#car dash mount

[helpforcollegenow20]

     ROKFORM Magnetic Swivel Dash Mount - Top 10 FAQs & Answers

Treat yourself to the ease and convenience of our Swivel Dash Mount. This easy-to-use dash mount attaches to your dash or any smooth surface with strong 3M VHB. Once installed, the 4 strong magnets are specifically designed to work with any ROKFORM magnetic case with amazing ease providing the industry’s most powerful hold. The super grip rubber face and strong neodymium magnets keep your phone on the mount and not on the floor. Adjust your phone to the perfect viewing angle with 360-degree rotation via the CNC machined aircraft aluminum swivel. The low-profile minimalist design makes the Rokform Swivel mount look great on any dash.

Features:

▪️ Design allows perfect angle adjustment

▪️ Super grip face magnetically secures the phone

▪️ Installs with easy to use residue-free adhesive

▪️ View calls, text, GPS handsfree

▪️ Secures your phone at the perfect angle

▪️ Low profile design looks great on any dash

Our car mounts offer you completely hands-free functionality thanks to Rokform's iPhone and Galaxy cases' innovative mounting system. We offer multiple ways to mount your phone, from dash mounts to windshield mounts, while navigating the open road.

SHOP All Car Mounts: https://www.rokform.com/collections/automobile-mounts 

If you call or visit us in Irvine, California, you will receive personalized service from experienced professionals that know the product inside and out. Even with high quality, functionality, and superior service, we owe a large part of our success to the thousands of happy customers who keep coming back repeatedly, year after year. Join us today and see why ROKFORM is the customer’s choice.

We bring you the world's absolute best Apple iPhone, Samsung Galaxy, and smartphone accessories. Our products consist of mountable phone cases, plus mounts and accessories for vehicles, bicycles, motorcycles, and more. We strive to design new and innovative phone accessories that offer unsurpassed protection and style for Apple & Samsung devices. For more information please call at [phone] to speak with one of our professionals today! or simply visit Our Website - www.rokform.com

Shop Online              

www.ROKFORM.com        

Call Us: 1(855)765-3676

Email Us: [email protected]

Come See Us: 16180 Scientific, Irvine, CA 92618

#Rokform Swivel Dash Mount #Swivel Dash Mount #dash mount #car dash mount #magnetic phone mount #magnetic phone mount for car #magnetic phone holder #best phone mount #best car phone holder #best car phone mount

[gadgetsproworld]

Choosing a Car Mobile Holder

By Anan Sadh - Let’s face it. We are constantly on our phones and especially while driving, this could be extremely hazardous for us & others. So the next best alternative is to have your phone mounted safely yet within reach. This is where car phone holders come in. Using such a holder enables you to put your gadget anywhere at any angle. Therefore, it makes it simpler to explore GPS and manage music & calls while your eyes are on the road.

Buying a heavy-duty car mobile holder ensures your device stays where it's supposed to & makes it easily accessible. A car phone holder can improve the efficiency of operating a mobile.

Picking the best car mobile holder in India for a vehicle can be intriguing since the choices are flooding nowadays. Be that as it may, considering the fundamentals will surely pursue your choice for picking the best car phone holder for your vehicle. In the below-mentioned list, the following essential points will help you choose the best car mobile phone holder for your vehicle:

Ease of Use

Cars come with windscreens of different sizes and distances from the driver. Car Phone holders can be mounted literally anywhere on the glass as per the choice of the user. Most commonly mounted to the extreme right side where it doesn’t block the vision of the driver. When selecting a car mobile holder amongst the wide variety, there are few that even offer wireless charging to charge compatible phones. The holder should grip your device securely without restricting access to the controls or ports. Inserting & removing the mobile phone ought to be simple and not require much effort. The dash mount should be easy to attach & detach to the glass without much effort.

Universal One-Size Fits All

Car phone holders come with a variety of mounting options – clamps on the AC vent, dashboard, or windshield mount. In terms of form factor these could be extremely compact & minimalistic, Small magnetic ones, long ones with flexible arms or extremely sturdy & robust. Choose a universal portable holder that can just fit in each sort of mobile phone with their cases on. Such mounts are strong enough to hold different brands. Also, check that there is no space left in the holder for vibrations.

Durability

The key feature should be getting a mobile holder that is well enough to hold the phone universally in one spot despite bumpy roads. A versatile car mobile holder offers excellent cushioning for your device while its joints remain sturdy to ensure the device's position does not change while driving. Assuming you use a back cover on the mobile phone, you could even choose a magnetic car phone holder with a magnetic back plate that slips inside your case & is invisible.

Conclusion

Picking the right car mobile holder is somewhat an individual's decision & the choice generally stays with the user. Opting for a suitable car phone holder lets the driver safely mount the phone on the mount & focus on driving. For individuals who need to constantly use their mobile phone while driving, specifically for navigation, getting great quality holders that can attach to the dashboard makes total sense.

Such car mobile holders hold your mobile phone, guaranteeing a hassle-free experience during the drive. Although using a mobile phone while driving should be avoided at any cost, and if you must, always mount your phone on a car mount.

Original Source: Choosing a Car Mobile Holder

#car mount #car phone holder #dash mount #car phone charger

[xxblairexxss]

Jibber-jabber

Pairing : Mason Mount x reader

Theme : Fluff

This was so so so cute I had a blast writing it!

Your relationship with Mason wasn’t a secret amongst his fans. Two years ago, Mason asked you to be his girlfriend and a few months later, he uploaded a picture of you on his Instagram story which proved all those rumours that has been flying around to be true. His fans had found your social media way before Mason posted or confirmed anything and it was only because they saw Mason following you, a random girl with no more than 1000 followers and never missed to leave a like on every posts of yours though he never left any comments.

ynusername

Liked by masonmount and others

ynusername 🥐☕️

ynbestfriend miss uuuu

masonmmupdate you are soooo pretty

footballwagssoon mason’s gf??

rebeccaa__19 are you mason’s girlfriend? 🥹

﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎

masonmount has added to their story

12th June

ynusername has added to their story

2nd July

Even though everyone knew you were together and that you were no longer an unfamiliar face amongst the fans, you chose to keep it as private as you can. There would be an occasional pictures of you guys holding hands together or showing off your matching socks or a 2 seconds view of him in your Instagram story to which the fanpages would cut the part of the 15 seconds video and reposted it with the slow motion effect. It wasn’t because you were trying to hide anything or trying to be mysterious but it was because you wanted to use the social media platforms as your personal diary and no one stayed on one topic in their diary.

