#the porche 944

[hawleywilby]

[freelancearsonist]

Parts and Labor

➔ Eddie Munson x fem!Reader - 5k

➔ Eddie’s van is practically falling apart, but he doesn’t have the heart to replace it. Luckily for him, you’re willing to put in the effort to fix it—as long as he helps.

➔ Rated MA for unprotected p in v sex (don’t do this irl pls), oral (f receiving), heavy petting, creampie, fingering, cumplay, Eddie has scars and lies about where he got them, reader has female anatomy and uses fem pronouns, reader is a mechanic [please let me know if i missed anything at all :)]

“SHIT, FUCK!”

Eddie slams down the hood of his van, kicks the front tire as hard as he can, then winces–both at the sudden pain in his foot and at the overreaction.

“Come on baby, please,” he pleads futilely to the unresponsive engine. “I’ll give you anything, just start.”

The engine, apparently, won’t be seduced.

Eddie digs through the pocket of his low-slung jeans, finds a dime somewhere in the pile of gum wrappers and old receipts, and runs to stick the coin into the nearest payphone booth.

The garage answers on the last ring, and Eddie doesn’t even have to identify himself. They’re almost as familiar with his junker van as he is himself. They’ve wrung more money out of him for repairs than the damned thing is worth, and Eddie knows it. He knows the vehicle is on its deathbed–repeatedly resuscitated at this point–and that he should just replace it. But he can’t. Beyond fear of hurting its feelings, he’s become attached to it. He’s made memories in that stupid van. To him, replacing his ride would be like wading a huge portion of his life up and throwing it in the trash. He just won’t do it.

The garage is merciful enough to give him a ride there along with towing his poor, lifeless van. He’s not eager to spend a day in the waiting room sipping lukewarm black coffee, but he needs to be there for her. His lady is dying–waiting for news from her doctors is the least he can do.

He forgets all about his lady when you walk through the door.

You’re the Porche 944 of women. He’s never seen anything or anyone quite as breathtaking as you–with the small grease smudge on your cheek, your hair pulled back so sloppily that half of it is already fallen down, and your denim overalls unclipped on one side to show off the faded Iron Maiden t-shirt you wear underneath. You’re wiping your hands on a grease rag as you approach him and Eddie just stands in dumbfounded silence. Who are you and where have you been his entire life?

“Munson,” you greet with a slight smile. 

He almost chokes. You know his name? He knows he’s never seen you before in his life–you’re the kind of girl he could never forget. Especially with how much time he’s had to spend here.

“Having trouble getting her to start?” you continue without missing a beat. Eddie doesn’t miss the way you refer to his van, and it makes him impossibly more hooked. “Seems to be a bad ignition coil. Easy enough to fix, except your crankshaft is rusted to shit and I’m honestly surprised the whole engine hasn’t fallen apart when you hit a bump or something. Seriously, it’s dangerous to drive at this point.”

Eddie hears you, but he doesn’t comprehend a single word you’re saying. He’s hyper-fixated on the way your lips form around your words, on how you’re speaking mechanics and you actually understand what you’re saying. He’s never met anyone like you.

“But you can fix her, right?”

You smile, and he feels his heart skip a beat. “Honestly? My professional advice is to just sell it for scrap and buy a new car.”

It’s like a smack to the face. He has to blink the shock out of his eyes while you stand there so simply, like you didn’t just tell him to kill his darling.

”What’s your unprofessional advice?”

You bite your lip, busy your hands with a grease cloth. “I could fix it. But it’ll take some time, and it’ll be expensive as hell. It would honestly be cheaper to buy new.”

”I’ll pay for the fix,” he says firmly before he can consider what he’s really agreeing to. “I can’t just replace her.”

Your smile is softer when you look back up at him. “I really admire that.”

Those words shouldn’t have as much of an effect on him as they do.

”I can do the job, but not here. There’s no way my boss would let me take up a lift for as long as I need to actually do a good job, and I don’t believe in doing mediocre work. But I’ve got enough equipment at my place if you trust me?”

You’re not only saving his lady, you’re promising not to screw him like so many people have before. He’s thinking about proposing, but he keeps his cool long enough to say, “yeah. Yeah, I trust you.”

”How much do you know about cars?”

He notices a strand of hair that’s fallen down into your face, and it takes all his restraint to keep himself from pushing it behind your ear for you.

”I know enough,” he says with a modest shrug.

Your eyes shine with something that he can’t identify as you gaze up at him. “Well, if you wanna help me, I’ll only charge you for parts.”

Eddie doesn’t even need to consider. A chance to spend more time with you, and a discount on repairs? “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great.”

The first night he comes over, it’s the sticky hot of a midsummer Indiana evening. He’s in low-slung faded jeans and a baggy white tank top that shows more of his chest than should be legal. There’s so much lightly tanned skin on display that you can’t decide where to focus—much less consider the engine you’re supposed to be working on. You can’t help asking about each little spot of ink you see on his skin, curious to learn even the smallest nuisances of his personality.

He’s the most interesting person you’ve met in this podunk town since your move to Hawkins from Indianapolis. He’s goofy and aloof, charming yet awkward. He’s so gentle and sweet you can practically smell the saccharine of his words as he speaks. He’s an animated speaker—so passionate about everything he does that he puts his whole body into it. There’s a refreshing energy to him that recharges your social battery as he goes, rather than draining it like everyone else does.

By the second night of working on Eddie’s van with him, you’re close enough to call him a friend. You know what seems like every small detail about him—his favorite color, the story behind the small scar on his left knee.

By the third night, you’re fighting every instinct in your brain to keep from throwing him inside said van and having your way with him.

Especially when you deliver to him a cold glass of iced tea and he drinks it in the sluttiest possible way he can—big gulps that send the condensation on the outside of the glass spilling down his chin to leave little paths of wetness down his neck and chest. It’s like full-on torture.

