#mickey mantel

[quietwingsinthesky]

i have many many thoughts about rose & tentoo and how their relationship would evolve in this verse. about how you can't just take the love you have for one person and put it on someone else. not even a clone, a regeneration, a metacrisis. about how that doesn't mean you can't love them, or that you can't fall in love with them the same way, but that love has to be for them.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

The Two Most Iconic Wheel Standers of All Time.

Hurst Hemi Under Glass

Hurst Hemi Under Glass is the name given to a series of exhibition drag racing cars campaigned by Hurst Performance between 1965 and 1970 across North America and ended with the '68 model year.

Each wheelstander was based on the current Plymouth Barracuda for the corresponding model year. The car was so named because the fuel injected Chrysler Hemi engine was placed under the Barracuda's exceptionally large rear window. The result of the rearward weight transfer was a "wheelie" down the length of the drag strip.

The Hemi Under Glass was developed by Hurst Corporation to showcase their products in the A/FX class - precursor to funny cars. In 1965, George Hurst hired Wild Bill Shrewsberry of Mansfield, OH, an accomplished drag racer who had raced for both Mickey Thompson and Jack Chrisman. After helping to pioneer it into the first wheelstanding exhibition car, Shrewsberry left at the end of the season to pursue his own project.

For the 1966 season, Bob Riggle, who was also from Mansfield, OH and was involved with Hurst as a mechanic and fabricator became the second driver of the Hurst Hemi Under Glass car and campaigned the cars with Hurst as the sponsor until later years when the Hurst Company was sold to Sunbeam. At that point, the car ran without the Hurst logo and was simply known as the "Hemi Under Glass." Riggle's career ended in 1975 with a devastating accident at US 30 Dragway in Gary, Indiana.

Popular model kits of the car were produced in 1/32 scale by Aurora Plastics Corporation and in 1/25 scale by Model Products Corporation. A limited edition 1/18 scale diecast model of the 1966 car is currently available from Highway 61.[1]

Riggle returned to exhibition racing in 1992 with a 1966 injected version of the car and a 1968 supercharged version of the car.[2] The original 1965 car was stripped for its power train and parts in 1967 for the new Barracuda chassis/body style and no longer exists.[3][4]

While taping the June 26, 2016 episode of Jay Leno's Garage, Riggle, with Leno riding in the passenger seat, rolled a newly constructed '69 version of the Hemi Under Glass after turning sharply at the end of a wheelie run. Neither of the men were hurt, but the car sustained significant damage.[5] Leno was riding along to fulfill another item on his 'Bucket List.'

July, 2016, Mike Mantel of New Braunfels, TX was named as the new driver of the Hemi Under Glass. Mantel took over the '68 car which has the longest performing history of any Hemi Under Glass ever constructed and becomes the third official driver in the brand's 50+ year history.[6] Mantel was only 6 years old when the Hemi Under Glass first took to the track. He has a wide range of driving experience from drag cars, road race, and movie cars. Mantel's original hometown is the city of Hawthorne, CA.

Billy Lawrence Golden (December 31, 1933 – September 14, 2015),[1] nicknamed "Maverick", was an American drag racer. He is probably best known for driving the Little Red Wagon A/FX wheelstander pickup exhibition racer.

Little Red Wagon

Born in Shawnee Township, Illinois, Golden joined the US Marines and first became interested in drag racing while at Camp Pendleton.

Golden was given his "Maverick" nickname in the late 1950s by an announcer at a Southern California dragstrip, because he chose to drive an unconventional 361 cu in (5,920 cc)-powered Dodge Custom Royal. He started racing in AHRA Super Stock, driving Dodges for several years. He was one of the first drivers in AHRA S/S to successfully run an automatic transmission. In 1960, Chrysler offered to provide him parts, when he was driving a Dodge Phoenix, powered by a 330 hp (250 kW) 330 cu in (5.4 L) with twin Carter carburetors and cross-ram intake manifold; the car was capable of quarter-mile times of 13.7 seconds.

By 1962, he was a factory driver, driving an S/SA Dodge. At the 1962 AHRA Winternationals, driving his bright yellow hemi "Taxi Cab" Dodge 330, he scored a "stunning" victory over "Dyno Don" Nicholson's 409 cu in (6,700 cc) factory Chevrolet at Fontana Drag City, to take the Stock Eliminator title, Chrysler's only Nationals win for 1962.

In 1963, Golden worked with Jim Nelson of Dragmasters to improve the car, and won seven Super Stock races out of eight events, taking the Midwest Championship.

At the end of the 1964 season, Chrysler proposed Golden drive the Little Red Wagon A/FX pickup. which became drag racing's first wheelstanding truck.

Little Red Wagon's first outing, at the AHRA Grand American event at Lions Drag Strip, was an 11 second pass at 120 mph (190 km/h). The crowd's very enthusiastic reaction prompted Golden to turn the A/FX truck into a wheelstanding exhibition racer, which he developed a steering mechanism for himself, relying on experience from his day job at Douglas Aircraft Corporation. The wheelstander was wrecked in 1969, 1971, and 1975; the third crash was nearly fatal to Golden.

Golden retired in 2003. He died on September 14, 2015.[3]

[scarlet-witchery]

so let's talk some more about gallavich and their adopted runaway trans daughter Starr (more on her here and here; it'll make more sense if you read those posts first)

I mentioned that I think Mickey and Ian would move back to the South Side, and they'd have a house instead of an apartment, and that Starr would clean up the place in thanks for letting her stay—while she's doing so, maybe she runs across a school photo of a little blonde kid with a goofy smile, and familiar blue eyes, and big glasses, and she'd bet anything that this kid is related to Mickey

and she finds a frame that isn't being used, maybe up in the attic, and puts the picture in the frame and sets it on the mantel in the living room next to other family photos (Debbie and Franny; Debbie, Carl, and Liam; Lip and Tammi and their kids; a selfie of Fiona at the beach; Mickey and Ian's wedding photo; stuff like that)

so Mickey is home one day while Ian is off visiting his siblings—Mickey is too peopled out that day and decided to stay home—when he notices the new picture with the others; Starr sees his reaction, like he's seen a ghost, and she says she found the picture when she was cleaning, and thought it looked good in the frame. but Mickey's reaction maybe spooks her a little bit, and she's like "I hope that was okay"

Mickey doesn't say anything at first, but he's uncharacteristically quiet when he nods and says "yeah, that's okay" but he doesn't explain—and look, Starr knows when people wanna talk about stuff but also don't want to at the same time, but she's thirteen or fourteen years old and has no impulse control so she asks who the kid is, and even though she guessed it she's still kinda surprised when Mickey says "that's my son"

and she asks him "do you wanna talk about it?" to which he says fuck no; she's all prepared to drop the subject when he says that he hasn't even seen the kid in years, not since he was in prison and Svetlana brought Yev to visit. and slowly—maybe over the next few weeks—she learns more of the story, and even though Mickey doesn't tell her everything, she's smart enough to put the pieces together

because I really love the idea that Mickey and Svetlana get back in touch after everything went down and he and Ian got married (she'd give him shit about where was her invitation and he was all "I didn't know your fuckin address!" but she loved seeing the pictures and said "you and carrot boy look very happy together"), and now they meet up every few months for lunch or something, maybe text now and again; she keeps him updated on Yevgeny and how he's doing in school ("he wants to go to college and be doctor") and she told Mickey that if he wants to meet Yev properly he can, but he's never taken her up on the offer because he thinks Yev is better off without him

and Starr just looks at Mickey, and the picture of Yevgeny—he's a couple years younger than she is, I figure this would be when he's about ten or so—and tells him about how she thought her parents loved her, but that was only when they thought she was their son, and "I don't know what you did before but you can't be worse than my folks"

they talk about it now and again—Ian knows they do but he's learned to let Mickey work through things at his own pace—and she finds out Yevgeny is about to start middle school, and Starr eventually tells Mickey that he should go see his son. Mickey of course thinks it's a terrible idea but she's like look, man, you guys have been great to me, and it wouldn't be the end of the world if your kid at least knew you were out there. unfortunately she's painfully aware of what it's like knowing your parents don't want anything to do with you, but it's also clear to her that it's painful for Mickey to think about his son ("talking to him might be hard, but it can't be worse than staying away")

finally after Starr has been staying with them for a while—she eventually got Ian on the "talk to Yevgeny" train too, and Mickey complained that they were "fuckin ganging up on him"—Mickey goes into the kitchen after dinner, and Starr and Ian can hear him talking on the phone to someone about "-wanna see the kid next time, if that's okay" and they give each other a tiny high five

when he comes back from lunch with Svetlana a few weeks later it's with a smile on his face and some new pictures of him and Yevgeny on his phone, as well as one with him and Svet and Yev

Ian is absolutely over the moon, too, and insists they print out the pictures and put them up on the mantelpiece; and Mickey asks if the two of them wanna come along the next time he sees Svet and the kid (and Ian is like uh yeah I haven't seen Lana in forever and I wanna know how Yevgeny is doing because he loved that kid so much and I really feel like the show dropped the ball on Ian and Svet's relationship too, which is a crying shame)

and the three of them settle in to watch TV together, their cat Duchess sprawled across Mickey and Ian's laps, and their pit bull Lady curled up by Starr's feet in her chosen armchair, and Ian just grins at Mickey and doesn't have to say how proud he is of his husband, because it's written all over his face

(I'm sure I'll write more about Starr and her adopted gay uncles in the future but I just love the idea that she'd be a catalyst for Mickey reconnecting with Yevgeny, and how he'd try his best to be the exact opposite of his own dad ;~; )

[taehyungfirst]

My opinion is that there is no way is there a lady in Taehyung’s life because ass dining chairs, boxing figurines and Mickey Mouse on the mantel. Is this too obvious?

I’M CRYINGGGGGG

That huge spider-looking monument he got in his living room 😭 The shark man too… yeah a queer man decorated that house.

[abbygrabska]

The Girl in The Fireplace

We emerge from the tardis and look around the dark room of the spaceship.

“It’s a spaceship! Brilliant, I got a spaceship on my first go!”

“Looks kind of abandoned… Anyone on board?”

“Nah, nothing here. Well! Nothing dangerous. Well! Not that dangerous.” The Doctor pauses, “You know what, I’ll just have a quick scan… in case there’s anything dangerous.”

I let out a laugh, watching him walk over to a control panel in the center of the room and start tapping some buttons.

“So, what’s the date? How far have we gone?” I rest my head on his shoulder.