You had been staying at Mason’s house a lot this month as he tried to sort out his contract which meant he wasn’t at home that much so you would occasionally treat yourself on a solo date where you would took a stroll near the park or got yourself a coffee at the new coffee shop you came across. It was therapeutic sometimes to spend time with yourself.

But today, it was different. Mason asked you out to buy some stuffs at a department store. You told Mason that you wanted to do a vlog and that he didn’t have to be in it. He didn’t mind, of course but what he didn’t knew was that it wasn’t actually a vlog.

You already had your phone recording when you did your makeup earlier so as you talked thorough all the products that you were using, you decided to talk about the plan as well but in a whispering tone now. Not that Mason could hear but just to be safe. “So, we’re going out and I wanted to prank him. I’m gonna chatter about 20 random topics I could think about at one time and none of it are gonna make any sense. I’m not sure how he’s gonna react because he never gets annoyed with me so…”

“Babe, you ready?”

“Yeah!”

﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎

“So, I went to this one bakery the other day, yeah?”

Mason had his hand on your thigh, like he always did whenever he drives and nodded to your question. Your phone was propped against something on the car dash to record both you and Mason. You had asked him once again if he wanted to be in the camera and he said of course he wanted to be seen in the camera with his girlfriend.

“And I asked the worker which one was the best-selling and she said it was pain au chocolat but they had a new menu that made them won the— Oh! Do you know the history of pain au chocolat?”

Mason blinked, trying to catch up with you before shaking his head. “No, I don’t know but babe, what about the new menu?”

“Mase, listen! So August Zang..”

“Wait, who’s Zang?”

“The one who brought pain au chocolat to France! This is why you should listen.”

“Okay, baby, I’m listening.”

“Oh! And there was this cute dog that passed by—”

“Was it Zang’s dog?”

“….what? Mase…” You gave in and cackled at his question. “That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“Oh, yeah, tell me about it, princess.” He pinched on his furrowed brows, didn’t find this whole thing funny, in fact, it was kinda stressing him out but were you gonna stop? Not yet, of course so you continued.

“Then I felt like getting a green tea but there was a stranger that walked past me and the smell of coffee from the one that she was holding— the new menu was something to do with cranberry I think.”

“Okay, babe, are you okay?” He teared his eyes away from the road as the traffic light turned red and placed his hand on the side of your face.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Do you…want me to stop talking?” You leaned into his touch and trailed off.

“No, no. Keep talking. The topics are kinda complicated but I’ll manage. So, you were talking about the dog, yeah? No? Was it the coffee? Cranberry? Zang? Which one do you want start with?”

“I want to talk about the street art I saw…” You forlornly returned his gaze.

“Okay, I don’t mind adding one more topic. Let’s take it slow, okay? What about the street art?” Mason stroked his thumb against your jawline and took your hand in his. To him, you looked the most adorable when you talked. He had a hard time catching up, sure but he didn’t mind. The sight of you blabbering, the way you bit your lips to think off the next topic, the way your hands moved randomly with every words you said. He sworn he wouldn’t trade this moment with anything else. He was listening attentively but he also couldn’t stop gazing at you full of admiration. His precious girl.

To you, he didn’t look annoyed, didn’t look irritated. Of course, you wouldn’t be able to read his mind but the public could be the one to decide on that when you posted the video on your Tiktok.

#football imagine #football imagines #mason mount #mason mount blurb #mason mount x reader #mason mount x y/n #mason mount imagines #mason mount fluff #mason mount fic

[katz-chow]

always there

synopsis: johnny takes care of you after you donated blood 🏷| gn!reader, blood donation, ambiguous relationship, fainting, cheesy

a/n: donated blood and didn’t feel good right after. father figure to the rescue right after and now i’m just trudging on thru the trenches. this one's short, sorry. but it's still prompt 11! @glitterypirateduck

during college, you made it a routine to give blood consistently. either whole blood, platelets, or plasma, you also found yourself the victim of many pin pricks, much like a sewing holder.

this time around was no different. except you had forgotten all about the appointment and hadn’t noticed until that morning.

breakfast was forgotten about as you continued to drive to the store, preparing for the next week. until a text notification pinged on your phone, mounted on the car dash.

your eyes widen as you got to the store with more urgency, determined to finish shopping before the appointment time came. it ended great as you hurried home, checking your phone periodically to see if any of your friends are available to drive you home from the blood bank.

to no avail, you frown but got ready to go anyway. you filled your cold water bottle and left the house, driving silently to the medical center.

as soon as you got in, everything went fine. you hardly looked at your phone and instead had watched the screen playing some action movie. over to your right arm , the tubing was dark and crimson with blood at as it filled the blood pouch rocking back and forth.

the phlebotomist came and checked your arm, blood flowing slowly and thick from your lack of fluid and food in your system. you sighed as you felt the blood escape from you, instantaneously tired and woozy.

“clever body, how fascinating…” you say to yourself as the machine next to you beep uncontrollably. lifting your head up to look at it, you felt your body freeze over like ice and your eyes rolled back.

next thing you know, you’re laying limp on the chair as the phlebotomists crowd around you, checking vitals, calling your name, and icing you down.

you respond weakly and gave a thumbs up. your heart thundered in your ears as you feel the large gauge needle being pulled out of your arm and bandages being wrapped around. however, you blinked a few times, feeling for sure that your eyes were indeed open, you started to panic as your vision fly away from you.