On the fourth night, you’ve had the engine block completely disassembled and ready for the new crankshaft for a couple days. It’s hard for Eddie to see his baby gutted and torn apart this way, but he knows you’ve got the most capable hands of any mechanic he’s ever known. There’s a delicacy and attention to detail in your craft that he’s never seen before, and he’s enraptured with watching you work. He’s even more enraptured by the sticky glistening of your skin in the red-orange light of sunset every night.

There’s really no reason for him to keep meeting you every single evening—all you’re doing at this point is busywork cleaning various parts because the real work can’t be done until the new parts arrive. Both of you know it, too—but neither of you will admit it. You’ve both come to look forward to these few hours together, comfortable even though you’re both sweaty, sticky, and greasy. Suspending them at this point would be a crime.

There’s just the faintest peek of reddish light left over the horizon when the conversation lulls, but Eddie’s not ready to go quite yet. “You hear Megadeth’s touring in Indy this fall?”

”No shit?”

”No shit. Tickets are probably going fast.”

”We should get some,” you say with a cautious glance over at him. This is it—this is as grand of an invitation as you can work up the courage to make. If he can’t take the bait here, you’ll be forever casting lingering glances and praying he’ll make a more substantial move than just eyeing you up and down like you’re the finest, purest water in a parched desert.

Eddie’s heart rate skyrockets even as he’s willing himself not to read too far into your words. ”Yeah? You’d… wanna go with me?”

”Might be nice. To hang out and do something other than pretend to work on your car.”

”All you had to do was ask, sweetheart,” he says with a look that’s far too smug for his own good on his face. 

Even though it’s a little ridiculous, his cockiness flusters you. ”Wasn’t sure you’d want to.”

”How could I not? I’ve got the girl of my dreams five feet away from me, I’d be crazy to not want to spend every second I can get with her.”

”Oh, is there someone else here?” You try to giggle and make it sound like a lighthearted joke, but it comes out far more flustered than you mean for it to.

”No. Just you.” It’s only three words, yet you’ve never heard anything more fraught with tension in your life. It’s in his dark eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands clench into fists at his side to keep from reaching for you.

All your eyes can manage to do is trace up the prominent veins in his forearms from his white-knuckled fists. If you meet his eyes, you know your resolve will disappear faster than a delicate snowflake on warm skin.

But he takes a step closer to you, and it’s too late before you can even consider stopping yourself.

His dark eyes are swirling with lust. There’s no mistaking it, no other label for it. It looks animalistic, almost dangerous. He looks like he wants to devour you whole, and you want nothing more than to find out if he will.

”You, umm… need a refill?” You gesture with your eyes to the now empty glass in his hand, then nod toward the house. It’s all the invitation he needs.

The second the door clicks shut behind you, Eddie’s hands are on you. They start on your waist, effectively pinning you against the closed door and using you as an anchor to press himself as close to you as he can.

It’s eager and rushed, even a little sloppy. He kisses wet, he kisses deep. It’s like he’s trying to suck the air straight from your lungs, and you let him. Nothing has ever felt so good before.

“Christ,” he mumbles as his hot lips work their way down your neck. “Been wanting to do this for days.”

There’s a slight tremble in your hands as your fingers work their way into his curls, already nearly overwhelmed with the sensation of his mouth on your overheated skin. “Why didn’t you?”

”Didn’t wanna scare you off,” he confesses. It’s so endearing it pulls a moan from your lips.

“There’s not a lot you could do to scare me off, Eddie.” You mean it; you try to prove it by tugging him closer and slotting him between your legs. You can feel his pent up desire, hard and thick, as it presses against your core through his jeans. The feeling alone makes you ache with desire. It’s like a wave sweeps through you, cascading from head to toe and making everything in its wake prickle with unbearable want. You are molten flame, and he is the only thing that can douse your heat.

No one’s ever had such an astronomical effect on you from doing so little.

Eddie isn’t faring much better. He walks in a fog, blinded by clouding desire—especially so when your leg hitches up and around his hip to tug him harder against you. It’s like his cruise control is set, speed regulating with every incline or downward tilt—adjusting every little movement and touch to draw more breathless moans and whimpers from your parted lips.

A slight tug to his hair snaps him back into his own body, drawing a sudden clarity on the situation. He’s no longer an outsider looking in, as if an astral projection watching and criticizing his every move. Eddie is fully present and hyper-focused on one thing: making sure no other person can ever properly satisfy you again.

”You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs over and over into your skin as he traces kisses over your exposed neck and shoulders. His fingers hook into the strap of your tank top and slide it out of place, making way for a series of open-mouthed kisses as he ensures that not an inch of your skin is neglected.

You keen at his praise and reward him with a gentle tug to his messy curls. “So are you.”

He prickles with affection at your compliment, his cheeks warming in a way that feels completely foreign to him. No one’s ever called him beautiful before—he’s really never thought it could even be applicable to him—but he feels like he could get used to it.

He asks so nicely to take your top off and you give him permission without hesitation. You can see the flash of want in his eyes as he takes in your mostly naked torso, gaze skirting around the boundary of your bra as if he’s too shy to ask again for permission to remove a garment.

You decide to put on a little show as you give him what he wants; you unhook your bra and slide the straps down your arms so achingly slowly he thinks he might combust. And then finally, gloriously, you let the fabric fall to the floor and Eddie gets his first look at your bare chest.

He gapes, open-mouthed, for longer than is frankly comfortable—to the point you’re almost about to cover yourself up again.

And then he says, “Permission to do something highly inappropriate and maybe even a little degrading?”

”Uhh… sure?”

In a flash he’s buried face first in your sternum, hands coming to cup your breasts and dramatically smother himself in your cleavage. He lets out a pleasured groan as you giggle, deft fingers lightly tugging and pinching the sensitive peaks of your nipples. He prickles with pride at the breathy gasp you emit when his mouth starts working—he turns his head to suck one hard mound between his lips and keeps up the pressure with his fingers on the other.