“About three thousand years into your future, give or take.” He pulls on a switch and the lights turn on, the roof gradually opening into a window that shows a spectacular view of the stars outside, “Fifty-first century. Diagmar Cluster, you’re a long way from home, Mickey! Two and a half galaxies!”

Mickey moves to a porthole, gazing out in awe.

The Doctor rummages around the control panel, picking up bits and pieces of broken tech and looking unimpressed, “Dear me, had some cowboys in here! Got a ton of repair work going on.” He throws the pieces down, noticing a screen with a diagram of the spaceship on it, “Now that’s odd, look at that. All the warp engines are going… full capacity! There’s enough power running through this ship to punch a hole in the universe… and we’re not moving. So where’s all that power going?”

“Where’d all the crew go?” I ask.

The Doctor leans forward and tweaks some knobs on the control panel, “Good question, no life readings on board.”

We all gaze around and the Doctor sniffs the air, “Can you smell that?”

“Someone’s cooking.” Rose says.

The Doctor presses something else and a door opens behind us.

We walk through and see part of the wall and floor with 18th-century decor as well as a lit fireplace.

“Well, there’s something you don’t see in your average spaceship. Eighteenth-century! French! Nice mantel.” He pulls his sonic out and points it at the fireplace, “Not a hologram.”

We bend down and examine it closely while Mickey and Rose explore the rest of the room.

“Not even a reproduction, this is an eighteenth-century french fireplace.” I inform him, “And there’s another room through there.”

“How do you know that it’s real?” He asks.

“It has simple but geometric sloping and slanting jambs. Those jambs are topped by a monolithic lintel decorated with a flat molding running along its lower edge. The lintel is also animated with beautiful finely sculpted rosettes just above the jambs. I was very obsessed with the French Revolution when I was a child.”

“There can’t be another room through there, that’s the outer hull of the ship.” Rose points out.

The Doctor crouches down, looking through the fire into the other room. I do the same and see a young girl with long blonde hair, dressed in a nightgown looking back at us.

“Hello!”

“Hello…”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Reinette.”

“Reinette, that’s a lovely name. Can you tell me where you are at the moment, Reinette?” The Doctor asks.

“In my bedroom.”

“And where’s your bedroom? Where do you live, Reinette?”

“Paris, of course!”

“Paris, right!” I nod.

“Monsieur, Madame, what are you doing in my fireplace?”

“Oh, it’s just a routine… fire check. Can you tell me what year it is?”

“Of course I can! Seventeen hundred and twenty-seven.”

“Right, lovely! One of my favorites… August is rubbish though. Stay indoors. Okay, that’s all for now. Thanks for your help. Hope you enjoy the rest of the fire. Nice night!”

“Goodnight Monsieur and Madame.”

We stand up, the Doctor looking thoughtful.

“You said this was the fifty-first century.” Mickey points out.

“I also said this ship was generating enough power to punch a hole in the universe. I think we just found the hole. Must be a spatio-temporal hyperlink.”

I roll my eyes at his wording.

“What’s that?”

“He made it up. He just didn’t want to say magic door.” I point at the time lord.

“And on the other side of the magic door, is France in 1727?” Rose asks.

The Doctor nods and looks back at the fireplace before walking across the room, throwing his coat in the corner, “Well, she was speaking French. Right period French, too.”

The Doctor walks back over to the fireplace where I stand.

He kneels at the side of the fireplace, and the wall begins to rotate, taking us with it.

Once the fireplace stops turning, we find ourselves standing in a dark and shadowy bedroom, with Reinette asleep in bed. The ticking of a clock can be heard as we wander toward the window. It’s snowing.

We turn around to face Reinette, only to find her sitting up in bed.

“It’s okay! Don’t scream! It’s us, the fireplace people. Look.” The Doctor walks over and lights a candle by her bed with the sonic screwdriver. She still looks startled.

“We were talking, just a moment ago. We were in your fireplace.”

“Monsieur, that was weeks ago. That was months!”

“Really? Oh.” He walks back to the fireplace and knocks on it, listening to the sound it produces, “Must be a loose connection. Need to get a man in.”

I walk over to the mantel, staring at the broken clock in fear, “Okay, that’s scary…”

“You’re scared of a broken clock?” Reinette asks.

“Just a bit scared. Just a tiny little bit. ‘Cause you see, if that clock is broken, and it’s the only clock in the room…” I pause, turning to look at Reinette.

The Doctor continues my train of thought, “Then what’s that?”

The ticking grows louder and Reinette looks around, clearly scared again.

“‘Cause you see that’s not a clock. You can tell by the resonance. Too big. Six feet, I’d say. Size of a man.”

“What is it?”

The Doctor checks behind the curtains, finding nothing, “Now, let’s think. If you were a thing that ticks and you were hiding in someone’s bedroom, first thing you do: break the clock. No one notices the sound of one clock ticking, but two?” He pauses, “You might start to wonder if you’re really alone.” He moves towards the bed and crouches down, giving us instructions as he pulls the sonic screwdriver out of his pocket, “Abby stay by the mantel. Reinette stay on the bed. Right in the middle. Don’t put your hands or feet over the edge.”

He peers underneath the bed before turning on the sonic screwdriver to scan. Something smacks the Doctor backward, knocking the sonic out of his hand. Reinette gasps and he scrambles back to look underneath.

A figure is standing on the other side of the bed, wearing a creepy clown-like mask and leering down at reinette, who looks terrified.

The Doctor stands up to look straight at the figure. He glances back at Reinette, then at the figure, then back at Reinette.

“Hold still, let me look…” He bends down and grasps Reinette's head between his hands, staring intently at her before looking back at the figure, “You’ve been scanning her brain!” He pauses, looking once more into Reinette’s eyes before standing straight up again, “What, you’ve crossed two galaxies and thousands of years just to scan a child’s brain? What could there be in a little girl’s mind worth blowing a hole in the universe?”

“I don’t understand… it wants me?!” She turns around to look at the figure, “You want me?”

The figure’s head twitches to one side and it speaks in a mechanical voice, “Not yet. You are incomplete.”

“Incomplete? What’s that mean, incomplete?”

The droid does not answer, continuing to stare at Reinette.

The Doctor stands up and speaks in a firm voice, producing the sonic screwdriver and pointing it at the droid, “You can answer, her, you can answer me. What do you mean, incomplete?”

The droid doesn’t answer, instead walking in jerky movements around the bed and facing the Doctor. The droid extends an arm and a blade slides out near the Doctor’s face. He tilts his head away.

“Monsieur, be careful!” “Just a nightmare, Reinette, don’t worry about it. Everyone has nightmares.” The Doctor backs away, the droid pursuing.

It swipes at him, and he jumps back, reaching me at the fireplace, “Even monsters from under the bed have nightmares, don’t you, monster?” The droid slashes at the Doctor again. He jumps aside, and the droid’s blade hits the mantel, getting stuck.

“What do monsters have nightmares about?” Reinette asks.

As the droid struggles, the Doctor takes the opportunity to turn the fireplace around, “Me. Ha!”

As the fireplace finishes turning we run to the wall. The Doctor grabs a gun object from it, using it to spray ice at the droid. It convulses in a vain attempt to free itself before freezing completely.

“Excellent, ice gun!” Mickey exclaims.

The Doctor tosses the gun to Rose, who catches it.

“Fire extinguisher.” I correct.

Rose looks at the droid, “Where did that thing come from?”

“Here.”

“So, why is it dressed like that?”

“Field trip to France. Camouflage obviously.” I inspect the clothing, “Nice needlework.”

“Shame about the face.” The Doctor walks over to the droid, pulling off the wig and mask to reveal its actual head: an ornate clockwork mechanism, covered with a clear plastic egg shape. I can see his eyes light up at the sight. “Oh, you are beautiful!” He puts his glasses on, “No really, you are, you’re gorgeous! Look at that! Space age clockwork, I love it! I’ve got chills! Listen seriously, i mean this from the heart, and, by the way, count those, it would be a crime, it would be an acto of vandalism to disassembel you.” He takes one last look at the droid before holding up his sonic, “But that won’t stop me.”

The droid creaks back to life and teleports away. Rose and Mickey blink and look around. The Doctor stuffs his sonic in his pocket.

He grabs my hand and pulls me over to the fireplace, “Short range teleport, can’t have got far. Could still be on board.”

“What is it?”

He points at them, “Don’t go looking for it!”

“Where’re you going?” Rose asks.

“Back in a sec.”

He ignores her in favor of turning the fireplace back to Reinette's side.

We step away from the fireplace, and I call out, “Reinette? Are you alright?”

I notice the room has changed drastically since we last stepped foot in here, so I turn to look at the Doctor, only to find a beautiful blonde woman standing behind him staring at us.

“Doctor?”

He looks at me.

I point at the woman.

“Oh, hello!” He quickly puts his glasses away, “We were looking for Reinette. Uh, this is still her room, isn’t it? We’ve been away. Not sure how long/”

Someone calls from outside the room, “Reinette! We’re ready to go!” The blonde woman, who I now know to be Reinette calls back, “Go to the carriage, mother, I will join you there.”

I smile widely.

“It is customary, I think, to have imaginary friends only during one’s childhood. You are to be congratulated on your persistence.”

The Doctor says her name in amazement.

She smiles.

“Well.” He looks her up and down, “Goodness, how you’ve grown.”

I feel a lump form in my throat as she approaches him.

“And you do not appear to have aged a single day. That is tremendously impolite of you.”

“Right… yes… sorry. Listen, lovely to catch up, but er, better be off, eh? Don’t want your mother finding you up here with a strange man, do we?”

“Strange? How could you be a stranger to me? I have known you since I was seven years old.”

“Yeah… I suppose you have.” He lets out a small laugh, “I came the quick route.”

Reinette touches the Doctor’s cheek, examining him, “Well, you seem to be flesh and blood, at any rate, but this is absurd. Reason tells me you cannot be real.”

“You never want to listen to reason…”

A person calls out for Reinette, “Mademoiselle! Your mother grows impatient.”

“A moment.” She calls back, before looking at the Doctor, “So many questions. So little time.”

She pulls the Doctor towards her kissing him passionately on the lips. Tears form in my eyes and I turn my head away, so I don’t have to watch.

“Mademoiselle Poisson!”

I look back at them, Reinette has run out the door, and a servant has come in.