“hey, hey it’s okay. your eyes are still rolled back, it’s okay.” one voice rang out, breathless and on your right.

another voice rang out on your left side and you turned your head over to her as cold sweats fell from your body. “is there someone we can call?”

you nodded and slowly reached for your phone in your lap, pulling it out and handing it to the empty space in front of you as you laid limp against the reclined chair. “john mactavish…”

your breathing felt heavy and labored as they continued to cool you down. your eyelids were closed now and your movements slow, trying to prevent another fainting spell.

light entered through your eyelids and you slowly opened your eyes, your stomach growling in hunger. the phlebotomists look at you, judgmentally, side glances at you.

you groan and look at the clock to the side, embarassed by how loud your stomach is and how the fake-nice healthcare workers treat you with. you were treading on their lunch hour, which is why you were treated as such.

there’s a certain different type of weighting shame that comes with giving blood and the aftermath. how weak you feel, how ill prepared you are, and the fact that it seems like no one wants you here at all. well one person does, as a kind older woman drops off a sympathetic bag of chips.

you give her a weak smile, not much you can do other than just sit there and just try and get better. at some point you don’t even remember why you're still sitting there, legs up and an instant ice pack placed on your forehead.

"there you are hen, got your call." a familiar voice calls out to you as you tilt your head up just a bit, following the sound of the voice. a handsome scotsman faces you with a weak smile. almost instantly, a boost of energy rushes through you and you sit up quickly and push yourself to the edge of the chair.

"hi, johnny...i'm sorry you have to be here." you mumbled to him as you let him wrap an arm over you and help you up.

"can you walk?" he asks gently, grabbing your purse and nodding a curt goodbye to the workers there as he guides you out and into his car.

you, feeling quite a little a lot of a loser, shook him off and proceeded to walk out and towards your car, "i can take myself home, johnny. it's okay, i can drive..."

johnny, taking none of your nonsense, proceeded to catch up to you, like it was hard, and blocked you from your path. you looked up at him, and grumbled something while pushing him gently away. "i don't want to bother you anymore than i need to."

he frowned at this silly statement you put out as you continue to push on his chest. he chuckled a bit at your weak attempts, clearly not feeling well as the sun makes your face scrunch up and your punches are not as hard as he knows they can be. "i'll take care of you, okay? we'll get food on the way and you can stay at my place."

he looked at you and brushed your hair away from your forehead. "don't fight it. i'm right here"

indeed you were when you're sitting on his counter top, watching as he makes you dinner. the music blared through his speaker as you scroll through your phone, searching for a movie to watch.

suddenly, bored of your search, you looked up and saw his backside. how the cotton of his tshirt stretched over his muscles so nicely, how with every movement, you saw his muscles contract and pull, beckoning you to come closer.

he felt you staring and he turned his head back from the stove just a bit, catching your glance with a wink. you huffed out a shy laugh and continued to scroll through your phone.

you see his turn to you, thinking he needed to get something next to you. instead, you see his get closer to you and cage you in with his arms against the counter top next to you. you peak up from behind your phone and look at him, a grin on his face. "stop looking at me."

"i'm not..." you replied, hiding your face behind your phone.

he laughed and leaned closer to you, both his palms held your cheeks now, opting to squeeze and feel how soft they were. "don't lie, to me bonnie."

you blushed, not knowing what to say. you put down your phone next to you, your hands running along his forearms and then resting them upon the back of his, still on your cheeks. "thanks for being there for me."

he chuckled at you and kissed your forehead gently, yet a bit longer than anyone would, savoring it. "i told you, i'll always be there for ya."

master list | letter box | main directory

drop by the letter box!

#katzwrites #cod mw2 #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod #modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #fanfic #captain john mactavish #john soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #soap mw2 #soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap x fem reader #soap x you #johnny soap mactavish #johnnys #johnny mactavish #johnny soap mctavish #johnny soap mactavish x reader #soapitup

[sirfrogsworth]

There is a special feeling of joy when you solve a problem that you had given up on solving. When you had settled for an inferior solution because you thought that was the best you could do.

I have tried 6 different phone holders. A couple of the dashboard suction cups. Those all fell off within days because my dash has this weird texture that prevents a good seal.

Then I tried a couple of holders that go into the A/C vent. I finally found one that worked kinda okay. But it was wobbly and unstable. It blocked the air. And I always worried if I hit a bump my phone would fly out of it. And when I needed to use the phone, every time I pressed the screen it would wiggle and fight me. Which was dangerous if I needed to adjust the GPS or something while driving.

Then I was searching to see how much standalone GPS units cost and saw this thing as a suggestion. A CD player phone mount. I had never heard of such a thing. And since my car is from 2008, I have a useless CD player. I was intrigued by this cheap plastic device.

I installed it on Saturday and it is the most stable, most secure phone mount in existence. When I saw how well it worked... my body just flooded itself with endorphins.

The problem was finally and definitively solved.

And when I drove to the movies I could feel the breeze from the vent that was no longer blocked. Any bump I hit did not faze this mount. And it was so much easier to interact with the phone if I needed to. Plus, it sits a little lower in a darker area of the car so when it is sunny, I can see the screen better.

It's almost ridiculous how happy this little phone mount has made me.

