wallow. She'd work it out with Ed, her silo of support.

Mabel decided to share a simple truth. "You know, after you got married and moved out, mom let me light the jack-o-lantern. But I'd rather have had you."

Sidling her swing closer, Y/N put her hand on her knee. "There've been enough ghosts between us, Mabel."

A wave of protectiveness swept through Mabel, the same she'd felt when given Jason the third degree. "Let's face them together," she said, ready to start right away. She kissed Y/N's cheek and sprung from the swing. "Now hold on tight."

~~~~~

"Watch your step," said Arthur, a kid on each hand. While Ed and Ashley napped in the school nurse's office, Arthur navigated the downward slope to Victory Field. In clown shoes, that was a feat.

Ruthie and Brian had gotten a haul to be proud of, their pillowcases filled to the brim. Arthur's own pockets were bursting with his favorite butterscotch candies and Palmer chocolate flavored crispy wavers. Y/N insisted the latter were terrible, and he had to admit the chocolates she'd introduced him to were less sickly sweet. But Palmer's distinct plastic taste was tied to the warmth of a kind schoolteacher who'd taken a boy without a costume under her wing.

Girlish laughter rang out in the distance. He blinked in the semi-darkness, guided the kids towards the cheerful sound.

Halfway down the hill, he halted. Unbridled joy stretched his lips, a smile to rival Carnival's.

Crouching behind Y/N, Mabel pushed her on the swing, letting loose an exaggerated groan. Heavy duty chains squeaked in their pendulums with each back and forth. Y/N's legs pumped harder and harder, toes reaching for the stars as if she was ready to fly. "Higher!" she cried, then laughed again. "Higher!"

Brian dumped his sack on the ground, spread out the booty in a big circle. He knelt to arrange the candy into neat rows, sorted by least favorite to most. Offering to trade three rolls of smarties for a Jolly Jack bar, Ruthie flopped down in her tutu and dug into a peanut butter cup.

Half-listening, Arthur sat cross-legged on the lawn, an eager audience to the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

~~~~~

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[americanwh0resstuff]

God knows i tried

Chapter I;

Father Paul/ John Pruitt

This is an old fic that I’ll be picking back up, thought I’d repost the first few chapters on here!

Word count: 1,075

"Father Paul saw her, the embodiment of sin, but she looked like an angel in his eyes"

When the 27 year old Elizabeth Bates returns to her hometown of Crockett after her adoptive mother’s passing, she finds herself strangely drawn to the new priest, despite her tumultuous upbringing.

001

The sound of the house phone ringing startled Elizabeth, to say the least.

It was 2 in the morning in Cambridge and she couldn't sleep, a horrid feeling of dread stinging in her chest. She tried to calm it with some hot camomile tea, but sadly that didn't work, she knew it wouldn't, but god was she jealous of the tea drinkers of the world, the people who could simply sip a mug of hot leaves and calm down.

When the shrill bell of her vintage Bakelite phone rang she practically jumped out of her skin.

Who could possibly call her at this hour?

At first, she wasn't going to answer, she always had a fear of answering the phone, after all, she rarely got any good news when that black contraption rang out.

She hesitated before finally reaching out to the receiver.

"Hello?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you but this is Dr. Sarah Gunning, is there an Elizabeth Bates around?"

There was a soft voice on the phone, one Lizzie recognized.

"Speaking."

"Liz, I'm so sorry, it's your mother..."

After that, she stopped listening, a ringing in her ears as a feeling of pure despair took over her entire body, a feeling she had only felt once before.

"Elizabeth, are you still there?" Sarah asked softly

"Yes I'm sorry, I'll be there as soon as I can." And with that, she put the phone down, staring intently at the kitchen sink in front of her. Soon enough the sadness dropped and rage took over, she slammed her hand down against the hard counter, sobbing to herself loudly.

She felt guilty, she never had the best relationship with her parents, adoptive parents that is. Her father was borderline abusive and her mother, poor Margaret, well she was just broken, quiet, reserved. a stereotypical catholic mother. She rarely visited after moving away for college and she tried to call her every day but failed most of the time.