”Sh-shit…” you sigh and slump into his attention, arms hanging like limp ribbons by your sides. “Eddie…”

”Love the way you say my name,” he practically purrs. “So fucking pretty.”

He switches sides now, firmly dragging the flat of his tongue over your nipple before sealing his lips around it and sucking. The pure pressure of it makes you cry out, fingers tugging harshly at his curls.

”Jesus, that feels amazing,” you whine. It’s so good, but it’s not nearly enough at the same time. And it’s like he can sense it—like he’s got some kind of a psychic connection with your body. He adapts immediately to what you need, dropping to his knees to unbutton your jean shorts and deftly slip them down and off your legs. He smooths his palms against your bare thighs and lets you feel the cold kiss of his metal rings against the burning flesh there, all the while looking up at you with dark eyes that you can’t quite identify. There’s lust, sure, but something else in those chocolate orbs. Something akin to adoration—like he’s on his knees preparing to worship you.

”Can I?” Those long, thick fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear and you’re nodding before he’s even finished asking.

You wish you could put the sound he lets out once he finally has you bare on vinyl to repeat over and over again. It’s somewhere between a growl and a whimper, completely heady with desire and want; need, even. The fact that he needs you like this is so overwhelming and flattering that you can barely process it. You don’t have time to, because in a moment his lips are wrapping themselves around your clit and sucking. He goes straight past gentle and into pure pressure just like he did with your nipples; as above, so below. And it’s bliss—thigh-quaking, breath-hitching, earth-shattering bliss.

All you can manage to do is scrabble for purchase against the wall his hands have you pinned to. You have to sound absolutely pathetic, but you can’t be bothered to care because you’re precariously close to coming and it’s only been a matter of minutes.

He moans, like he’s tasting the finest, most expensive and decadent cuisine he’s ever had. The sound vibrates against your pussy and travels up your spine all the way to your brain—it nests there and makes it’s home, drives you into a fuzzy state of ecstasy. And all the while that luxurious tongue is hard at work, alternating between lapping thirstily at your entrance and fluttering against your clit in a way that causes every muscle in your abdomen to contract.

Nothing should be able to feel this good—it’s so desperately close to overwhelming. Simultaneously, you would rather die than lose this feeling is it crescendos to a fever pitch.

”Let go,” he murmurs against you, and you know he’s not talking about your grip on his hair. “It’s okay. I gotcha, let go f’me.”

You’ve never fancied yourself to be the obedient type per se, but apparently your body is feeling particularly traitorous today. It takes all of three more seconds before you’re doing exactly what he said—legs trembling with the burden of your weight as you crash and burn on his tongue. You whine and beg and plead, all of it meaningless babble as he works you over and through your pleasure with that wonderful, amazing, perfect mouth of his.

You don’t even process you’re collapsing, but thankfully Eddie does and catches you with ease. There’s a cocky chuckle in his throat as he lays you down on the floor, and you would smack him for it if he hadn’t earned it. Instead, you grab him by the collar of his shirt a little rougher than mean to and drag him to your mouth, relishing in the high-pitched whine he admits at your light manhandling.

You moan at the taste of yourself on his lips, and Eddie can’t help grinding himself hard against your thigh in an attempt to relieve the pressure of his untouched arousal. This kiss is nasty—wet, gnashing, desperate. There’s no control to it on either end.

”That good, huh?” He mutters into your mouth. His voice is barely more than a whisper—you can’t expect much more when you’re kissing him the way you are, grinding your thigh against his aching cock all the while. And even still, despite his obvious desperation, he manages to be cocky about how hard he made you come.

If you weren’t head over heels for this man before, you certainly are now.

You start tugging at his belt and he chuckles, only growing more sure of himself by the second.

”Wait, baby, lemme take you to bed,” he huffs over the feeling of your hand finally sliding into his jeans where he needs you most.

It makes you gasp when you finally have him in the palm of your hand. As big as he felt through his jeans, nothing could’ve prepared you for this. He’s heavy, achingly thick, and you can feel the way he positively throbs in your grip.

And just as you’re about to agree and show him to your bedroom, you shake your head firmly; because as uncomfortable as this floor is going to feel and as much as your back is going to hate you for it later, you need him now. There’s no time for relocating; if he doesn’t give it to you right now, here in the middle of your living room floor, you think you might perish.

”Right here?” He hums as if he’s not affected at all while he slots himself between your legs. “On the floor? Can’t even wait thirty seconds to let me have you the right way? Dirty girl.”

It’s such a shift in dynamic; not an unwelcome one at all, certainly. But he’s been so shy and timid up until this point—always following your lead, blushing when his hand brushes against yours. You wonder if he’s like this with everyone—if he feels some pressure to perform an act or role, to hide his true personality. 

The thought makes your chest ache a little bit, but you don’t have time to dwell on it because he’s breaking you in half. He’s so slow about it, too; barely pressing his tip into you, giving you time to adjust to every millimeter he gives you. Even still it punches the breath out of your lungs and makes your eyelids flutter at the intrusion.

”Shit.” It’s not spoken so much as whined, and suddenly you’re starkly aware of just how much you’re affecting him. You bite your lip to steady yourself so you can look up at him, and the sight alone is almost enough to unravel you. Unruly curls spill down over his shoulder and dangle in the air over you. His mouth hangs open��fast, shallow breaths make his bottom lip quiver. His pupils are so blown with desire you can barely see the warm chocolatey color of his irises.

You’re suddenly aware that in your desperation, you forgot a very important step. He’s still fully clothed—your legs rub against his t-shirt as his hands hook under your knees to spread you wider for him. You almost feel bad about it; in your haze of arousal his attention to your body has brought on, you’ve forgotten to be attentive to his. It pulls a whine from your lips as your hands unconsciously come to tug at the fabric.

He chuckles but acquiesces—not before you see a flicker of hesitation pass over his face.

It takes a moment to process what you’re looking at as he tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it to the side… and then your jaw drops. ”Shit, Eddie!”