So if you have an older car with a CD player, you should definitely get one of these.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1955 Chevrolet 210

TECH CHECK Owner: Eric Mead, Evansville, Indiana Vehicle: ’55 Chevrolet 210

Engine Type: BluePrint Engines Chevrolet LS3 Displacement: 376 ci Compression Ratio: 10.7:1 Bore: 4.070 inches Stroke: 3.622 inches Cylinder Heads: BluePrint Engines aluminum Camshaft: BluePrint Engines hydraulic roller (0.612/0.585-inch lift, 225/238 deg. duration) Ignition: E38 Engine PCM Assembly: BluePrint Engines Exhaust: Church Boys Racing by Stainless Works 1-7/8-inch primaries to 3-inch collector and 2.5-inch stainless pipes bent by Dave Favor’s Performance Exhaust, MagnaFlow Mufflers Ancillaries: Holley mid-mount accessory drive, PRC radiator and core support, SPAL Fans Output: 530 hp at 6,100 rpm, 508 lb-ft at 5,200 rpm

Drivetrain Transmission: ’99 GM 4L80E Automatic with TransGo valvebody kit prepared by Wathen’s Transmission (Owensboro, KY) Torque Converter: FTI Billet 3,200 stall Driveshaft: Driveline Plus Rear Axle: Strange Engineering 9-inch with Truetrac differential, 3.70 gears, 35-spline axles

Chassis Chassis: Roadster Shop SPEC Front Suspension: Strange single-adjustable coilovers, stabilizer bar Rear Suspension: Strange single-adjustable coilovers, parallel four-link, Panhard bar Brakes: Baer four-wheel disc, 12-inch front rotors with four-piston calipers, 11-inch rear rotors with four-piston calipers, Baer Remaster master cylinder

Wheels & Tires Wheels: Bogart Racing Wheels D-5; 17×4.5 front with 2.25-inch backspace, 15×10 rear with 5.5-inch backspace Tires: Mickey Thompson Sportsman S/R front, 26×6.00R17; Mickey Thompson ET Street S/S rear, 295/55R15

Interior Upholstery: Holtsclaw Custom Upholstery (Francisco, IN) Carpet: Cars Inc. black loop carpet Seats: Original bench seat with black-and-white vinyl Delray pattern Steering: Summit steering column with Eddie Motorsports steering wheel Shifter: Lokar Dash: Original Instrumentation: Dakota Digital VHX HVAC: Vintage Air Wiring: American Autowire by Andy’s Hot Rod Shop (Mulkeytown, IL)

Exterior Bodywork and Paint: Reisinger Custom Rebuilding (Evansville, IN) and Andy’s Hot Rod Shop Paint: Sateen Silver/white by James Smith of Road Runner Restorations (Johnston City, IL) Hood: Stock Grille: Danchuk Bumpers: Danchuk Glass: Auto City Classics Fuel Tank: 15.5-gallon Tanks Inc. galvanized powedercoated silver

#Chevrolet 210 #chevrolet #car #cars #street rod

[bloodylullaby]

Give Me Something Beautiful

Summary: Morrigan's ordinary life takes an extraordinary turn when Noah Sebastian, the lead singer of Bad Omens, stumbles upon her quaint little shop, adorned with her captivating photography. Intrigued by her talent and drawn to her genuine spirit, Noah invites Morrigan to capture the essence of his band's concert through her lens. As they spend time together, their initial friendship blossoms into a deep and meaningful connection, fueled by their shared love for art and music. Despite the challenges they face as their worlds collide, Morrigan and Noah navigate the complexities of fame and intimacy, ultimately finding solace and strength in each other's arms. Through their journey from strangers to lovers, they discover that amidst life's chaos, true beauty lies in the simple moments shared between two souls who are destined to be together.

Pairings: Noah Sebastian x OC

Content Warning: None

Word Count: 2421

MasterList

Chapter Two

"Shit," I muttered under my breath as I dashed down the sidewalk, raindrops pelting my skin. I was running seriously behind schedule. My father's impromptu return from a golfing trip had derailed my plans, his endless chatter about the perfect golfing conditions delaying me until 6:40. With barely any time to spare, I sprinted the five minutes back to my apartment, frantically throwing on a black lace-bustier cami top, ripped black skinny jeans, and my trusty pair of Demonias platform boots. 

I left my shoulder-length, black and purple hair in its natural curly state, opting for speed over styling. By the time I managed to get dressed, it was already 7, leaving me no choice but to rush out the door and make a mad dash for my car in the back lot. The drive to the theater was surprisingly smooth, but finding a parking spot proved to be a challenge, eating up precious minutes as I circled the area in search of a vacant spot.

Frustration surged through me as I finally found a parking spot in a garage a mile and a half away. Consulting my phone for the time, I took a deep breath before popping open the trunk of my car to retrieve my camera bag. Midway through the parking garage, a sinking realization hit me like a ton of bricks—I had left my keys in the ignition. Panic surged as I hastily turned on my heel, racing back to my car. However, my frustration only intensified when I reached my vehicle, only to find another car parked so close to my driver's side door that opening it without denting theirs seemed impossible. 

With an exasperated huff, I popped open the trunk once more. Thankfully, my car boasted a hatchback, providing a precarious but feasible entry point. Clambering into the trunk, I grappled with the task of folding down the back seat. Minutes ticked by as I wrestled with the stubborn mechanism, determination fueling my efforts. Finally, with a triumphant grunt, I managed to coerce the seat down, granting me access to the interior of my car. Retrieving my keys, I exhaled a sigh of relief, grateful that my absent-mindedness hadn't resulted in a complete catastrophe. Emerging from the confines of my vehicle, I carefully reorganized my belongings before securing the car and setting off once more, this time with a renewed sense of urgency propelling my steps.

I glanced at my phone, feeling a wave of frustration wash over me as I saw that it was almost 7:30. "Jesus Christ, why does everything have to go wrong when I'm excited about something?" I muttered to myself, my irritation mounting. After cracking my neck and ensuring I had all my gear, I hoisted my camera bag onto my shoulder and set off in a brisk jog.

Arriving at the theater didn't take too long, but my heart sank as I came to a halt, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The line stretched around the corner and further down the street, a daunting sight that left me feeling bewildered and overwhelmed. How could there be so many people here? With the show about to start, the fact that so many were still waiting to get inside only added to my growing sense of unease. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I pushed through the crowd, eliciting groans of protest and complaints from those I brushed past. Determination overriding my nerves, I made my way to the main entrance, where the door supervisors greeted me with looks of confusion.

"Back of the line, sweetheart, good looks don't get you in faster," one of the door supervisors quipped, their tone laced with amusement. I raised an eyebrow, meeting their chuckles with a wry grin of my own.