“Poisson? Reinette Poisson? No way. Reinette Poisson?!” He runs up to the servant, “Later Madame Etoiles? Latter still mistress of Louis the Fifteenth, uncrowned Queen of France?” He runs back over to me where I stand by the fireplace, “Actress, artist, musician, dancer, courtesan? Fantastic gardener!” He laughs.

“Who the hell are you?!”

“I’m the Doctor. And I just snogged Madame de Pompadour!”

The fireplace revolves, taking us with it as he laughs.

I immediately storm off around the corner, not waiting for him to follow me.

I blink in surprise, momentarily forgetting my anguish at the sight in front of me. Nodding in greeting at the horse, I move around it and keep going.

I eventually come across Mickey and Rose, both of them holding the fire extinguishers.

“Maybe it wasn’t a real heart.”

“What’s a real heart?”

They both jump and turn to look at me.

“We found a heart wired into the ship… Where have you been?” Rose asks.

I sniffle, “Watching the Doctor and Madame de Pompadour snog right in front of me like I don’t exist.”

Her eyes soften.

I notice a window with a view into a luxurious 18th-century room.

“I think we’re looking through a mirror.” Rose says.

The doors to the room open, and King Louis XV enters with two servants.

“Blimey, look at this guy. Who does he think he is?” Mickey asks.

“King of France.” The Doctor appears behind us.

“Oh, here’s trouble. What you been up to?” She asks.

“Oh, this and that. Became the imaginary friend of a future French aristocrat… picked a fight with a clockwork man…” The horse whinnies from around the corner, “Oh, and I met a horse.”

The horse trots into view.

The Doctor looks through the window, “See these? They’re all over the place. On every deck. Gateways to history. But not just any old history…”

He places a finger on the glass as Reinette enters the room, “Hers. time windows… deliberately arranged along the life of one particular woman. A spaceship from the fifty-first century stalking a woman from the eighteenth. Why?” “Who is she?”

“Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, known to her friends as Reinette. One of the most accomplished women who ever lived.” “I think this is the night they met. The night of the Yew Tree ball. In no time at all, she’ll get herself established as his official mistress, with her own rooms at the palace… even her own title, Madame de Pompadour.”

Soon enough we all enter France via the mirror.

The Doctor sprays the droid moving towards Reinette until it is immobile. The droid starts to click and whir loudly.

“What’s it doing?”

“Switching back on, melting the ice.” “And then what?”

“It’ll kill everyone in the room.”

The clockwork droid’s arm shoots out toward the Doctor’s throat, he jumps back and back toward Reinette.

“Focuses the mind, doesn’t it?” He addresses the clockwork droid, “Who are you? Identify yourself.”

The droid cocks its head but does not answer.

“Order it to answer me.” He tells Reinette.

“Why should it listen to me?”

“I don’t know. It did when you were a child. Let’s see if you’ve still got it.”

Reinette speaks to the droid, “Answer his question. Answer any and all questions put to you.”

The droid lowers its arm, “I am repair droid seven.”

“So what happened to the ship, then? There was a lot of damage.”

“Ion storm, eighty-two percent system failure.”

“That ship hasn’t moved in over a year. What’s taken you so long?”

“We did not have the parts.”

Mickey laughs, “Always comes down to that, doesn’t it? The parts.”

“What happened to the crew, where are they?”

“We did not have the parts.”

A sinking feeling envelopes my body, as I come to a realization.

“Fifty people don’t just disappear! Where…?” He seems to realize the same thing, “Oh. you didn’t have the parts, so you used the crew.”

“We found a camera with an eye in it… and there was a heart…. Wired into machinery.”

“It was just what it was programmed to. Repair the ship any way it can, with whatever it could find. No one told it the crew wasn’t on the menu. What did you say the flight deck smelt of?”

Rose speaks quietly, “Someone cooking…”

“But what are you doing here? You’ve opened up time windows, that takes colossal energy. Why come here, you could have gone to your repair yard. Instead you come to eighteenth-century France? Why?”

“One more part is required.” The droid's head jerks towards Reinette.

We all stare at her. “Then why haven’t you taken it?”

“She is incomplete.”

“What… so, that’s the plan then? Just keep opening up more and more time windows, scanning her brain, checking to see if she’s ‘done yet’?”

“Why her?” I ask, “You’ve got all of history to choose from, why specifically her?”

“We are the same.”

“We are not the same, we are in no sense the same!”

“We are the same.”

Reinette advances, “Get out of here! Get out of here this instance!”

“Reinette, no.”

The droid activates a teleport and disappears.

“It’s back on the ship. Rose take Mickey and Arthur, get after it. Follow it, don’t approach it, just watch what it does.”

The two have a small argument about the horse before he turns to me, “I want you to stay with me.” Tears burn in my eyes and I scoff, “So I can be the third wheel again? Not a chance.” I go back through the mirror.

We walk down a corridor, and Mickey gives a short laugh, “So, that Doctor, eh?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well! Madame de Pompadour, Sarah Jane Smith, Cleopatra.”

Rose gives him a warning look, “Knock it off.”

Something grabs me by the neck and I feel a needle go in before everything goes dark.

I wake to a ticking noise. I am strapped down on an operating table, Mickey and Rose are as well.

“Girls? They’re gonna chop us up. Just like the crew, they’re gonna chop us up and stick us all over their stupid spaceship. And where’s the Doctor? Where’s the precious Doctor now? He’s been gone for flipping hours, that's where he is!”

The Droid steps before me, “You are compatible.”

I glare at the Droid, “You know what, at this point, I don’t give a shit. The love of my life has run off with a French aristocrat and left me here to die, so go ahead and kill me.”

The droid thrusts a sharp and lethal-looking tool in front of my face.

There’s a loud banging noise and the sound of someone singing drunkenly in the distance.

The Doctor staggers into the room, wearing a pair of sunglasses and a tie around his head.

I glare at him fuming as he rambles on drunkenly.

“Do you know what they were scanning Reinette’s brain for?” He sniggers, “Her milometer. They wanna know how old she is. Know why? ‘Cause this ship is thirty-seven years old. And they think that when Reinette is thirty-seven when she’s complete, then her brain will be compatible. So, that’s what you’re missing, isn’t it?” He stares one of the droids mockingly in the face, “Hmm? Command circuit. Your computer. Your ship needs a brain. And for some reason, god knows what, only the brain of Madame de Pompadour will do.”

“The brain is compatible.”

“Compatible?” He approaches the droid, “If you believe that, you probably believe this is a glass of wine.”

He removes the droid’s mask and pours the ‘wine’ into the clockwork inside the head of the droid. He replaces the mask and pats it on the head. The droid winds down.

“Multigrain anti-oil. If it moves, it doesn’t.”

A droid from the corner of the room begins to advance, but the Doctor quickly deactivates it using a nearby lever, “Right, you three, that’s enough lying about…” He releases us from the operating tables with the sonic and we slide down the tables and onto the floor, “Time we got the rest of the ship turned off.”

“Are those things safe?” Mickey asks.

“Yep. safe. Safe and thick. The way I like them. Okay, all the time windows are controlled from here. I need to close them all down.” He feels his pockets, “Zeus plugs. Where are my Zeus plugs?” He looks around, “I had them a minute ago, I was using them as castanets.”

“Why didn’t they just open a time window to when she was thirty-seven?” Rose asks.

“With the amount of damage to these circuits, they’ll be lucky to hit the right century. Trial and error after that.” he attempts to operate the computer, “The windows aren’t closing. Why won’t they close?”

There is an ominous pinging sound.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“I don’t know… report from the field… one of them must still be out there with Reinette! That’s why I can’t close the windows, there’s an override!”

Behind him, one of the clockwork droids springs to life with a whirring sound. The droid expels the ‘wine’ the Doctor poured into its mechanics over the Doctor’s shoe.

“Well, that was a bit clever.”

The rest of the droids spring to life, filling the room with ticking.

“Right… many things about this are not good.”

The pinging sounds again.

“Message from one of your little friends? Anything interesting?”

“She is complete. It begins.” They teleport out.

“What’s happening?”

“One of them must’ve found the right time window, and now it’s time to send in the troops. And this time they’re bringing back her head.”

I stand with the Doctor, Mickey, and Rose looking at the time window.

“They knew I was coming. They blocked it off.”

“I don’t get it. How come they got in there?”

“They teleported - you saw them. As long as the ship and the ballroom are linked their short-range teleports will do the trick.”

“Well, we’ll go in the tardis!”

“We can’t use the tardis we’re part of events now.”

“Well, can’t we just smash through it?”

“Hyperplex this side, plate glass the other. We need a truck.”

“We don’t have a truck.” He snaps at Mickey, “I know we don’t have a truck!”

“Well, we’ve gotta try something!”

“No, smash the glass, smash the time window, there’d be no way back.”

I stand before the broken time window.

“What happened? Where did the time window go? How’s he gonna get back?”

I just stare at the broken glass.

“We can’t fly the tardis without him. How’s he gonna get back?”

I raise my head and stare out at the stars.

Five and a half hours later, the Doctor is back with us.

He goes to hug me but I simply turn away and enter the tardis.

[seanpultz]

Three Wiseguys in The Haunted Mansion

If the Ghostbusters, Abbott and Costello and The Three Stooges exploring The Haunted Mansion isn't enough, How about three wiseguys from Tony Soprano's outfit taking a little spook's tour.

WARNING: This contains strong language

Paulie Walnuts squinted up at the towering edifice, a grin playing on his weathered lips. "Lookit this shit, Chris. This place is like someone took the Rathbone mansion and slapped a Mickey Mouse sticker on it."

Christopher Moltisanti, his eyes wide with a mix of skepticism and childlike excitement, shot back, "You're full of it, Paulie. This is Disney, not some mobster's summer home. But I gotta admit, it's got that same spooky vibe."

Silvio Manfred Dante, ever the cool head, lit a cigarette and took a long drag, the smoke curling. "Looks like we're in for a real taste of the high life now, huh?" he said with a smirk. "But keep it down, will ya? We're supposed to be on vacation, not scaring off the tourists."

Paulie, Chris, and Silvio shuffled along the winding queuing path, their eyes darting from the toppled birdbath to the eerie hearse. "What the fuck is this, a haunted junkyard?" Paulie quipped, nudging Chris with his elbow.

"I dunno, Paulie," Chris replied, trying to peer through the gloom. "But if I see one of those seven dwarfs trying to sell me a magic mirror, I'm outta here."

Silvio chuckled, flicking his cigarette butt into a bush. "Keep your cool, guys. It's all just props for the kiddies. Ain't no real spooks in this place."