He’s quick to quiet your exclamation with a heated kiss, unintentionally shoving himself that little bit deeper into your cunt. It distracts you, but only for a moment. Then you’re pushing yourself up onto your elbows, trying to wrap your mind around the myriad of deep, whitish-pink scars that litter his torso.

“Eddie, what—“

“Car accident,” he lies before he can think better of it. It’s a story he’s told so many times that he’s almost starting to believe it himself. “Couple years back.”

“Jesus,” you whisper as your fingers trace over the poorly healed lines.

“I know. They’re not pretty.”

That one sentence tells you everything you need to know. “It’s not that,” he assure him. “Just… a miracle you survived something that bad.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “I got lucky.”

He’s deflating a little bit, and the last thing you want him to do is lose that confidence he’s been exuding. You wrap your arms around your neck and pulls him flush against you, feeling every warm inch of his torso against yours as your tongue tangles with his.

“You’re beautiful,” you tell him again. And you mean it.

He draws a gasp from your lips when he presses even closer, every inch of his body covering yours and his length shoved all the way into your needy cunt. It’s almost too much for him—the combination of your tight, wet heat around him; the adoration in your eyes as you look up at him like he’s some kind of god; your hands pulling him closer like you might evaporate if you can’t feel every inch of his body at all times. It’s a heady feeling he’s never experienced before, being wanted this badly. It nearly unravels him—especially when you start bucking your hips up to him in search of the friction you so desperately need.

He sees your need, and it pulls him back into his dutiful role. “I’ve got you, baby.”

He starts with deep, slow thrusts that nearly make you drool—you feel the drag of every single inch against your walls, every vein and ridge and contour. It’s like you’re memorizing the shape of him from the inside out.

One ringed hand slides down your hip and along the length of your thigh to hook beneath your knee, hitching your leg up as high as he comfortably can to spread you wide open for the taking.

You get barely a moment's notice as he draws himself almost all the way out. And then he slams himself back into place—deep, hard, unrelenting. He revels in the sound it draws from you, something between a cry and a plea for more; he silently vows to himself that those little pleasures sounds are going to be all you’re capable of making by the time he’s done with you.

It’s borderline violent, the way he fucks you. His thrusts are relentless and expert in a way you didn’t expect him to be. His lips hardly leave your skin, muffling his moans into hickies and bruises on your neck and chest. His hands grip hard to your body, marks blossoming beneath his fingertips.

You’ve never fallen apart so easily.

“That’s it,” he purrs into your ear as he feels your walls fluttering around him. “Don’t hold back, lemme have it. Please, baby.”

And really, it would be rude to deny him after he’s asked so nicely.

Your orgasm comes like shattered glass. The sound is the first thing you process—your moans drowning out his steady grunts. And then it’s sharp. It drives its shards into your and makes you flinch away from the sensation, so pleasurable it’s almost painful.

You’ve never come just from being fucked before. Sweet, wonderful Eddie carries on working towards his own release like he doesn’t deserve a goddamned award.

“Can I…”

But you’re already nodding, wrapping your legs around his waist and coaxing him deeper—urging him to make a home in the deepest part of you.

He’s not a man who needs to be told twice. He rocks his hips as deep as he can and then presses even closer, the head of him bruising your cervix as he falls apart. And maybe it shouldn’t feel as good as it does, the sensation of him painting your walls with rope after rope or warm, sticky release; but you’re not in the mind to psychoanalyze yourself right now. Instead you do your best to help him through it, lightly ghosting the tips of your fingers in soothing patterns on his back as he pants and shudders.

“Holy…”

“Yeah,” you giggle.

It takes him a few minutes to summon the courage he needs to pull his softening length from your warmth, and he bites down on his lip nearly hard enough to draw blood when he sees the absolute mess that slides down the curve of your ass.

”Jesus H. Christ,” he murmurs. His fingers come to swipe up some of the combined cum before he can stop himself, pushing it back into where he’d spilled it to begin with and relishing in the moan you afford him at the feeling of his thick fingers pressing into your over-sensitive entrance.

He’s so thoroughly enraptured with the sight before him. Your cunt squeezing so tightly around his fingers, cum dripping, desperate to reject due to the overstimulation. And yet you take it without flinching, chest heaving, head falling back against the hardwood floor.

He swipes his thumb over your clit so lightly and yet it still makes you squeeze like a vice around him, and so he does it again. He curls his fingers in search of that spot that made you fall apart so prettily on his cock, and once he finds it he doesn’t relent. That, combined with the light pressure on your clit, is more than enough.

Your thighs tremble, caught indecisively between spreading further open for him and clamping shut on his cum-slicked hand. He watches in awe as your lips part in a silent scream, ass arching up off the floor; and then, as you come down, you have to push him away because it’s finally too much.

”Fuck,” you whimper—he coos so reassuringly as he leans down to gently kiss your lips, errant curls brushing and tickling against your cheeks.

”I know, baby,” he whispers. “God, you’re incredible. Did so good f’me.”

You have to stay still for a moment—let his sweet, gentle kisses bring you back down from the clouds. And then you’re aware of the ache in your back and the absolute puddle forming under your ass, and you push yourself up with a weak groan.

”M’sorry,” he winces in sympathy. “Bed next time, I promise.”

And really, the promise of there being a next time shouldn’t make your heart skip a beat the way it does.

You’re worried things’ll be awkward now, but that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Working with him now is so much more effortless. The tension isn’t as palpable—it’s a fluid thing that you move through confidently now that your feelings and his are known. He isn’t afraid to watch you anymore, awe and adoration in his eyes as you show him how to reassemble the engine block. He observes your skilled fingers at work, and he’s not afraid to tell you how fucking sexy it is to him. He’s not afraid to rest a hand on the small of your back as he stands beside you, even occasionally getting brave enough to let it slip down and cup your ass. He’s not afraid to be his goofy, adorable, manic self—it’s the best metamorphosis you’ve ever seen.