"Well, if you would let me talk, you would know that I was invited to come in, and I am on some sort of list, but from the looks of it, I think reading might be a little too hard for you guys," I retorted in a deadpan voice, my frustration simmering beneath the surface. As one of the supervisors stepped forward, attempting to intimidate me, the other hastily radioed in to confirm the situation. Rolling my eyes and crossing my arms, I couldn't help but feel exasperated by the unnecessary delay. Why was it so difficult for them to simply read a list or ask for my name, especially when they knew someone was expected with photography equipment?

"Listen, I am running late and don't have time for this. Either the two of you get your heads out of your asses, or I will force my way in," I stated with a firm edge to my voice, my patience wearing thin. However, before I could even finish my threat, one of them grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back, causing a sharp jolt of pain to shoot through me.

"Alright, little lady, it was entertaining initially, but the threats took it too far. You're out of here," the door supervisor declared, his tone firm as he motioned for me to leave. Meanwhile, the other supervisor hurried inside to seek assistance.

"You're kidding me, right? You didn't even do your job to see if I was on a list or ask for my name; you just assumed I was trying to sleep my way to the band. Which, by the way, is sexist," I fired back, my frustration boiling over as I launched into a scathing retort. However, my tirade was abruptly interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind us.

Turning around, I found myself face-to-face with another photographer, his presence casting an unexpected twist in the situation. “Morrigan Emerson?” He asked with an eyebrow raised.

"Yes, that would be me," I replied with a relieved smile as the door supervisor promptly released me and stepped aside.

"Follow me; the band has been waiting for you," the photographer instructed, gesturing for me to follow him. With a smug grin directed at the door supervisor, I complied, flipping him off with a sickly sweet smile before trailing after my new favorite friend.

"My name is Bryan; I am Bad Omens' photographer," he introduced himself as we walked, glancing back over his shoulder. His words sparked a flicker of recognition, but I couldn't quite place where I had heard the band's name before. As we navigated down a hallway, a knot of nervousness began to form in my stomach. Who had I agreed to see tonight? Eventually, we entered a larger space that was just one room away from being backstage, and my apprehension grew. What awaited me on the other side of that door?

As we stepped into the room, my eyes immediately sought out Noah. He stood facing away from us, engaged in conversation with a group of guys whom I assumed to be his bandmates. Clad in a sleek black turtleneck, matching pants cinched with a belt, and polished black shoes, he exuded an effortless allure that left me momentarily breathless. Could this man possibly get any more attractive?

My reverie was interrupted when one of the guys spotted Bryan and me, pointing in our direction and catching Noah's attention. "Morrigan, you made it!" Noah exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine excitement as he made his way over to me. I returned his enthusiasm with a shy smile and an awkward wave, feeling a rush of nerves as he drew closer.

"Hey, sorry I'm late. Had a bunch of bad luck on my way here," I explained sheepishly, scratching the back of my head in embarrassment. Bryan chuckled, adding his own twist to the tale.

"She was ready to kick some ass when I found her. They had her in an arm lock and everything, and she was still going on a tangent," Bryan recounted, prompting laughter from the group. As Noah and the others looked at me with a mixture of confusion, amusement, and concern, I felt my nerves start to bubble up, manifesting in a nervous giggle.

"Yeah, well, when I got to the doors, they assumed I was trying to sleep my way in with you guys, so I might have gotten a little too hot-headed and threw in some insults that got me in a sticky situation," I admitted, feeling a flush of embarrassment color my cheeks. Noah's expression darkened at my words.

"They thought you were a groupie?" he asked, his tone laced with disbelief. I nodded, unable to meet his gaze, my discomfort growing with every passing moment. I hadn't intended for Bryan to make a big deal out of it; I just wanted to move past the awkward encounter and focus on the reason I was there.

"Yeah, but I handled myself just fine. Bryan stepped in before I could actually kick some ass. Everyone almost got a free show," I quipped, trying to lighten the mood with a touch of humor. Thankfully, my attempt elicited laughter from the group, diffusing some of the awkward tension that had settled over us.

Noah's touch on my shoulder was gentle as he guided us away from the others, his expression serious yet filled with genuine concern. "I'm glad you can find humor in the situation, Morrigan, but I'll take care of them. That shouldn't have happened; I made sure everyone knew I invited a friend to see us. They should have stayed professional, and for that, I'm sorry that my team has let you down," he apologized sincerely, his words carrying a weight of responsibility that touched me deeply. How sweet could one guy be? Although security was from a different company, Noah still took ownership of the situation, demonstrating his integrity and care for those around him.

"Noah, it's okay; it isn't your fault. I appreciate the apology, but I know that they work for a third party from the design on their shirts. I'm not mad at anyone but them, so please don't worry. Bryan came and got me, and that is all that matters. If you want to do something about it, by all means, go ahead. Just know that it isn't your fault," I reassured him, offering a sincere smile to emphasize my point. 

Noah returned the smile, his expression softening with gratitude, before turning to address a security guard who had called him over. With a few words exchanged, Noah reviewed the details with the guard and requested that the door supervisors be released and replaced. Once everything was settled, he guided me back to the group, seamlessly reintegrating me into the fold as he introduced me to everyone.

"Morrigan, this is Nick, Jolly, and Folio. They're the ones who help me make the music possible," Noah introduced, gesturing to each member of the band in turn. "Guys, this is Morrigan; she's the one I told you about with the beautiful and unique photography."

The band members greeted me warmly, expressing their admiration for the photos Noah had shared with them. As the conversation shifted to their excitement for the upcoming show, they began to pump each other up, their energy infectious. Feeling my social anxiety creeping in, I attempted to step to the side, but Noah gently kept me within the circle, ensuring I wasn't left out. As the minutes ticked by and the anticipation mounted, my nerves began to escalate. With just ten minutes left until showtime, Noah turned to me, his expression gentle yet encouraging.

"You'll be with Bryan for the night, so if at any point you feel overwhelmed, you can either go to him or step outside for a breather," Noah reassured me, his words laced with genuine concern and consideration. His kindness was like a breath of fresh air, a stark contrast to the often self-serving interactions I'd grown accustomed to. All I could manage in response was a grateful nod, my mind racing with appreciation for his thoughtfulness.