But as they approached the mansion's entrance, the laughter died in their throats. A gust of wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the distant sound of organ music and a faint, ghostly wail. The air grew colder, and even Silvio's smirk faltered. "Well, shit," he murmured. "Maybe this ain't gonna be such a walk in the park after all."

"Look at these fuckin' faces," Paulie exclaimed, pointing at the busts as they shuffled closer. "They're staring at us like we owe 'em money. What kind of welcome is that?"

Chris leaned in, squinting at the nameplate beneath a particularly grim-looking bust. "Captain Culpepper Clyne? Sounds like a dick I knew back in the day."

Silvio rolled his eyes. "Keep it classy, Chris. This is supposed to be a family park."

The path grew narrower, lined with crypts and headstones that seemed to lean in as if whispering secrets. The mournful toll of a bell echoed through the air, and a sudden chill sent a shiver down their spines. "Ah, Christ," Paulie muttered. "Now I'm getting the willies."

"You're gonna love this, Paulie," Chris said, grinning. "Looks like we're going in through the servant's entrance. Just like home, right?"

Silvio chuckled, slapping Paulie on the back. "You've got that right, kid. Now, let's see if Mickey Mouse has any real surprises for us inside."

As they stepped into the dimly lit hallway, the three men squinted to make out the details in the flickering shadows. The musty smell of old wood and dust hung in the air, and the creaks and groans of the ancient floorboards seemed to be speaking in a language of their own. "Reminds me of my Uncle Vinny's place," Chris whispered. "Except Uncle Vinny didn't have a pet ghost."

Paulie chuckled nervously, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. "Yeah, but did Uncle Vinny's place have a fireplace like this?" He gestured to the foyer ahead, where a crackling fire cast a warm glow on the left side.

Silvio took a step closer to the picture above the mantel. "Who's the pretty boy?" he said, eyeing the handsome, young man in the portrait.

"Probably the guy who lost his fortune betting on the wrong horse," Chris quipped.

Paulie nodded in agreement. "Or maybe he's the one who's supposed to jump out and go 'Boo!' at us."

Suddenly a voice boomed out from the darkness: "When hinges creak in doorless chambers. When strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls. Whenever candlelights flicker when the air is deathly still… That is the time when ghosts are present, practicing their terror with ghoulish delight."

"The fuck was that?" Paulie whispered, his hand reflexively reaching for his non-existent gun.

Chris leaned in, squinting at the portrait. "Look, Sil, the guy's getting older. This is like watching a time-lapse of someone's life going to shit."

Silvio chuckled, his nerves slightly calmed by the familiar banter. "Yeah, or like watching you after a night out with the guys."

The portrait's subject grew haggard, his smile fading into a grimace, until the final image was of an old man, surrounded by cobwebs and decay. Just as the transformation was complete, the wall beside it swung open with a dramatic creak, revealing a hidden octagonal chamber. The light from the fireplace danced on the dusty surfaces, illuminating a single, unblinking eye staring back at them from the shadows.

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch," Silvio murmured. "I think Mickey Mouse just told us to get our asses in gear."

Paulie swallowed hard, his grin gone. "Alright, let's go. But if we bump into Goofy with a knife, I'm holding you two responsible."

The trio cautiously entered the octagonal chamber, their eyes immediately drawn to the four portraits adorning the walls. A bearded gentleman in the first painting held a document with the pompous air of a mayor, while the young lady in the second seemed to flirt with her parasol, despite the grim setting. The old woman with the rose had a knowing smile that sent an eerie shiver down Paulie's spine, and the man in the bowler hat in the last portrait looked like he was about to tip it to them in greeting. "This is some weird shit," Paulie murmured, swiping a bead of sweat from his brow.

"Look, they're all watching us," Chris whispered, his gaze darting from one painting to the next.

Silvio, ever unflappable, took a closer look at the gargoyles. "Candles in their hands, huh? Maybe they're just the welcoming committee."

"Or maybe they're gonna drop 'em on our heads," Chris said, eyeing the flickering flames warily.

Paulie scoffed. "It's all tricks and mirrors, right? Nothing to worry about." But even as he spoke, the eyes of the man in the bowler hat seemed to follow him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they weren't alone.

"Welcome, foolish mortals, to the Haunted Mansion." The voice said. "I am your host, your ghost host. Our tour begins here in this gallery. Here, where you see paintings of some of our guests as they appeared in their corruptible, mortal state. Kindly step all the way in please, and make room for everyone. There’s no turning back now."

The door slammed shut with an ominous finality, the sound echoing through the chamber like a tomb sealing them in. Paulie's heart skipped a beat, and he turned to Silvio, his grin now a nervous twitch. "Well, shit. Didn't expect that."

"Look" Cristopher said, pointing at the walls.

Paulie's eyes bulged as the room stretched upwards, the paintings morphing into bizarre, macabre tableaus. "What the actual fuck?" he sputtered, pointing at the bearded man. "Is he about to blow his own balls off?"

Chris chuckled darkly. "Looks like he's got his hands full, doesn't he?"

Silvio's gaze shifted to the young lady on the tightrope. "And this broad, trying to be a circus act with a mouthful of teeth?"

"Your cadaverous pallor betrays an aura of foreboding, almost as though you sense a disquieting metamorphosis." The Ghost Host continued. "Is this haunted room actually stretching? Or is it your imagination — hmm? And consider this dismaying observation: this chamber has no windows and no doors… which offers you this chilling challenge: to find a way out!" Paulie, Christopher and Silvio are staring upward towards the ceiling as a bone chilling laugh fills the room. But then The Ghost Host added, "Of course, there’s always my way."

The lights winked out, plunging the chamber into a sudden abyss of darkness. A deafening crack of thunder rattled the mansion's bones, and a jagged bolt of lightning sliced through the night sky above them, illuminating the grisly sight of the Ghost Host's skeletal form, dangling from the rafters. "Oh, mother of God!" Paulie yelped, his voice cracking with fear. The ceiling had vanished, replaced by a view of the mansion's cupola, where the specter swayed eerily. A shrill, bloodcurdling scream pierced the silence, followed by the sickening crunch of bones shattering.

The lights flickered back on, and the skeletal figure of the Ghost Host disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. The trio blinked, their hearts racing, as they took in the seemingly normal ceiling once more. The walls of the chamber had returned to their original state, the paintings once again serene and still. With a collective sigh of relief, they stepped through the newly revealed exit, into a short hallway lined with more cryptic artwork. "Christ, that was some next-level shit," Chris murmured, wiping his palms on his pants.

"Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you prematurely," The Ghost Host said apologetically with a slight touch of mirth. "The real chills come later. Now, as they say, “look alive,” and we’ll continue our little tour. And let’s all stay together, please."

Paulie chuckled nervously, his eyes scanning the surroundings. "Yeah, they're really going all out here."

Silvio, ever the cool customer, took a moment to regain his composure before speaking. "Let's keep moving, guys. No sense in sticking around to see if they've got more tricks up their sleeves."

As they approached the end of the hallway, the sound of a creaking gate grew louder, and before they knew it, the wall in front of them split open, revealing a grand portrait gallery. The air grew thick with anticipation as they stepped into the spacious room, their eyes drawn to the line of doombuggies that stretched before them.

"And now, a carriage approaches to carry you into the boundless realm of the supernatural." The Ghost Host said. "Once on board, remain safely seated with your hands, arms, feet, and legs inside. And watch your children, please."

"Looks like we're riding this ghost train to the nuthouse," Silvio said, trying to lighten the mood.

Paulie's gaze lingered on the moving seats. "I dunno, Sil. This might be the only way out of here."

Chris's eyes widened. "Let's just get on, I don't wanna walk through this shit."

The three men climbed into the nearest doombuggy, the ride's mechanical click-clacking setting a rhythm of unease in their chests. As they began their descent into the bowels of the Haunted Mansion, they couldn't help but wonder if the ghosts they'd encountered so far were mere illusions, or if they were about to embark on a journey through the realm of the dead themselves.

"Do not pull down on the safety bar, please." The Ghost Host continued. "I will lower it for you. And heed this warning: the spirits will materialize only if you remain quietly seated at all times."

The safty bar is lowered keeping them in place.

The doombuggy lurched forward into the stairwell, and despite the safety bar, the three men gripped the sides tightly as they angled downward. The flickering light from the floating candelabra above cast eerie shadows on their faces, making them look like ghosts themselves. As they passed beneath the landing, the candelabra swayed precariously, sending a cascade of wax droplets down onto their heads. "Jesus!" Chris cursed, brushing the hot wax off his shoulder.

They emerged into the hallway, their eyes drawn to the left where the white sheer drapes billowed with the tempest outside. Each flash of lightning painted the ghostly scenes across the fabric, briefly revealing the horrors lurking beyond the glass. On the right, the quartet of paintings taunted them with their transformation, the images morphing with each bolt of light. The woman on the daybed now lay in the jaws of a snarling tiger, the sloop was a ghostly wreck amidst the waves, the knight had become a skeletal rider, and Medusa glared at them with her stone gaze.

"Look at that shit," Paulie murmured, a mix of amazement and dread in his voice. "They're changing like a chameleon in a fucking paint factory."

Silvio nodded, his eyes fixed on the paintings. "I've seen some wild things in my life, but this… this is something else."

Chris leaned back, trying to put some space between himself and the shifting images. "Yeah, well, I've had enough art for one day. Let's get to the part where we get our money's worth and some actual screams."

"Oh yes, and no flash pictures, please." The Ghost Host said. "We spirits are frightfully sensitive to bright lights."

The doombuggy's journey continued into the dimly lit library, where the scent of aged paper and leather filled their nostrils. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the tomes within seemingly alive as they shivered and danced in the flickering candlelight. Invisible hands plucked at the books, sending them tumbling to the ground in a cacophony of thumps and whispers. A rolling ladder rattled back and forth, as if ridden by a ghostly librarian in a hurry. The chair by the fireplace rocked ominously, and the pages of a book on a side-table flipped with a sinister grace. The marble busts in their alcoves seemed to track their movement with cold, unblinking stares. "This place is giving me the creeps," Paulie murmured, his grip tightening on the safety bar.

Silvio nodded, his eyes flicking from book to bust. "I don't know what kind of books they got here, but I'm guessing 'How to Whack a Rat' isn't on the bestseller list."

Chris snickered. "More like 'The Art of Haunting for Dummies.'"