You finish working on his van finally, and he almost tears up at how well she runs now—although he definitely doesn’t let you see that.

And as worried as you were that finishing this job would feel like the end of whatever this is with Eddie, it doesn’t. You feel secure, somehow, that he’ll keep coming back—for more than just parts and labor.

THE END

➔ A/N: thank you as always to @shakespeareanwannabe for putting up with my incessant questions and beta requests 🥹 ily lots

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The Old Salem Post

Our  Local Tamassee-Salem SC Area News each Monday except holidays                                          Contact: theoldsalempost@gmail.com                              Distributed to local businesses, town hall, library.                                            Volume 7 Issue 15                                                                                                Week of April 3, 2023               https://www.tumblr.com/settings/blog/oldsalempost-blog                                                         Lynne Martin Publishing

EDITOR: The Holy Week leading up to Easter begins with Palm Sunday, April 2, when we wave palm branches remembering Jesus as he rode in to Jerusalem on a colt. Over 2000 years ago people waved palm branches and placed their coats on the road to usher in Jesus,  as they thought Jesus was taking over to rein as King. But, in a few short days those same people yelled to crucify our Lord.  When given the opportunity to release this guiltless man, they demanded the release of a murderer instead of this innocent Christ. I cannot understand this absurdity that the Roman Governor, Pontius Pilate allowed.  We live in a strange world now. But looking back, Jesus lived in a strange world too. Some things do not change. Holy Week does not change. We remember the events that led to the crucifixion of God’s Son, Jesus Christ, who came, loved, and died for us all, no matter our transgressions. This Good Friday should be the most sacred day of our lives, when Jesus was crucified on a cruel cross to save the undeserving likes of all mankind.    LRMartin  

Town of SALEM: Community Easter Egg Hunt April 8th at 10am sharp. Help share the true meaning of Easter.  You can still drop off wrapped candy at the Town Hall.            SALEM LIBRARY:  Open Monday 10am-6pm– Tuesday-Friday 9am-5pm.                      

JOCASSEE VALLEY BREWING COMPANY,(JVBC) & COFFEE SHOP 13412 N Hwy 11 Open this week Wed-Thurs 12pm-9pm. Friday-Sat 8am-9pm.  Sun 2pm-7pm.  Events this week: Thurs: Old Time Jam 6:30pm Featuring Food Truck: Kiss My ASADA setting up at 12pm.   Fri– FOOD Truck : FRESCO LUNA 5pm Music: Chris Wayne at 6:30pm.  Sat–Music: JL FULKS at 6:30pm Food: Palmetto Spoon.  CLOSED Easter Sunday            

Tamassee DAR offers Spring Break Camp:  April 3-7, 7:30am-pm.  Breakfast and Lunch and afternoon snack included.  Open to all children K-8th grade.  Fee 100-120/ week. Register 864-944-1390 Ext 118.  Have fun enjoying activities and learning.

From a Reader:  This year is the 70th anniversary of the building of Lake Cheohee. Many will remember Lake Cheohee as the first man-made lake in Oconee County.  Locals came to swim, fish, picnic, and water ski.  Today Lake Cheohee is a 40 + acre private lake community.  There are 36 property owners and 11 owners call the lake home.  To protect the tranquility and peace of the neighborhood, gas powered motors are no longer allowed.  All property owners are blessed to own land in an area surrounding Sumter National Forest. The land has a large variety of native plants and trees.  One resident affectionately refers to the area as a lake terrarium.  Lake residents enjoy the occasional siting of a bear, a wild boar, bobcat, deer, fox, beaver, raccoon, and many more native SC wildlife.  Residents also enjoy herons, mallards, hummingbirds, bald eagle, osprey, Canadian geese, and more native species.  Of course, no area is without insects and snakes.  The lake is home to a native bat being studied by Clemson University and protected by the US government.  Last but not least, residents enjoy the bass, brim, sunfish, black crappie, and other SC native fish.                                                      J Young

ONGOING FRESH LOCAL FOOD **

The Clemson Area Food Exchange has been selling produce and table items from the farm in Pickens, Anderson and Oconee counties for the last 15 years.  SALEM is on the drop off on Tuesday 4:30pm -6pm, hosted by  Sisters Restaurant on the porch, 281Stamp Creek Rd. Order between Friday pm- Monday noon. First two orders complimentary, then $ 20/ year per household. Order on line at Clemsonareafoodexchange.com      

DAR SCHOOL STUDENT FROM 1942-1946 RECALLS EXPERIENCES (Fourth Installment) - Mr. Cain would often host a group of DAR dignitaries for a meal, and serving them made us very nervous at first, but we eventually got used to it. Mrs. Marett, the dietician, would always make out a more elegant menu for them than the students ever had, but it would not be anything extravagant. . .Every other month we would have to polish the dining room floor. We would move all the tables to one end of the room and mop and wax the floor. Then we would use old army blankets to polish it. This made the floor shine so that you could almost see yourself in it. When the first area was finished we would move the tables to the other end and polish the remainder. . .In the laundry we had big cement tubs to rinse the clothes in after they were washed. We would inevitably splash some water out and get the floor wet, and one day while we were in the laundry a thunderstorm came up and lightning came in on that wet floor and shocked us. Fortunately, no one was hurt. After that, if a dark cloud was nearby they would not let us in the laundry. . .Mrs. Nicholson taught us to iron sheets and pillowcases on a big ironer. Then we would return them to the dormitories. . .There was a water tank between All States Hall and the dining room, and a bell was on the water tank that we had to ring at different times. Sometimes it was for classes, sometimes it was to call us for meals, and sometimes it was for special events. . .One day the rope to ring the bell got caught on the water tank and we could not reach it. Although it was a "No! No!" to climb the water tank, Maggie decided she would do so anyway and get the rope loose. I was afraid she was going to fall and get hurt, but thankfully she made it back down safely. . .TO BE CONTINUED

EAGLES NEST ART CENTER , 501c3, 4 Eagle Lane, Salem                              The regular scheduled meeting on April 3 has been cancelled.  