It struck me how rare it was to encounter someone so inherently caring and gentle, especially without any ulterior motives. As I struggled to steady my breathing, Noah noticed the drained color on my face and promptly guided us to the side, away from the hustle and bustle of the group.

"You'll be okay, I promise. Nothing is going to happen to you. There's a barricade between you and the crowd. Don't push yourself out of your comfort zone if you're not ready," Noah reassured me, offering a supportive thumbs-up. His words were like a lifeline, grounding me amidst the whirlwind of anxiety.

Taking a deep breath, I scanned the room until my eyes landed on exactly what I needed: liquid courage. Making my way over to the table, I couldn't help but grimace at the sight of the options laid out before me. It was a choice between straight liquor or beer, with no chaser or anything to mask the taste. It was clear that this was a situation where necessity outweighed preference.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for a cup and filled it with the dark-colored liquor, steeling myself for the impending taste. As I stared at the liquid in my cup, trying to muster the courage to take a sip, I noticed the band members preparing to take the stage and Bryan making his way over to me.

With a resolve born of necessity, I plugged my nose and quickly downed the drink, grimacing as the harsh burn lingered in my throat. Gagging slightly at the unpleasant aftertaste, I tried to compose myself as Bryan approached me. "Ready?" he asked, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I replied with a small smile, determined to push through my nerves and enjoy the experience to the fullest.

"Cool. Let's head out then before the lights go out," Bryan suggested, prompting me to grab my camera bag and gather the necessary lenses. With a determined nod, I signaled to Bryan that I was ready to go.

As we made our way towards the stage, I couldn't help but steal a glance at Noah. Catching his eye, I was met with a reassuring smile, a thumbs-up, and the silent encouragement, "You can do this." Returning his gesture with a nervous smile of my own, I turned away and followed Bryan towards the stage. With each step, my nerves began to fade, replaced by a growing sense of excitement and anticipation. I was going to do this, and I was going to have fun doing it.

Authors Note: I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far :) Summer classes are about to start so chapters will go between pushing them out fast and slow.

#bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian x ofc #bad omens fic #bad omens band #bad omens fluff #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian davis #noah sebastian fluff #noah sebastian fic

[blueywrites]

new skin

The diner’s signature dish: Fresh-baked soft pretzel knots with sweet Georgia peach jam, topped with bitter trauma. Recipe includes a dash of pining, a sprinkle of faith, and a generous heap of healing love.

Linecook!Eddie x Waitress!Reader. 60s Diner. Slow Burn.

Follows canon, except Eddie lives, and Vecna is defeated after causing the 'earthquake'. This is written in second person 'x reader' format, but you've been given a name. The name and nicknames that appear throughout the story are listed below; use the InteractiveFics extension to replace them if you'd like!

full name: emmaline louise. nicknames: emma, emmy

series content warnings -> eventual sexual content (18+), fem!reader, plussized!reader, fatphobia, domestic violence, domestic abuse, miscarriage/pregnancy, discussions of suicidal ideation, significant religious themes, found family, hurt/comfort, slow burn, angst with a happy ending

chapter content warnings -> 18+ for mature themes. mentions of blood, numerous Christian religious references, disordered eating habits, anxiety, references to emotional abuse and manipulation, body image issues, internalized fatphobia

one: an empty room (10.3k) | next | masterlist | playlist | AO3

You surrounded me

and my windows are breaking

Something is rotten inside of me

I have to find it and

cut it out

House Song — Searows

It was a mortal man who drove you away but divine providence that guided you to Hawkins.

You’d been dropping off the key to your motel room when you saw it: a cockeyed paper pamphlet in the dusty wooden holder mounted beneath the counter. Stuffed beside “Indiana Caverns” and “The World’s Largest Ball of Paint,” it advertised a place where fissures had unfurled like the spindly legs of a spider, all radiating out from the center square. ‘Visit the town that hosts the gates of Hell,’ it read. You knew the town couldn’t really host the gate of Hell because Hell is a lake of fire and not a crack in the earth, though even the thought made a chill of foreboding shudder through you. Still, as you gazed at the name written in big red letters across the faded paper, you rolled it around in your mouth, seeing how it felt against your molars and exploring the way it tasted on your tongue.

Hawkins.

You’d expected bitterness. Ash and fire and brimstone, if the leaflet was to be believed. Instead, Hawkins tasted of pine, of sweet corn, and drugstore laundry powder. And that was odd, certainly. But maybe odd was what you needed— something wholly unfamiliar, nerve-wracking in its foreignness but peaceful in the knowledge that, if nothing else, you know he would never expect you to escape to somewhere like this. 

You’d been cutting a path from your home in Georgia due north, aimless and wandering, restless like a frightened prey animal consumed with nothing but thoughts of flee, flee, flee. The instinct had brought you from parking lot to roadside fuel-pump to motel six day after day, bouncing as the stacks in the cashbox wedged beneath the passenger seat began to dwindle. A pawn shop helped resupply your reserves, and your ring finger was lighter for it, but the running is beginning to wear on you. And there's just something about the taste of Hawkins lingering in your mouth, yeasty like wheat and clean in a way you haven’t felt since the day after Christmas when the bleeding began.

Your fingertips twitch before you snatch up the folded paper from the holder, spilling out into the gray of early morning. You cut a path back to the crack of warm light leaking from your room, where you’d wedged a stone against the metal edge of the door to prop it open. You slip inside one last time before you depart. 

There isn’t much to gather. Inside, there's just a musty floral bedspread and a side table with a bolted-down lamp. You flick the switch, leaving the room cold and dark in preparation for your departure. Your few personal belongings are already packed away in the car waiting outside, and it’s with a sense of familiar shame twanging at your heartstrings that you duck back into the tiny tiled room nestled in the corner of the bedroom. The pamphlet crinkles as you fold it and slip it into your coat pocket, freeing your hands to do what they will. 