The Ghost Host's voice filled the chamber, seemingly coming from all around them. "Our library is well-stocked with priceless first editions — only ghost stories, of course — and marble busts of the greatest ghost writers the literary world has ever known."

The doombuggy glided into the opulent Music Room, the sound of Rachmaninoff's haunting melody swelling around them, played with a ghostly finesse on the grand piano. Despite the lack of a musician, the keys danced and leaped as if tickled by invisible fingers. The shadow of the phantom pianist stretched and contorted on the floor, a silent symphony of shadows. To the right, the deep resonance of a bass guitar seemed to pluck at their very souls, while the violin on the left chair swayed in an unseen breeze, its bow gliding across the strings with a mournful cry. "Who knew the afterlife had talent?" Silvio quipped, his voice a shade too loud in the unsettling quiet.

"Keep your eyes peeled," Chris whispered, leaning forward in his seat. "This is the kind of place you'd hide a body and make it look like a decoration."

Paulie's gaze darted around the room, taking in the grandeur with a mix of awe and suspicion. "Yeah, but who'd want to hide anything here? Place is like a fucking mausoleum."

"They have all retired here, to the Haunted Mansion." The Ghost Host continued. "Actually, we have 999 happy haunts here. But there’s room for 1,000. Any volunteers?"

They ascended the grand staircase, their doombuggy seemingly defying gravity as it climbed the impossible stairs that twisted in every conceivable direction. The air grew colder, the light dimmer, as they ventured into the heart of the mansion. The spectral footprints of the mansion's otherworldly inhabitants danced around them, a silent testament to the chaotic waltz of the supernatural beings that called this place home. "Look at this shit," Paulie murmured, his eyes wide. "It's like we're in a funhouse designed by a mad monk."

"Or a bad trip," Chris whispered, his voice tight with nerves.

Silvio leaned back in his seat, his eyes narrowed. "I've seen some weird shit in my day, but this takes the cake."

"Well, if you should decide to join us, final arrangements may be made at the end of the tour." The Ghost Host continued. "A charming "ghostess" will be on hand to take your application."

As the doombuggy descended into the inky blackness of the next chamber, the walls around them began to pulse with a ghostly glow. Twin rows of eyes blinked into existence, following their every movement with an unsettling curiosity. "You guys feel like we're being watched?" Paulie asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Chris nodded, his eyes darting around the room. "Yeah, it's like someone's got a pet roomful of Cheshire Cats."

Silvio twitched in the gloom. "I don't know about you two, but I'm starting to feel like the cheese in this mouse trap."

"We find it delightfully unlivable here in this ghostly retreat." The Ghost Host said. "Every room has wall-to-wall creeps, and hot and cold running chills."

The trio's doombuggy drifted past the second floor passageway, and the sight of the endless corridor sent a shiver down their spines. The solitary candelabra hovered in the middle, casting a flickering, ghostly glow that stretched the shadows of the doors into menacing fingers. To their left, the suit of armor shifted almost imperceptibly, as if it were alive and watching their every move. On the right, the armchair's "face" leered at them, its wooden features twisted into a silent, mocking grin. "What the fuck is up with that chair?" Paulie hissed, his eyes glued to the disturbing sight.

Chris leaned in, whispering, "Looks like someone's idea of a good time went bad. Like they tried to carve a jack-o'-lantern but forgot to stop at the pumpkin."

Silvio's eyes narrowed. "I think I've sat in that chair at Uncle June's place. Except it didn't have the teeth."

"Shhh, listen!" The Ghost Host hissed.

A keening sounding like a banshee is heard.

Paulie's eyes widened as the doombuggy slowed before the conservatory's grim display. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he whispered, his voice shaking. "What the fuck is in that box?"

Chris leaned in, his heart racing. "Looks like someone's trying to RSVP for their own funeral," he said, his attempt at humor falling flat in the face of the macabre scene.

Silvio's gaze was fixed on the struggling skeleton. "That's gotta be a record for worst escape artist," he murmured, his voice a mix of awe and horror.

The doombuggy lurched backward, sending their stomachs into their throats as they descended the eerie corridor. The walls closed in around them, the doors seeming to pulse with a malevolent life force. "What the fuck is going on here?" Paulie exclaimed, his eyes darting from door to door as the muffled sounds grew more frantic. The doorknockers clacked in a staccato rhythm, as if eager to join the cacophony of horrors. The "family portraits" on the walls were a ghastly array of twisted, leering faces, the subjects' lifeless eyes following their every move. Chris leaned back, his hands gripping the safety bar. "I've seen some messed-up shit, but this is like a fucking family reunion from hell." Silvio's eyes narrowed, his expression grim. "Keep your cool, guys. This is just the warm-up act."

The doombuggy rolled to a halt before the grandiose grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging erratically. The numbers on its face spun in reverse, the chime striking 13 with a gong that seemed to echo through the very fabric of the mansion. The shadow of a clawed hand darted across the clock face, and for a brief moment, the room grew colder than the grave. Silvio's eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking to the shadows beyond the clock. "You don't see that every day," he murmured, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

The doombuggy rolled into the heart of the shadowy Séance Circle, the air thick with the scent of incense and a palpable anticipation. The trio stared in awe at the large table in the center, surrounded by a whirl of spectral lights. The high-backed chair, with its raven sentinel, seemed to beckon them closer, the crystal ball atop it pulsing with a ghostly glow. The image of a floating head, the spirit of Madame Leota, appeared within the ball, her eyes locked on theirs. Her haunting chant grew louder, the words sending a shiver down their spines.

"Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat, call in the spirits, wherever they’re at! Rap on a table — it’s time to respond. Send us a message from somewhere beyond…Goblins and ghoulies from last Halloween, awaken the spirits with your tambourine! Creepies and crawlies, toads in a pond, let there be music from regions beyond! Wizards and witches, wherever you dwell, give us a hint, by ringing a bell!"

Paulie leaned over to Silvio. "What's with the raven?" he whispered.

Silvio's eyes never left the crystal. "It's probably her pet spy," he murmured. "Making sure we don't mess with the merchandise."

Chris snickered nervously. "Merchandise? Like, the dead guys we're supposed to be scared of?"

Suddenly The Ghost Host spoke: "The happy haunts have received your sympathetic vibrations and are beginning to materialize. They’re assembling for a swinging wake, and they’ll be expecting me… I’ll see you all a little later."

Paulie's jaw hung open as they cruised along the balcony, the Grand Hall sprawling before them. "Look at these party animals," he murmured, his eyes wide. "They're throwing a shindig that'd make the Sopranos' Christmas bash look like a tea party."

Chris leaned over the railing, watching the spectral partygoers with a mix of fascination and horror. "And who's the birthday boy with the fireproof hair?"

Silvio chuckled, nodding towards the table. "Probably the kind of guy who thinks 'going out with a bang' is a good way to go."

The trio couldn't help but stare as the ghosts danced and played, their transparent forms weaving through the air like misty shadows. The rocking chair old woman was giving them a show, popping in and out of existence with a grace that belied her years. "I guess when you're dead, you've got all the time in the world to perfect your disappearing act," Silvio said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

As the doombuggy descended closer to the action, the duelists in their paintings caught their eye. The clang of their pistols echoed through the hall, each shot a silent reminder of the drama unfolding in the flickering candlelight. "Those two are really packing some heat," Paulie quipped, his voice betraying his nerves.

"And look at that," Chris whispered, pointing to the organ. "It's like the ghost of Elton John went full Beetlejuice."

Paulie's eyes widened as he took in the grand ballroom, the air thick with the ethereal glow of the ghostly dancers. "Look at these broads," he murmured to Silvio. "They're throwing a hoedown in the afterlife."

Silvio nodded, his gaze lingering on the spectral figures as they waltzed and twirled. "They've got more moves than John Travolta at a disco."

The doombuggy drifted closer to the dance floor, the music swelling around them. The dancers' laughter was like the tinkling of chimes in the wind, and their grace was both mesmerizing and unsettling. "I bet none of 'em step on your toes," Chris said, his voice a mix of envy and dread.

The three men watched in silent awe as the party unfolded before them, the living and the dead sharing a space in a dance that seemed to have no end. Despite the chills that danced up their spines, there was something undeniably enchanting about the sight.

Leaving the Grand Hall, the trio's doombuggy ventured into the attic, a place where the air was thick with dust and the smell of forgotten memories. The sound of a mournful piano playing "The Wedding March" grew louder, the notes weaving through the shadows like a ghostly serenade. The room was cluttered with remnants of a life once lived, and the eerie glow of a swinging chandelier cast flickering lights across the bric-a-brac. Amidst the chaos, five paintings of a bride with a chilling smile caught their attention. The grooms, however, had a less consistent presence, their heads vanishing and reappearing as if playing a macabre game of peek-a-boo. "Look at this shit," Paulie murmured, his eyes narrowing at the grisly display. "This chick's got more exes than a Vegas marriage chapel."

Silvio nodded, his gaze fixed on the spectral pianist's shadow. "Yeah, and she's got a taste for 'til death do us part' alright."

Chris leaned in, his voice a hushed whisper. "And what's with the hatchet?"

Paulie grunted. "Probably for the grooms who couldn't keep up with the alimony."

As they approached the final portrait, the ghostly visage of the bride, Constance, emerged from the canvas, her eyes gleaming with a madness that sent a chill down their spines. She recited her twisted vows with a laugh that seemed to echo through the very rafters. "As long as we both shall live," she cackled, a spectral hatchet appearing and disappearing in her hands.

"Fuck that!" the three men exclaimed in unison, their laughter a nervous release of the tension building in their chests. The doombuggy lurched forward, carrying them away from the bride's chilling presence and deeper into the mansion's secrets.

The doombuggy squeaked to a stop on the balcony, the Attic's horrors behind them, but the eerie party had only just begun. As they peered over the edge, the graveyard sprawled before them, a sea of spectral figures rising from the ground. The raven on the branch cawed a greeting, its eyes gleaming with mischief. The caretaker and his trembling mutt looked up, their fear palpable in the chilly air. The sound of music filled the night, a cacophony of instruments that seemed to come from every direction, setting their teeth on edge. To their left, the graveyard band played a tune that seemed to shake the very bones of the dead, while the living statues of a King, Queen, and Duchess cavorted among the tombstones, their movements as unnatural as their existence. The skeletal wolf's howl pierced the darkness, sending a shiver down their spines. On the right, the five Singing Busts serenaded them with a tune that was equal parts jovial and eerie, their faces alight with an otherworldly glow. The trio exchanged nervous glances as the ghosts grew denser, their laughter and chatter a reminder that they were far from alone in this haunted realm. The Mummy's futile attempts to converse with the deaf spirit had them all snickering, while the Phantoms of the Opera belted out their tune with enough passion to stir the very souls of the dead. The Beheaded Knight and his companions sang a macabre trio, their heads floating in the air as if in a ghostly game of catch. The ride's final act was playing out before them, and it was clear that the Haunted Mansion's residents were ready to keep the party going all night long. "Well, shit," Silvio murmured. "Looks like we're not the only ones who know how to throw a bash."