ENAC Hosts : Saturday April 15, 2023, 9am-11am  Sons of the Savior M/M, Redeemed Chapter.                                                                                            ENAC Announces Trial by Fire, a Journey Tribute Band to perform Saturday, April 29, 2023 at 7pm.  Tickets are $25 and $30 day of the event, available at Salem Town Hall and on Ticketleap or call 8-280-1258.   Doors open at 6pm.  

The Power of Prayer:  We must pray the scriptures to protect our families, our children, our schools and our nation.  Psalm 127 reminds us, “Unless the Lord guards the city, the watchman stays awake in vain.” Ephesians 6 says, “For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places.” The March 27, 2023 school shooting at Christian Covenant School in Nashville, Tennessee took 6 innocent lives. Join in Prayer:  We war for the protection and the healing only Jesus can bring! Lord, bring comfort to these traumatized school children, parents, and the shooter's family. Help us be vigilant to the needs of the broken and hurting as we seek You on how to keep our children safe. Let us not be complacent but give us a fighting spirit! Amen.   Contributed by, Marion Farrar   from article from the Reformation Prayer Network                                                                                                                    No paper  Easter Monday. LRM

[fengqiwus]

opening up old wip fics bc i cudnt remember what car i hc’ed wei ying wud drive

[brbgensokyo]

ever just sitdown and think about cars you’d love to see your characters with bc i have. 

[awesomecarmods]

Porche 944 turbo, Love these things [ https://i.redd.it/oab2r7yr3wx21.jpg ]

[design911uk]

Porsche 944 Tokyo

[it-happened-one-fic]

A Strange World of Wonder and Beauty - Malleus

Author Notes: This one was actually written to the "Strangers Like Me" song from Tarzan. In a weird kind of a way, I though it fit Malleus and so, a fic was born. To be honest, I was actually rather unsure about writing another Malleus fic after my last one since I wasn't sure I could do as good of a job. But, here we are anyway. As per usual Reader is gender-neutral

Type: Fluff/romance

Word count: 944 words

Malleus had found his days gradually changing since he’d met the Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm. 

Before, it had been the usual hum-drum of going to classes and then going home, being guarded all the while. Before his only escape had been when he’d sneak out to look at gargoyles, which was, of course, beyond enjoyable. But now…. 

Now he found himself sneaking out more often, testing his limits as he went on yet another venture to see his friend.

Lilia was, of course, onto him. But Sebek and Silver were thus far clueless as to where he disappeared off to for such lengthy periods. And it was liberating. 

He had a secret that few people knew of. He had a friend who did not care about the pomp and circumstance of his status. They didn’t even care about who he was. It was a blissful relationship, unimpeded by rank or ceremony. 

They’d learned his name and had taken it in stride, continuing to refer to him as Hornton rather than some clunky title or even by his own name. And he found that he was gradually growing to prefer Hornton to his other titles. It was more than just an alias. It was a pet name and, in Malleus’s eyes, the most venerable title he possessed.

Green lights flickered into existence around him as he teleported and felt a grin slide onto his face. A childish show of petty pleasure at having eluded his bodyguards yet again as he slipped through the dead trees. 

Ramshackle Dorm was not a pretty sight. Though it had once been a grand house, at this point it was…well…ramshackle. Run-down. Dilapidated. There were many words for it but none of them implied attractiveness. 

And yet, despite its less than glamorous appearance, it was a sight that Malleus quite liked. Even before meeting you, he’d enjoyed this little haunt. But now he’d come to delight in the sight of the building even more, because the sight of it had become synonymous with both escape and seeing you. 

Now he waited, wandering the grounds of your dorm as he awaited your appearance. And, right on cue, your door opened, and you emerged. A smile on your precious little face as your eyes met his.

All at once, he felt it. That warm feeling that seemed to spread from his very core and envelop his entire person whenever he saw you. It wasn’t an unpleasant warmth, but one that left him chasing the sensation and appearing before your person more and more frequently. 

He stepped up onto the porch, joining you as you gestured through the door you held open to let him into your home. Your smile and invitation were a clear sign of your lack of fear and full trust in him.

He found himself hesitating though, pausing before he entered and turning to you with a grin on his face, “Child of man… I wonder if you would like to accompany me for today?”

You tilted your head, expression curious as he held out his hand, a silent but impulsive invitation. 

Why was he inviting you?

Perhaps because you’d invited him into your home and your life, making him a piece of your world, and now he wanted to do the same. 

Hiding his identity had initially been a bit of fun, but it had swelled into something different when you’d shown him that his status didn’t matter to you. You’d taught him a great deal about the ways of humans and provided him with companionship, so now he wanted to show you everything and hold nothing back.

With a slight smile you slipped your hand into his and he let his gloved fingers curl around yours. Holding your hand like it was mere glass and precious beyond belief. 

His smile spread as green lights flickered around the two of you, and you glanced around. Enchanted.

Strange how you looked at such a minor spell with such wonder when it was mundane to him. But then he supposed you viewed him the same way. Enchanted by things that were most likely ordinary and run-of-the-mill to you.

Your hair stirred in the wind that he conjured around the two of you and your eyes widened as your surroundings changed. Transforming from the aged exterior of Ramshackle to the gothic interior of Diasomnia. A dead forest to a looming castle in an instant.

You stepped forward, seemingly forgetting his presence for the moment as you looked around in awe at the vaulted ceilings and impossibly high walls. Green flames flickered in sconces and upon candles, the only light present. It was a dark, dreary atmosphere, but you gazed at it all with eyes full of wonder.

Malleus felt himself smiling, not his usual smug smirk, but a far tenderer expression that seldom graced his face. 

It seemed to be appearing more now that you were in his life, a precious piece of his world.