This place is just one in a long line of stark rooms, transient nests that shelter you briefly as you flee. It's what made you think you were aimless and wandering, but you weren’t. Not really. 

During your flight from Georgia, you’d stopped in Lexington, Kentucky. And when you drove on, you could have, just as easily, chosen to go northeast, toward Columbus, perhaps curving over toward western Pennsylvania. But you decided to go northwest instead, dipping into the southern edge of Indiana, avoiding Cincinnati and its choked smog until you nestled into fields and farms again. It was divine providence that guided you that way, that bid you stop at this motel for the night, that helps you now discern the notes of flavor you hadn’t noticed back in the office as the leaflet crinkles in your coat pocket. Because beneath the unfamiliar— pine and corn and laundry powder— there is the familiar musk of fresh hay, mown on a sweet summer morning by your pa as soft whinnies huff from the stable. It warms you, though the January wind cuts through to the bone as you scurry back out of the motel room and let the door thump closed behind you. Your eyes dart for lookers-on, though the sting of self-consciousness isn’t quite as acute now as the first few times you’d waddled to the pastel blue Lincoln and fumbled the back door open with laden hands.

When you found that pamphlet and chose Hawkins, Indiana, as your final nesting place, God was calling you home. You will know that in the end, but you don’t know it now. Now, you’re just a scared girl carrying toilet paper, satchets of soap, and tiny bottles of mouthwash in your fists, pilfered from yet another temporary room. They tumble to join the pile of stolen treasures in the backseat, right beside the pillow from Tennessee and the scratchy blanket from Kentucky.

You've known since you were small that you aren’t a lamb— only Jesus is the lamb. Still, you'd hoped you are a sheep, pure and white, close to Him. Yet it turns out you’ve been wrong all this time. It turns out you're just a dirty, thieving crow, poking your beak in the dirt to search for shiny things to sustain you. As you stare at the pile of your baubles, the shame tugs again at your heartstrings, clawing up to settle heavily in the base of your throat. Thick like the beginnings of tears.  

You slam the back door and climb into the driver’s seat, sitting motionlessly for a long moment as you speak with your Father. You've always talked to God as long as you can remember but never had your prayers been so consistent as they've been this past week. First the waiting. Then the bleeding. Then the forsaking. Then the stealing. In all, you ask the same.

Please, Father. Forgive me.

 You pull the leaflet from your coat pocket, unfolding it carefully, avoiding the inflammatory language about gates and fissures as you search until you spot the tiny map and the star in its center that demarks the location of Hawkins. The instructions say that, from the south, you should take route four-thirty-one to route three north. 

Your aimless crawling has suddenly gained a clear direction; with it, your prayers shift for the moment. A hymn comes to mind, and you close your eyes as its melody plays in your head: Lead me, guide me, along the way. For if you leave me, I will not stray. Lord, let me walk each day with thee.

“Lead me,” you sing, a breath of a whisper as your eyes open. “Oh Lord, lead me.”

Beside your Lincoln, a businessman is loading his trunk into the passenger seat of his station wagon.

You crank down your window hastily, resting your fingers against the doorframe as you peek out without making a sound; working yourself up to speak with this strange man takes some effort. He has just closed the door and is about to cross around the front bumper when your voice finally comes, timorous but sweet as Georgia peaches. “Excuse me, sir,” you say, brows tipping as he turns to you. “Do you happen to know the way to route four-thirty-one from here?”

The cloud cover never wanes as you meander along the highways that lead to Hawkins. Even as the hour deepens to late afternoon, there is no glow of warmth from the sun; only cold bright grayness follows you as your gas gauge edges toward a quarter-tank, and you pull off to find a gas station and something to fill your aching stomach. You shade your eyes as you stand beside the pump and squint across the street, gaze catching on a familiar mascot: a swirl of hair like a dollop of black whipped cream and the red suspenders of Frisch’s Big Boy. The sight promises cheap food which will almost certainly be filling enough for your single midday meal.

The place isn’t overwhelmingly busy inside, but you still need to wait by the empty hostess stand before you’re taken to your seat. Against the long smudged window, shiny stickers and little childish baubles crowd the twenty-five cent machines, but your interest lies in the considerably more drab newspaper dispenser beside those colorful globes. You aren’t quite at your destination yet, but you’re close enough that local ads will likely provide you with a taste of your chosen home before you reach it. You purchase one quickly, wedging the newspaper under your arm and jumping almost guiltily when the hostess returns and finally chirps a greeting at you. You feel as if you’ve done something wrong as you trail after her, though as she hands you a menu and leaves you with a pleasant smile, she implies nothing of the sort.

You don’t spend long perusing the menu before you make up your mind. You order with a soft voice as the waitress scratches across her pad, promising to bring your orange juice and coffee in a jiffy. “Thank y’ma’am,” you say, small with your hands folded one over the other in your lap. 

You wait eagerly, stomach rumbling in earnest now that it knows your meal is well on the way. If you had to choose one type of food to eat for the rest of your life, breakfast would surely be it. A smile plays on your lips, and your mouth wells up with wanting as you picture it: crispy fried potatoes, eggs any which way, fluffy sweet milk waffles, cream of wheat with maple syrup and cinnamon. That one’s mama’s favorite. Pa’s is country fried steak, with a crunchy crust but tender and pink inside. Paul’s is—

You hedge from the thought, skipping quickly along to yours: dense, crumbly biscuits and thick, well-seasoned gravy, with little savory bits of sausage mixed in. They hadn’t had that here, so you ordered the pancakes and sausage links with a side of over-easy eggs, plus the coffee and orange juice. You’d gotten into the habit of eating once a day, mostly because it was easier to eat one big meal than try to stop for several smaller ones. That means that, as you sit there waiting, the scents of the kitchen and the clinking of silverware quickly become a dizzying reminder of your hunger, one that necessitates a distraction. So you spread the newspaper out against the table, turning each page slowly as you scan for the town that tastes of fresh laundry and hay.