Paulie's hand tightened on the safety bar as the doombuggy rolled into the Mausoleum, the final act of their chilling journey. The raven perched above the door cawed a greeting that sounded suspiciously like a warning. "You think this bird's got any good gambling tips?" he quipped, his voice a shaky attempt at bravado.

Chris leaned in, eyeing the raven warily. "I don't think he's the type to share the wealth, Paulie."

Silvio nodded in agreement. "More likely to steal your wallet than give you the winning lotto numbers."

Then a familiar voice is heard, "Ah, there you are!" It was The Ghost Host. "And just in time… there’s a little matter I forgot to mention."

"Beware of Hitchhiking Ghosts!"

Paulie's eyes bulged as he took in the three hitchhiking spirits: a grinning Traveler, a cackling Skeleton, and a ghostly Prisoner with a knapsack full of mischief. "Ah, what the fuck is this?" he exclaimed, reaching over to swat at the apparitions. But his hand passed right through them, leaving him feeling like he'd just slapped at a cloud of smoke. The doombuggy rolled through the wall of mirrors, and suddenly their new companions were right beside them, reflected in every pane. "Looks like we've got some stowaways," Silvio said, his voice calm despite the sudden turn of events.

Chris's eyes widened as he saw the Hitchhikers in the mirrors. "Shit, they're everywhere!"

Paulie's panic grew as he watched the Traveler lean in, his ethereal hand reaching for the steering wheel. "Get the fuck out of here!" he shouted, swiping at the spirit with all his might. But his hand met only cold air.

Silvio chuckled, his eyes on the mirrors. "Don't bother, Paulie. They're just along for the ride."

The Skeleton's laugh echoed around them, and the Prisoner's hand shot out of the mirror, giving them a thumbs up. Paulie's heart raced as he realized the Hitchhikers were indeed in their doombuggy. "Christ almighty, we're gonna have to split a fare with these freaks!"

"They have selected you to fill our quota, and they’ll haunt you until you return!" The Ghost Host stated.

As the doombuggy rolled through the Mausoleum, a ghostly figure caught their eye on a stone ledge high above. It was Little Leota, the Ghostess, her tiny form shrouded in a hooded dress that made her appear almost bridal. Her long, blue hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her skin glowed an eerie pale blue in the moonlight. In her hand, she clutched a bouquet of what looked like dried herbs. "What the hell is that?" Paulie whispered, his eyes darting up to the spectral figure.

"Looks like the bride's got some backup," Chris murmured, his voice filled with a mix of awe and unease.

Silvio leaned back, watching Little Leota with a careful eye. "Keep moving, guys. Don't let her give us the stink eye."

The doombuggy passed beneath her, and she leaned over the edge, her eyes following them as if she had a message only they could hear. "Hurry back," she whispered, her voice faint and haunting, carried on a breeze that seemed to come from nowhere. "Hurry back. Be sure to bring your death certificate, if you decide to join us. Make final arrangements now! We've been dying… to have you…"

Paulie shivered, his hand gripping the safety bar even tighter. "That's it," he said, his voice gruff. "I'm not getting married anytime soon."

"Now I will raise the safety bar, and a ghost will follow you home!" Laughed The Ghost Host.

The safety bar lifted with a metallic groan, and without a second thought, the trio bolted out of the doombuggy, their laughter replaced by frantic gasps. They sprinted through the Mausoleum, their feet pounding against the stone floor. The Hitchhikers' laughter grew fainter as they put distance between themselves and the spectral partygoers. "Keep running, you fucks!" Silvio shouted over his shoulder, his breath coming in ragged bursts. They burst through the mansion's doors, the night air a welcome reprieve from the chilling grip of the Haunted Mansion. They didn't stop until they were clear of the graveyard, the lights of the park twinkling like a beacon of safety in the distance. Paulie leaned against a lamppost, panting heavily. "Well, that was… something else," he managed to get out between gasps.

Chris looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide. "You think they're still with us?"

Silvio straightened his tie. "Nah, we're in the clear."

But as they turned to walk away, a faint cackle echoed through the night, and the flicker of three ghostly thumbs-ups reflected in the window of a nearby souvenir shop. The trio exchanged a look that said it all: they'd just become part of the Haunted Mansion's eternal guest list.

[walaw717]

Tradition makes foolish, unreasonable demands because it aims not at our comfort but at our divinization.

Over Christmas break I have binge watched “The Crown”.  When I started it really did not seem my type of thing to watch, I am devotedly American and  anti celebrity.

However, even though this is a fictionalized account of the Royals it clarified for me something I have vaguely understood for years. 

When I was a boy Mickey Mantle and Sandy Kofax were my boyhood heroes. I was an adult before I found out that Mantle was a stone cold alcoholic and Kofax had feet of clay.  In public they presented with a quiet dignity  and created an image that I as a boy tried hard to emulate.  

Much later the NBA superstar, Charles Barkley, stated, “I am not a role model. I’m not paid to be a role model. I’m paid to wreak havoc on the basketball court. Parents should be role models. Just because I dunk a basketball, doesn’t mean I should raise your kids.”  

Athletes now do not understand that, like it or not, role models are important not just to children but to  adults.  As was pointed out to Princess Margaret  by the family photographer  in one episode of the Crown, the person living a life of struggle  needs to be able to open a magazine and for one moment see beyond the difficult existence of their daily life to something mythical. 

Instead celebrities and media moguls have allowed Celebrities in all areas of media to give us the ideals of greed, crassness and a lack of responsibility with out any sense of  the myth of a higher standard. They call it merely entertainment.

No one in their right mind would set out to be a celebrity let alone a King or Queen yet once it occurs there is a duty and responsibility that comes with it. Even the most stout hearted among us needs a mentor to look up to and emulate. 

This point was made to me my final year of High School when the guidance counselor pointed out to me that there were younger students who looked up to me. In the brokenness of my own interior castle I could not fathom why  or that it was true but I watched the ones she had pointed out and saw it was true. For a time I started to behave more discreetly and responsibly - knowing that I was setting an example for younger people. Later, as I lost myself in the masses of a large university campus  and became a number instead of a person, I lost that awareness of that for a while. I did however have my own mentors and  heroes  in academia. Later in life, as I realized as a counselor how difficult life really is for all of us,  I began to understand the power of seeing  my brother and father and grand fathers and many of my family in a more heroic light. 

I have come to understand that the foundation of maturity is to not only see that heroism in others but to display it in one’s self. Role modeling and its responsibilities  is a concept were really need to re value in western society. 

Rampant individualism rarely serves anyone but itself. And yes being a role model creates constraints.

A friend pointed out that in this portrait of Major Speed, Academy Adjutant of the Scots Guards at RMA Sandhurst. 

He, (my friend)  like every Officer and Non Com in the military, understands this concept quiet well.

   Media moguls and celebrities live in failure to understand that their celebrity and wealth  does not free them from social responsibility but lifts them to a higher social responsibility toward the people who generated their wealth and position. 

I am glad I did not know Micky Mantle was a drunk until I was an adult. Part of me realized  that it did not matter because he gave me a role model to strive toward that was dignified and larger than my life as a boy. This is something that the Charles Barkley’s and Kardashians and the media in general really need to understand. The lack of that understanding is what has brought our politics to a low ebb and our mutual respect to be non existent. 

[heymrspatel]

my submission for @gallacrafts theme 3: choose your own adventure - cozy fall! 🛋☕️🕯

✨additional little details✨:

mickey's mug says "🖕🏼fuck off" he found it hysterical and bought it for himself

ian's mug has a little happy drawing of a beet and says "you make my heart beet". mickey bought it for him, he picked it up with a fond sigh and mumbled "he's going to lose his shit" before making his way to the register

their framed wedding photo was a gift from fiona

ian framed the drawing from franny, he couldn't stop giggling at the way she drew mickey's scowl and spikey hair

the "little orange thing" (the pumpkin) ian got as a gift in my last drawing is up there on the mantel 🥺🥺

ian really loves candles that makes their home smell like nature, the one on their side table is called “cabin in the woods” and it has a crackling wick

mickey is drinking hot cocoa and ian is drinking a chai latte - a new favorite!

they've been making their way through childhood favorite halloween movies, on today's list: beetlejuice, the addams family, and casper (they're not planning on leaving the couch) while watching casper ian being ian, looked at mickey and whispered "can i keep you?" and mickey being mickey grumbled "🙄🙄 you're 🙂🙂 fucking 😌😌 ridiculous, man 🥰🥰🥰"

[arrowflier]

Thank you for brightening my day with your stories. I always look forward to checking out your blog. Here's a prompt for you: S10 and 11, but Fiona is there and never left Chicago. How does the story change? Does she calm things down or cause more chaos? How does she get along with newer characters Tami (who she only knew a little) and Sandy? How does she react to Frank's dementia and death? Does she use her landlord skills and make Lip sign a damn lease before renting on a handshake deal?!

There's so much potential with this, but I just picked a few short scenes from season 11 to try and get a vibe!

--

“He can’t just kick you guys out,” Fiona insisted, following Lip through the house. He skirted the edge of the sofa on his way to the kitchen, and she almost ran into it. Only years of muscle memory and navigating her home in the dark—unpaid electric bills, drunken stupors, trying not to wake up the kids—kept her from banging her hip against the arm.

“He can,” Lip argued, passing through to the next room, “and he did.” He opened the fridge, looked at the beer cans inside. Closed it again, and got a glass of water from the tap instead.

“Sold it right out from under us,” he said bitterly into the glass. “New owners want us out before they close.

Fiona watched him take a sip, make a face and swallow it. Then she slapped the back of his head, hard, and grabbed the water before he could drop it.

“Listen to me,” she ordered as he scowled, rubbing the injury. She leaned down to get on the same level, face to disgruntled face. “I was a landlord, remember?”