“Hornton, it’s…” You trailed off, turning to him with a wide smile that had him chuckling to himself.

He reached, hesitating and stopping himself just before he touched your face. Your eyes were wide with confusion, but he only smiled and shook his head. He wanted to explore this warm feeling and look at the world with a new viewpoint from beside you.

Aborting his previous gesture, he stepped back. Holding out his hand like a gentleman asking a lady for a dance, “Come, there is much I would like to show you.”

Yours was a strange world of wonder and beauty. A world he could hardly imagine, but one he desperately wanted to live in nonetheless.

[hawleywilby]

[hearts-hunger]

smoke break || jake kiszka x reader

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: Your family is making you stressed over the holidays. Jake takes good care of you.

Pairings: Jake Kiszka x Reader

Genre: Holiday fluff, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 944 | Warnings: talk of menstruation, family stress, smoking

A/N: My first Jake fic! And it’s completely self serving; it’s literally just me wishing Jake would come lovingly whisk me away for a quick smoke break in the middle of Thanksgiving with my family, lol. This one’s dedicated to anyone who’s feeling a little stressed this holiday season ♡

“Jake, can I have a cigarette?”

He looked up from his guitar, frowning a little at your question. It wasn't the request that gave him cause for concern, you knew – it came often enough, especially when you were hanging out with the guys and everybody else was smoking. But you'd asked him in the middle of your living room, in a voice tight with frustration, while he was entertaining some of your younger siblings by playing through every Greta Van Fleet song they requested.

“Sure, honey,” he said, standing from where he’d settled on the couch. He set his guitar aside and addressed your siblings. 

“Quick intermission, you guys,” he said with a smile. 

He put his hand on your back. “Come on, sweetheart.”

He grabbed his jacket and led you outside, smiling and exchanging pleasantries with your family members as he passed them. You didn’t say anything, too tightly wound, and were content to let him take the lion’s share of social responsibilities.

It was cold outside, and he helped you into his jacket before he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket, lighting one for you before he lit his own. You stood shoulder to shoulder on your back porch, blowing out ribbons of smoke into the air.

“You alright?” he asked after a moment. He looked over at you, and his expression was concerned in the warm light spilling through the glass doors.

You stuck a hand in his jacket pocket. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

He gave you a crooked smile. “That’s ok, sweetheart. But it doesn’t answer my question.”

He took another drag, the lit end of his cigarette flaring in the darkness. You shrugged.

“My mother’s driving me up the wall.”

“Ah.” He angled his exhale away from you. “I see.”

You sighed. “I love her, and I’m glad she’s here, but I’m kind of at my limit. You know what I mean?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I know. She gets a little high-strung during the holidays.”

“When doesn’t she get a little high-strung?” You scuffed the toe of your boot against the porch railing. “I feel like I’ve been walking on eggshells all day. She's getting onto me about... laundry, or whatever. Shit that doesn't even have to do with Thanksgiving.”

You and Jake were hosting your family for a pre-Thanksgiving dinner, mostly at Jake’s behest. You were spending the actual day of Thanksgiving at the Kiszka’s, and you were looking forward to driving up to Frankenmuth tomorrow, but Jake thought it would be nice to have your family over to your new apartment to celebrate the holiday with them too. You’d warned him how fractious it could get, especially between you and your mother; but you couldn’t say no to him, especially not when he was being so sweet about wanting to spend time with your family.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

You shook your head. “You're perfect.” You gave him a weak smile. “Everybody loves you, you know. You're a hit.”

He gave you a warm smile back. “I'm enjoying spending time with them. They're great. Even your mom, when she's not getting onto you about laundry.”

You nodded, letting out a long breath. You knew you were just stressed, and that you'd be glad you got to do Thanksgiving with them; you loved them, and were thankful Jake had convinced you to invite them.

Still, you ran your free hand over your forehead, warding off a headache. “Yeah. And I'm on my period, so that's not really helping.”

He finished his cigarette and put it out. “Turn your back to me.”

You did as he said, and you heard him blow on his hands to warm them before he slipped them under your sweater and started to knead your back at the base of your spine. You gave a relieved sigh and melted into his touch.

“I'm sorry you're stressed,” he said. He kissed the back of your neck. “And I'm sorry if I pushed too hard about having your family come.”

“I'm not,” you said truthfully. You were feeling much better with a little bit of nicotine and Jake's hands working their magic. “I'm glad they're here, really. Holidays are just... stressful.”

“I get it,” he said. “You'll probably have to take me outside when we go to my parents’.”

You smiled. “If you need me to, I will.”

He wrapped his arms around your waist and leaned his chin on your shoulder. “I love you. And I love your family.”

You patted his hand. “I love you too. Thank you for taking good care of me.”

He nuzzled your neck. “Always, sweetheart. Anytime you need a smoke break, just let me know.”

“I will,” you said. “Oh, and thank you for playing every single one of your songs for my siblings. You'll be all they talk about for weeks.”

He laughed, and you felt his warm breath on your neck. “I don’t mind. It’s good practice.”

You stayed outside for a few more minutes, both of you savoring the quiet and each other's closeness. You knew he must be cold without his jacket, though, and finally turned to face him.

“Ready to go back in?” he asked.

You nodded. “But you're making me a drink.”

He grinned. “Yes ma'am.” He gave you one last kiss, deep and tender, and you knew he'd always be there for you in the little things and the big things.

“I got pretty lucky with you, huh?” you asked.