Her father, James, had passed a few years ago in a work accident, he was the island electrician, one night during a particularly bad storm the power went out, he decided it was a good idea to venture out and fix it, he never returned. As for her mother, she didn't know, Sarah spared her the details, saying she'd explain when she got to the island.

After a few minutes of her breakdowns and shaking, she pulled herself together enough to walk over to her desk and open up her laptop and pull up flights to Massachusetts . Soon enough the blonde haired woman was back upstairs and packing her suitcase for the trip, she managed to get herself a last minute flight at 10am that day.

Her hands shook as she picked up the gold picture frame from her bedside cabinet, it was a picture of her, her mother and Monsignor Pruitt, this was taken at her holy communion, ever the Catholic household. She remembered it like yesterday, her father taking the picture, so proud that he had managed to push his daughter back into the arms of the church after her somewhat questionable upbringing, of course she was christened as a baby, and as a young child she was forced into communion by the nuns in her orphanage, but after the way she was treated, she felt rejected by the Catholic Church , hurt.

Monsignor Pruitt on the other hand, well, he cared more for her than her parents ever could, he took her in during her worst nights, when she went through her rebellious fase and was scared to go home shit faced drunk, he let her stay at the church, when Beverly Keane caught her kissing Jessica Brown, her slightly older classmate, behind the school, he excepted her, told her it was never a sin to love someone, and even when she lost her faith, he always let her in,telling her everyone was welcome in the house of god, even if they didn't believe, he always listened to her complaints and let her cry on his shoulder.

She made a note to visit him while she was there, her mother had mentioned that he was deteriorating quickly after the island discovered his Alzheimer's diagnoses and she wanted to visit him once again before he failed to remember her. She planned on dropping in the church anyways to plan the funeral, and of course he'd be there to lead the service, but she wanted to treat him to a cup of coffee while there.

She pulled the picture from the frame and stuffed it into her bag, it was already 7:30 by now. Elizabeth pulled on a pair black skinny jeans and a hoodie before heading downstairs to put on her knee high combat boots, she never really grew out of her rebellious fase, once a goth, always a goth. Even with a PhD in physics and a great job as a professor at her alma-mater, she still liked to stay true to herself, with dozens of tattoos decorating her skin, and the few piercings she kept, she went for a "hip yet professional" look, always wearing long sleeved suits to work and her only facial jewellery being a small silver ring in her nostril, she definitely still looked the part of the prestigious Cambridge professor, all the while gaining love from her students for not being like traditional teachers.

She adored her job, her life in her small townhouse, all her friends and students, she never once regretted leaving Crockett island till now, feeling saddened by the emptiness now in her heart after her mother's death.

Loading her suitcase into her green Mini Cooper she took off to the airport, it was only a 35 minute drive from her house, so she didn't have to be on the road too much, which was a blessing since she didn't trust herself with the amount of distractions in her mind.

After a tedious hour of check-ins, security, and boarding, she was finally on the plane, she quickly put on her headphones to distract herself from the endless safety announcements that always riddled her with anxieties.

Her hands shook as she reached for her phone, shuffling her music, she then closed her eyes, soon to fall asleep to dreadful nightmares and memories.

[spookedem]

what kind of a phone are ya makin? just any phone or a specific model?

Right now we are basing the shell off of callum and gingis bakelite model

but with the base that has all the parts if you have the right bits on the inside you could print your own shell as ideally you can customize the shells so each person has a unique head!

In the future may also try the date able heads or gods tv head!