“Not a very good one,” Lip muttered, and flinched back when she raised her hand again. She lowered it when he put his own up in surrender.

“I was a landlord,” she repeated, then paused, lips twisting. “And one of the reasons I’m not anymore is cause of a family of squatters I couldn’t get rid of.”

“And?” Lip asked, eyebrows raised. “The fuck’s that got to do with anything?”

Fiona rolled her eyes.

“Thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” she said dryly, then, “If it was that easy to kick somebody out, don’t you think I would’ve done it?”

Lip frowned.

“I mean, sure,” he said slowly, working through the thought. “But we don’t even have a lease.”

“Neither did they, that’s for damn sure,” Fiona grumbled. She turned to lean back against the counter next to him, shoulder to broad shoulder. Both had held enough wait for a lifetime.

“Doesn’t matter,” she told him. “That you don’t have a lease, I mean.”

She turned her head, looked at him.

“The eviction process isn’t as quick as people think.”

Lip’s brow furrowed as he glanced up at her.

“Are you…” Lip trailed off, started again. “Are you telling me to make him take us to court?”

Fiona smiled.

I’m telling you you might as well fight for it,” she said. “You’re broke anyway; what have you got to lose?”

---

“Can you believe her?” Debbie spit out, slamming the cabinet door shut. She stood, holding a box of cake mix, and set it down so hard on the counter that Fiona’s drink almost tipped over.

“Believe what?” Fiona asked, scooting back just in case. “That she left?”

Debbie glared.

“No, not that,” she said. “I told her to leave, remember?”

“What then?” Fiona took a sip of her beer, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the counter once she deemed it safe again.

“That she just abandoned her kid,” Debbie said. “Left him all alone, no mother, no nothing, just so she could go live a little.”

Oh. Fiona frowned.

“Debs…” she stared, swirling the dregs of beer left in the bottom of the bottle. She looked back up at her sister, down again to shield herself from the heat Debbie let off.

“I don’t think that’s what happened.”

“How can you say that?” Debbie asked, loud, angry. “You of all people know what it’s like to be…to be abandoned!”

Debbie bent down to grab a heavy metal bowl, slammed that down, too. The sound echoed, ringing through the quiet room. By the time it faded, she had too.

“It’s not the same, is it?” Debbie asked quietly, and Fiona shook her head.

“No,” she answered, just as soft. “No, it’s not.”

“Guess I should talk to her,” Debbie whispered, flat. Defeated.

“Probably,” Fiona agreed, then stood.

“Spend some time with Franny, first,” she suggested on her way toward the stairs, looking back in time to meet Debbie’s eyes as she lifted them.

“You’ve done a good job with her, you know,” Fiona said, and smiled. “I’m really proud of you”

And then she walked up the steps, and left Debbie to her thoughts.

---

“What—Mickey?” Fiona asked, passing her brother’s husband in the doorway. He was scowling, shoulders squared, stomping through the door and outside.

“You’re brother’s an asshole,” he answered shortly, and then he was gone.

Fiona watched him go. Then she went straight through the house, and out the back door, to where she knew Ian waited.

Sure enough, the door opened onto his stiff back, and she slipped out without a word. Sat down next to him, there on the stairs, and stole the cigarette from his hand.

“Thought you were trying to be healthier,” she asked, taking a long drag.

He reached for it, and she passed it back, their fingers brushing.

“Yeah, well,” he said, just staring at the glowing end of the stick. “Not much point in that if I can’t even afford to pay the bills next month.”

That again. Fiona sighed.

“We’ll be okay, you know,” she tried, but Ian waved her off before she could finish.

“We’d be better if he’d get a damn job.”

Fiona nodded.

“Sure,” she said, “we might be.” The filter of the cigarette was burning low, close to Ian’s fingers, so she took it again and threw it under her shoe.

“But are you willing to give everything up on a maybe?”

Ian looked at her.

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged, leaned into him. He was as tall as her, now, and her head slotted perfectly onto his shoulder.

“You’ve got the closest thing to happiness any of us have ever seen,” she said, looking out over the yard. She picked absently at the step she sat on, prying up thin splinters and smoothing them back down again.

“Maybe you should just let yourself have it, for a while.”

Ian was silent. But he reached an arm up around her back, let her in closer. Rested his chin on her head.

“You think so?” he finally asked, so quiet she barely heard it.

She rested a hand on his knee, squeezed it. Breathed out.

“I really do.”

---

“Oh my god, Liam, where have you been?”

Fiona was on him the moment he got through the door, long arms scooping him into a hug so tight she grunted with the effort.

“I was so worried,” she said, pulling back, hands gently but firm as they found his face. “You can’t just disappear like that, Liam, I sent everyone out to look for you hours ago!”

“You noticed?” Liam asked, his young face scrunched, and Fiona shook him, then folded him back into her arms.

“Of course I noticed, you little asshole,” she muttered into his hair, pressing her cheek against springy strands. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Liam shrugged, his shoulders barely moving in her tight embrace.

“Everybody is so busy,” he said. “Trying to figure stuff out.”

“So?” Fiona asked, still holding him, hands smoothing down the back of his hand-me-down shirt. “Why does that mean you get to wander off without telling me?”

“Gotta figure out my stuff too, don’t I?” he answered, quiet, sad, and Fiona let go of him to crouch down. She looked him in the eyes, brushing a hand over his soft hair, and forced him to meet her gaze.

“You’re a kid,” she said firmly. “What do you need to figure out that you can’t come to me for?”

“Where to live, for one,” Liam said, looking away, and Fiona frowned.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “You’ll come live with me.”

His eyes widened, and she hesitated.

“Do you…” She paused, swallowed. “Do you not want that?”

Liam just blinked. Then smiled, bright and relieved, and buried his head down on her shoulder in all the answer she needed.

---

“Hey, You okay?” Fiona asked, coming up behind Carl where he stood staring at Frank’s ashes on the mantel. She put a hand up on his shoulder, rubbed once, twice.

“Course I am,” Carl answered, all swagger and false confidence. “Frank was an asshole.”

Fiona hummed.

“He was,” she agreed. “But he was our asshole. And I know you two used to be close.”

“Nobody was close to Frank,” Carl muttered bitterly. “They just thought they were.”

A beat passed, tense, quiet. Then Carl’s shoulders sagged.

“Not like he was the same Frank anymore, anyway,” he said softly.

Fiona stepped closer, a warm presence at his side.

“Does that make it easier?” she asked. “Or harder?”

Carl shrugged.

“Neither, I don’t think,” he answered, then his face scrunched, the way it used to when his brothers made him think to hard. “Just feel like it’s wrong to still be mad at him, you know? He didn’t even remember all the shit he did, at the end.”

Fiona looked at him, and smiled sadly.

“That’s okay,” she said simply. “I’m still mad, too.”

After another moment, she leaned in, kissed the side of his head.

“Time to get to work though,” she said, “we can be as maudlin as you like when you get back.”

“What’s that mean?” Carl asked, following her into the kitchen, and she laughed as she dug his packed lunch out from the back of the fridge.

“I’ll tell you later,” she said, “but right now, work mister!”

Carl accepted the answer, and his lunch. Then, as Fiona grabbed her keys off the counter, the ones to her new SUV, he said, “I’m thinking of quitting, you know.”

Fiona didn’t hesitate, shoving him toward the door.

“That’s fine,” she said, slamming it shut behind them. “But until them, no brother of mine is going to be late!”

[gardenerian]

hi hi! i hope you’re doing well <3 it’s so lovely to see you be so uplifting and positive to everyone on here it truly feels like a safe space from all the negativity that you can sometimes stumble on to on this app <33

i also enjoy reading everything you write sm the garden fic was such a treat!! if you’re still taking prompts i’d love to see anything about these pictures 😭❤️❤️. maybe the boys reminiscing about the past/how long they’ve been together, the fact that they’re each other’s first loves (!!) etc etc? 💗💗💗💗

hey there kre! you are so sweet, i’m glad my goofy little blog makes you smile! and thank you so much for sending this prompt! i put a bit of a spin on it... hope you like 💕

Mickey’s lounging on the couch, blissed out from an afternoon spent playing xbox and eating pizza rolls while Ian worked on the Gallagher house with Lip. Sleep is just about to pull him under when -

Ian chooses this moment to burst through the door, struggling over the threshold with a comically large box. Mickey sits up, rubbing the would-be sleep from his eyes and smirking as he watches Ian maneuver it into the apartment.

"No, don't get up, Mick," he calls sarcastically, "I got it. Didn't struggle to get this up here at all."

"You made it this far and all," Mickey teases. "Didn't wanna deprive you of your victory lap."

"You're - so generous," Ian pants, dropping the box unceremoniously on the floor and throwing himself on the couch beside Mickey. He tosses an arm over his face like he's just flopped over on a fainting sofa.

"Are you not going to tell me what's in this giant fuckin' box?"

"Shit from the house," Ian explains, voice muffled by his arm. "Lip packed up what no one else wanted, I thought we'd take a look."

"Oh great, I'll be sure to thank Lip for all the trash he saved for us."

Ian just chuckles and hauls himself upright, pulling the box closer and popping it open. Together they poke around in the remains of a life in the Gallagher house.

A hand mixer with only one beater.

A bag of aquarium rocks.

Old textbooks, passed down from sister to brother and onward.

And stacked between them: a photo album, thin and worn. Ian frowns as he picks it up.

"I don't recognize this," he says, laying it in his lap and running his fingers over the cover. He opens it gently and gasps at the first photo that greets him.

Mickey never met her, never got more than a glimpse of her as she tore through the neighborhood, but he knows Monica Gallagher by the crinkles of her face as she smiles up at him.

She beams at the camera, holding a baby in her arms - and Mickey knows without reading the notes scribbled underneath that it's Ian.

"Wow," Ian breathes, tracing Monica's face with his fingers. Mickey reaches a hand forward, lightly touching baby Ian's head. There he is.

There are only a few photos in the album - mostly combinations of Lip and Fiona holding Ian. They don't look at the camera; their gazes remain firmly on Ian.

There aren't any photos after this day. The shine must have worn off on the domestic bliss after that.

"No one wanted to keep this?" Mickey asks, suddenly sad that Lip had tossed these moments in a box of garbage. Ian's first day alive.

"They probably didn't see it," Ian guesses. "Family photos are few and far between. You know how it is. Not like now, where we all have hundreds of Franny or Fred pictures on our phones."

Mickey does know how it is.