He smiled and took your hand before he led you inside. “Not as lucky as I got with you, mama.” 

gvf taglist: @brooke-gvf, @gretavanfleetistheloveofmylife, @freeeshavacadoo, @jillygabrielle, @mtjoi, @bonejaws, @frickin-bats, @the-chaotic-cow, @permanentmess, @loopylemmings, @downbad4gvf, @angelbabyivy, @bluebonnet-sonnets, @livieweasley, @loganrwebb, @h-e-l-l-o-s, @cherrycolawhip, @screechesincoherently, @lilcuutiee, @joshkiszkasbunion , @almost-a-ladybug, @ytmanwhore, @theweightofstardust, @sierraahhhh, @eeeloraaa, @ultimate-sdmn-trash, @deadbeat-z, @joshkiszkastea, @brokenbellz, @dolls-skin, @gvfrry, @miidnightcarlights​

forever taglist: @punkgeekcryptid, @tv-saved-the-teenage-girl, @bobbydearest, @sugarsweetkiss​

i’m so thankful for each one of you! if your url isn’t highlighted, it’s because tumblr is dumb and won’t let me tag you :( please fill out this taglist form or send me an ask if you’d like to be added to any of these lists, or if i’ve forgotten to tag you! ♡

[summersartythoughts]

Part 2: The Evolution of Car Marketing in America

Example of Beetle ad, 1956.

The layout of the Volkswagen ads became so notable that Krone even began creating advertisements without even showing the car itself off. A recognised ad demonstrating this is the 1969 model Lunar Module ad with the headline, ‘it’s ugly but it gets you there’ with the Volkswagen logo directly underneath.

These Volkswagen ads inspired viewers to view ads with intelligence and understanding, they were graced with no pressure to buy the newest models and makes, there were no terms and conditions to the purchase, and it was not demanding of money. This cultural shift caused the Volkswagen to become an integral part of American counterculture in the sixties. Bill Bernach, Helmut Krone and Julian Koenig are seen as pioneers for the creative revolution all because of this one advertisement.

Modern Car Advertising

The 1980’s experienced the United States stock market in full swing and the luxury industry was clawing its way back to the top. The automobile was back to being viewed as a status symbol and surpassed being used for only a family. Porches and Lamborghinis insisted that you were of the higher class, and - better than everyone else. Not only this, but international cars began getting advertised in the United States beginning an even larger and more diverse automobile industry. The ads focused on bold colour, small writing or snappy headlines accompanied by sleek photographs of the vehicles of the time in action.

Porche 944, 1980-1990

The nineties were much like the eighties but began seeing the incorporation of celebrities in adverts to sell - mainstream media was of high interest to the public and marketing strategies played on this effect.

Toyota 992 Celica, 1992

Today, car marketing is much more prominent through television and video clips. They are often depicting scenes of the vehicle all but saving the person’s life and defying its intended purpose of transport. Automobiles have begun to include many other factors like entertainment, comfort, and speed. It has been noted that through research, the public has come to an agreed conclusion that the days of poster adverts in magazines from the fifties and sixties introduced a feeling of danger, spontaneity, and fun. The dramatized action and drama intrigued the everyday viewer and engaged them with words and photographs instead of celebrities and sizing. It leaves the viewer wondering, will marketing campaigns and ad agencies ever be able to achieve the level of impact that the Volkswagen did in 1959? Or the Cadillac of the 1930s? Or will we be forever dissatisfied by the quality and repetitiveness of automobile marketing?

BIBLIOGRAPHY

1. Wired (2009) July 30, 1898: Car Ads Get Rolling. Available at: https://www.wired.com/2009/07/dayintech-0730/ (Accessed: December 8, 2021).

2. Coal Canary Region (2019) On April 1, 1898, A Port Carbon Man Bought The First Car In America. Available at: https://coalregioncanary.com/2019/04/01/on-april-1-1898-a-port-carbon-man-bought-the-first-car-in-america/ (Accessed: December 14, 2021).

3. The Henry Ford (2015) Advertising the Model T. Available at: https://www.thehenryford.org/explore/blog/advertising-the-model-t/ (Accessed: December 14, 2021).

4. Heimann, J. and Patton P. (2009) 20th Century Classic Cars. Germany: Taschen.

5. Supercars (2021) The 1930’s Cars Chugged Along Despite the Great Depression. Available at: https://www.supercars.net/blog/cars-of-the-1930s/ (Accessed: December 14, 2021).

6. Rear View Prints (2021) A History of Car Advertisements and Vintage Car Prints Available at: https://rearviewprints.com/magazine/history-car-advertisements-vintage-car-prints/ (Accessed: December 15, 2021).

7. Motor Cities (2015) Cadillac: Standard of World Advertising from 1930s-1970s. Available at: https://www.motorcities.org/story-of-the-week/2015/cadillac-standard-of-world-advertising-from-1930s-1970s (Accessed: December 15, 2021).

8. Saturday Evening Post (2015) Vintage Auto Ads: Cadillac. Available at: https://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/10/vintage-auto-ads-cadillac/ (Accessed: December 15, 2021).

9. Forbes (2009) The Man Who Saved The Cadillac. Available at: https://www.forbes.com/2009/04/30/1930s-auto-industry-business-cadillac.html?sh=799674819d26(Accessed: December 19, 2021).

10. Hagerty (2019) How Nicholas Dreystadt ended racism at Cadillac in the 1930’s or tried to. Available at: https://www.hagerty.com/media/automotive-history/nicholas-dreystadt-ended-racism-at-cadillac-in-the-1930s/ (Accessed: December 19, 2021).

11. Medium (2015) The ad that changed advertising. Available at: https://medium.com/theagency/the-ad-that-changed-advertising-18291a67488c (Accessed: December 21, 2021).

12. 4 A’s (2021) Truth in Advertising: DDB and VW Encourage the World to Think Small. Available at: https://www.aaaa.org/timeline-event/vw-encourages-world-think-small/?cn-reloaded=1 (Accessed: December 21, 2021).

Summer Marshall-Miller

[exitrealtycentral]

Property Details For 944 Pollard Street, Norfolk, Virginia 23504 Welcome home!!! This beautifully updated home is ready for you. Unable to find a spacious home that is reasonably priced, look no further than right here. Spend your days relaxing on the front porch. This adorable home is waiting for you to make it your own! […]

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[exoticcarauction]

Porche 944 Race Car $8500.00 Click Here Now To Bid