But with the costs it's hard to make many

[illmeowmeowyoutodeath]

Dialtown Theory about brains and hearts since I wanna complicate things?!?!?!? (I am no doctor so some things will be wrong, alright? Alright. Also beware spelling mistakes and grammar mistakes)

Obviously none of those characters have flesh heads, but like they must have brains (except for Stabby+Shooty /j) so I think that they have some AI System which is like sentient, they also must have a heart cuz yes. But not a real one, a mechanical one instead, reason being that an AI System wouldn't be able to regulate a real heart's heartbeat/heart rate (heart rate is important because the heart's function is important since the heart circulates oxygen and nutrient-rich blood throughout the body. When it's not working properly, just about everything is affected) therefore a mechanical heart is there instead of a real one since this helps to plump blood around the said body. BUT considering this is a game where heads are replaced with object heads, the said blood could be oil, oil can used instead of blood because oil can perhaps be more useful then blood and stops rust from forming since the said AI System and mechanical heart are made out of iron/metal (or some other unknown substance), this is important because if one's phone head gets rusty they can replace the rusty parts but if the "brain" starts to rust then they will die soon. That is because the rust will hinder the ai system's ability to work properly, the AI System wouldn't be able to correctly control the heart because it'll be too focused on trying to remove the rust from it's surface therefore the heart will be left unsupervised and eventually fuck up the heart rate which will cause the death of one. So really, one is technically immortal if their AI System doesn't fall victim to rust (oof). That is one cause of death, this is merely painless since you (well the AI System) are only focused on one thing and not the heart stopping bullshit.

Second version is if one's "heart" gets rusty, with this version one will feel immense pain throughout their last months since the AI System is still intact it'll give the "heart" the instructions to beat and plump oil/blood around the body, however because of the rust the oil/blood isn't good enough or clean anymore and would cause pain since it'll infect organs and such. Eventually, one will either die from oil poisoning (is blood poisoning a thing?) since instead of clean oil it is dirty oil or because of the pain one would kill themselves. Infections and such would also be a cause of death. (Cute!!)

If one's heart or brain is rusty, they can go to see a doctor so then if the brain or heart is rusty they can perform a surgery. For a heart, surgeons would cut one opened and scrape off any rust and put a protective layer anti-rust paint (that is a thing.) For brains, surgeons would find your AI System box in your head (or other places) and scape the rust off, they won't put any protective layers on the AI System box since that'll irritated the ai program, therefore causing your heart to he unsupervised and therefore your death.

The AI System box is a rectangular box full of wires, this is located in the middle of the head for normal rotary phones and typewriters as well printers. With the exceptions for Shooty and Stabby who's AI System box is above their "heart" since specifically for those heads, the AI System is small enough to fit there. Or with Abel who's phone is a candlestick, it is located in the black bakelite and probably slightly smaller in size. With Nathan Hanover, I assume it is located somewhere in the upper boat. Assuming that Mr Dicken's phone booth opens, I presume it is located in the same position where Shooty and Stabby have them. Craig has it probably in base cap, once again probably smaller in size. Dr. Circa Sission has it same position Stabby and Shooty have them in, Zimothy does as well.

An AI System box helps one to speak, it makes their voice, an AI System box also allows one to feel emotions such as fear or happiness. If an emotion part of the AI System box is damaged, one would lose some of their emotions or have one overriding emotion which is stronger then other ones or lose one emotion. If the part controlling speech is damaged, then the person will lose their voice.

However, that's just a theory, A GAME THEORY.

[travelling-my-little-pony]

Luna is looking at an unusually tall telephone box in Maida Vale.

In London, England.

A bit more information about this telephone box can be found at

https://www.ianvisits.co.uk/articles/maida-vales-double-height-telephone-box-48191/

A quote of part of that:

by the French designer, Philippe Starck, more famous for his lemon juice squeezer than phone boxes, and was installed here as part of the permission for the Post Office Telephone Exchange building to be converted into residential flats by Yoo. The developer had originally planned a different work of art, but that was rejected so they turned to Philippe Starck, who had already worked on the interior design for the building to come up with something new.

And he chose a double-decker telephone box.

There are a number of different types of telephone box to choose from, but the K6 model was chosen as the Telephone Exchange was built in 1937, during the reign of King George VI, and the K6 telephone box was commissioned to celebrate King George VI’s Silver Jubilee in 1935.

It was made from two original K6 telephone kiosks which were welded together to form one unit, then restored to “Grade-II listed museum standard”. They also restored the interior to how it would have looked like in 1935, with a bakelite telephone and an original coin box.