Did anyone capture his first day in the world? He tries to conjure images of Iggy's chubby fingers reaching to hold him, of his mother smiling down at him. Birthday parties, first days of school. Did his first steps go unnoticed? Did anyone clap?

"I don't remember anyone even taking my picture until -"

Until Ian.

He thinks his mother must have, at least in those early days, maybe on some disposable camera. Maybe he just wants to think that. And if she did, that was all. They never made it to a frame. He never saw his younger self grinning down at him from the mantel.

But with Ian, he remembers.

During that summer before everything went to shit, he remembers Ian watching him. Then he'd surreptitiously hold up his phone, trying to snap candids of Mickey as they roamed around the neighborhood, drank beers at the dugouts, or lounged at the Milkovich house.

Mickey noticed him every time, but chose to let Ian have it. Chose to let himself be watched and seen. Sometimes he acquiesced to a fucking selfie, screwing up his face and pressing in close to Ian.

Those photos are mostly gone now, another victim of those lost years. There weren't any real photos of them together until they'd left prison. Ten years of history, existing only in the minds of those who lived it.

"I wish there were more," Ian says a little sadly. "Pictures of you. Of us. As kids."

"They'd be shitty, man," Mickey tries to joke. It comes out flat and bitter. "We'd have black eyes and dirty fuckin' faces in most of them. Don't need pictures of that."

"What do you think our photo album would have been," Ian asks, "if we'd grown up in a normal place? With normal parents?"

"I dunno," Mickey answers. He doesn't really like to think this way: what's done is done. But he indulges Ian a little. "Prom photos?"

"You never would have gone to prom," he laughs. "Parties, though. We would have gone to parties together. Costume parties, maybe?"

"Pool parties, eh? Fuckin' tailgates, or those lame high school house parties? With the red cups and shit."

"Graduation parties."

"Yeah, maybe."

"We would have had a lot of fun," Ian sighs.

"We did have a lot fun."

Ian leans over and kisses him swiftly, soundly.

"You're right," he says, still hovering by Mickey's lips. "I do wish I had pictures of us. Young, silly - safe. But I'm glad things are how they are."

"Yeah?" He leans in for another kiss, then pulls Ian into his side.

"Yeah," Ian tells him. "I don't need the pictures. I remember it. The Kash and Grab, the bleachers. I remember all of it."

Mickey hums happily, warmth spreading to his toes. "Me, too."

They're quiet for a moment, until:

"We have wedding photos," Ian says, clearly on the cusp of a very earnest train of thought.

"We do," Mickey agrees.

"That's - that's really special, Mick. And it's kinda the start, right? We have family photos now. We could start making albums of our own."

"You wanna stuff a bunch of photos in a book you'll probably never look at again?"

"Fine," Ian relents, "but we should start framing some, hang them up."

Mickey stills for a moment, considering. Photos of him, his life, on the walls of his home. The permanence of it settles warmly in his belly.

"Yeah," he says, kissing the top of Ian's head. "We should."

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Lonika & Theo’s family cottage in West London makes the case for cozy. She introduced wainscoting to the sitting room off the entry, and the formerly boarded-up fireplace now has a mantel of her own design. Now, this little room is cozy.

They wanted to recapture some of the cottage’s original character, but they didn’t want it to feel quaint. 

The nook under the stairs has a window seat with storage.

A farmhouse table extends across the kitchen, which the previous owners enlarged and opened to the back garden.

The kitchen cabinets are a Shaker design.  The counter is Carrara marble. The antique hook-lined shelf over the sink was made for hanging game. (I never knew that’s what it was for.)

Lonika’s mother painted the tropical fruit tableau in the center of the dining area, and the watercolor of quinces is by her grandmother.

Shades of turmeric are one of Lonika’s specialties.

The bathroom is newly lined with beadboard paneling and accessorized with a vintage spool table and shelves. The tub is painted a ��neutral red.”

The baby’s room until recently was Lonika’s office. It’s papered in an Alice in Wonderland design. Mickey is as high as a kite.

https://www.remodelista.com/posts/case-cozy-designer-lonika-chandes-family-cottage-london/

[oliviagordonwrites]

Are you still taking numbers? I choose 5

Thank you!

For five.....probably I'm Ready To Move On/Mickey Mantel Reprise by Bleachers!

Put a number in my ask box and I'll

[bettyrightnow]

∞

dreams of mickey mantel- all the hope i had when i was young, i hope i wasn’t wrong

[yikeswtfmate]

Could you do 38 from the list please with Ray??

hi babes! this took an interesting turn so imma give a warning: sexual themes!

38. If you move from that spot, so help me, I will tie you down.

main masterlist

Y/N is restless – which to be completely honest, that’s none other than Ray’s problem. He’s promised her they’ll go out for dinner tonight, right after he’s done with business for the day. It’s been an hour already, and he still has three more calls to make and a check in with Mickey, but Y/N’s already moved from the couch (where she’s been laying with her feet propped in his lap), then offered him some quiet when she went upstairs to change and put make up on, came back (looking like a moonlit dream) and twirled around in her new dress through the entire kitchen, until she’s poured herself a glass of champagne and settled on the armchair next to him.

Ray doesn’t want to snap at her, yet he’s tracing a very important deal and all the fussing around is distracting him too much for his liking. He’s also extremely aware that she’s wearing those bloody stockings that he likes so much – the black ones that end in red lace, just a palm above her knee. So when he’s just about to pick up his phone to call the first contact point, he can see Y/N straightening in the armchair. She’s eyeing the mahogany box above the mantel, where his best stash is hidden, and he already knows that there’s no way he could put up with her if she dives into it.

“If you move from that spot, so help me, I will tie you down.” He growls.

Startled, she turns to him, but her confusion is quickly replaced by a wide grin. She taps the flute with one finger and one of her legs slowly rises up, until it rests on his thigh. Her dress rides up, but not enough to confirm whether her knickers are also red lace – although Ray knows her too well to wonder. His hand grabs her calf, fingers absently stroking the nylon and that’s all it takes to make her purr.

Placing the glass on the table, Y/N stands up and slowly straddles Ray, legs by each side of him, giving him time to entirely process exactly what she’s doing. Her mouth lingers on his collarbones, her fingers running through the sandy strands, until she cups his jaw with one of her hands, forcing him to look right into her eyes.

“Is that what you want to do to me, love? You wanna tie me down?”

Ray smirks and with his own hand to the back of her head, a fist full of her hair, he crushes his lips to hers. The moan she lets out is bloody fantastic, and he supposes it’s time to show her he always keeps his word. His free hand travels up one of her legs, up on her thigh, past the lace, and fuck, she’s wearing a suspender belt as well.  

[elizabethan-memes]

Look, I take the mickey out of Philippa Gregory and Hilary Mantel but I will also do a writing bingo for my writing style. Not because I’m trying to compare myself/humblebrag/fish for compliments, but it’s only fair that I don’t act like I have the writing high ground. I should be ready to take the mickey out of myself just as much if not more

[dtpchronometer]

Antique Chronometers Makers

This write-up will cover a few of the top antique chronometers manufacturers on the market. A cost effective stylish antique chronometer can be discovered for any spending plan. A lot of the older antique chronometer makers from the US were started on the eastern coastline near the founding states. Really valuable antique chronometer are additionally known to find from worldwide especially France and also Germany. Some of the most popular antique chronometer originated from the Black Forest area of Germany. There are many antique chronometers makers around, and also finding a antique chronometer from an effectively known maker will usually trigger the rate to rise. https://dutchtimepieces.com/product-category/antique-clocks/chronometers/ Sessions A antique chronometers business based out of Connecticut, these were possibly created in the early 1900s. In the very early 60s Procedure branched off to begin generating quartz driven and also electric antique chronometer They later on combined to end up being The New England Business. Around early 2000 the plant folded however they had been producing stunning antique chronometer up until then.

Howard Miller This firm was formed around 1925 by Howard C Miller. He learned his profession from his daddy that resided in the Black Woodland region of Germany which is prominent for generating gorgeous artwork. They produced wall surface and also mantel antique chronometers until about the 60s when they changed their focus to bigger grandfather antique chronometers This firm is still producing today. Ingraham Ingraham began appearing in the early to mid 1800s. An additional business based out of Connecticut, it was founded by Elias Ingraham who held numerous licenses for antique chronometer components and also devices. This firm generated generally wall antique chronometer as well as mantel antique chronometer till the current years when they shifted their emphasis to the extra modern electronic antique chronometers as well as enjoy market. Waterbury The Waterbury Firm was produced in 1857 and also quickly ended up being incredibly popular across houses in America. They created macho mantel and wall surface kinds for the regular American home. This business made use of an extremely wide variety of mediums to make their antique chronometers consisting of wood, steel, ceramic as well as plastics. They are additionally known for developing the first Mickey Mouse look for Disney. This company is still going after a few name modification as well as ownership transfers under Timex Company. As a knowledgeable and also reliable dealer of these antique chronometer, we sell Howard Miller antique chronometer, buy used Howard Miller antique chronometer, and also take care of Howard Miller antique chronometers This experience makes it clear to us why these antique chronometer continue to be so preferred with customers all throughout the globe. There are a variety of dealerships that assert to offer and also service these antique chronometer with quality, yet you don't intend to take any kind of chances with your investment when seeking Howard Miller antique chronometer repair, Howard Miller antique chronometer cleansing, or Howard Miller antique chronometer maintenance. As a center that has a lot of experience with these antique chronometers as well as their appropriate solution, we are certain in the work we perform with Howard Miller antique chronometer repair service. We can utilize ourselves as an instance of what one should look for with purchasing or servicing these antique chronometer Do They Offer the Complete Variety Of Services? A location that sells a couple of antique chronometer as well as services them as an afterthought ought to not be your selection for purchase or repair service. These antique chronometer have a long history as well as the operations are made complex as well as detailed. There are even more means to do the work incorrect than appropriately. We deal in these antique chronometer constantly and also we have a long history of cleansing and also preserving them correctly. Are They Experienced? Go and also examine out the center's expertise. Do they only understand the facts from a couple paragraphs on the background of the firm that anyone can find online? Can they tell you how the functions of the antique chronometer differ from contemporary antique chronometer or other antique developers? Come and also ask us concerning Howard Miller antique chronometer as well as just how they work. See the distinction that expertise makes. Are Clients Satisfied? This is a vital examination for any sector. We offer the very best top quality in what we sell and what we keep. Come see for yourself.