You spot it once you reach the classifieds. It’s in an ad blazoned with one bold word across the top: vacancy. Forest Hills Trailer Park, the paper reads. Ready-to-move-in trailers, spacious for singles and small families. Just a five-minute drive from downtown Hawkins. In tiny font, tiny enough that you need to scrunch your nose and draw your face close to the paper to read it, the ad remarks, No background check or references required. First month’s rent plus deposit due at lease signing.

Forest Hills Trailer Park will clearly be a far cry from what you’ve left behind, but it checks all the necessary boxes, especially the most important ones.

You fold the newspaper, creasing it carefully with your fingernails before tearing bit by bit along that manufactured edge until the advertisement comes free. You’ve just carefully deposited the clipping into your pocket as the food comes, steaming and succulent, making your mouth instantly water. 

“How’s it look?” Your waitress asks as if you aren’t itching to pounce on the plate the second she goes away, devouring your sustenance like a starved animal.

“Looks great,” you assure her, tiny and sweet and small and docile. “Thank you so much.”

But even once she leaves you to it, your manners forbid you from such a thing. You keep your elbows off the table and cut the pancakes with little even saws of your knife, spearing each square daintily with your fork before raising it to your lips. You eat your meal as if everyone around you is watching, even though no one is.

When your waitress returns with a refill for your coffee, you ask her for directions to Hawkins. For the first time, her eyes rove over you, taking in the winter coat you haven’t removed and the glinting silver cross at the base of your throat that peeks above the collar of your starchy dress. She squints at you and asks, “What, ya visitin’ family?”

When you don’t reply, she gestures with the coffee pot. “Take thirty-five west and keep drivin’ ‘til you reach the barn with the cow out front. Then turn left there. Y’can’t miss it.”

The ‘cow out front’ turns out to be a cow statue, bigger than any real cow you’ve ever seen and certainly not one you could miss, as she said. You slow and turn left, finally abandoning the highway for a scenic road lined with pine trees that stand like silent sentinels as you carefully guide your vehicle along the road to… 

Home.

Your new home.

Now that it feels so imminent— this decision you’ve made to build your nest at the feet of the supposed ‘gate of hell’— doubt begins to creep in, freezing at the edges of your ribs and creeping toward your center. You’ve driven more than twelve hours from your origin-place, and America is vast— so vast— with more motels than stars you can count across the expanse of the sky on a clear summer’s night. 

And you’ve set your mind on this place because you saw it in a pamphlet? 

Your fingers tremble as you pass tree after tree, branch after branch, leaf after leaf, a sea of unending forest stretching to enclose you and the road you follow. Might as well’ve spun myself around at the treeline, pointed a finger, and started walking, you think to yourself, the leather of the wheel creaking under your wringing hands. It is one thing to run aimlessly; it is quite another to plop yourself down the same way.

'Trust in the LORD with all your heart; and lean not unto your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct your paths.'

“Proverbs,” you whisper, your trembling beginning to subside with each exhaled word that passes through your lips. “Chapter three, verses five and six.” The fingers of one hand unpeel from the steering wheel to clasp instead around the silver at your throat. And by the time your fingers have warmed the metal, your doubt has calmed, and a sign on the right interrupts the treeline, declaring you’ve arrived. 

Hawkins, Indiana. The forest gives way to typical small-town life, though the evidence of what occurred here almost three years ago is still evident in the divots of scarred earth now frosted over with ice, like sharp gauze packing a wound. Some buildings are in permanent disrepair— collapsed, crumbled, roofs caved in, wood and brick sinking into the earth like sinew and bone, partially covered over by hairy weeds that expose the steady march of time. But as you drive slowly toward the center of town, where is rebuilt is teeming with small-town life, not unlike the place you’ve come from. As the sun begins to wane, warm lights slowly blink on inside cozy split-levels and ranches to take its place. Wives welcome husbands home from work before sitting down for supper; children are called in from the streets as mothers stand in breezeways, dropping bikes to be left abandoned in the frosty grass until tomorrow. Despite the present bleak midwinter and the past tragedy that befell them, life goes on for the people of Hawkins, Indiana. That fact conjures a sense of peace as you wander through, searching idly for Kerley— the road that leads to the trailer park. This is the place described as hosting the gate of hell? As you pass bare cornfields and sleepy suburban streets, Hawkins feels so far from it that your earlier fear seems suddenly silly.

You meander the town in your pastel blue Lincoln until you happen upon Kerley Street. By the time you finally reach the turnoff for Forest Hills Trailer Park, the black of night has fallen like a curtain over the vague rectangular structures that crowd beyond the gravel entrance. Your headlights swing and illuminate a slapdash sign that designates the land manager’s residence, and you’re relieved to see a vague glow seeping through the crack below the door and between the curtains, persistent despite the clear attempts to keep it concealed from the outside world. You park the car and hold onto the doorframe as you emerge onto gravel, which you waver over in your low heels until you reach the stairs at the base of the porch. There’s a cracked flowerpot on the bottom step, but instead of the husks of flowers you expect, it’s loaded with cigarette butts, decaying in layers of paper and used nicotine. 

You stare at the door for a moment before announcing yourself. You’re nervous to be confronted with the unfamiliar person beyond; foreboding clenches in your chest, but it can’t be helped. A rap of your knuckles conjures the man who’d tried so valiantly to hide that he was home. His shirt is dirty, his pants sag, and his shave isn’t close to even; he eyes you wearily as you stand on his stoop. “Locked out?” he asks dully, and you flounder a moment before replying, swallowing to wet your throat and hope your voice stays steady. 

“I don’t live here,” you say, “but… I’m lookin’ to. That is, I saw in the paper you had vacancies—” You shove your hand in your coat pocket and pull out the newspaper clipping, passing it over. The man surveys the ad perfunctorily, one bushy brow quirked. The toothpick between his teeth bobs as he plays with it, his eyes sliding to you as you ask hesitantly, “...Do you still have vacancies?” 

His chuckle comes so fast it’s startling. The sound is raspy, like he needs to clear his throat. “‘Course I have vacancies.” He pulls the toothpick from between his lips, flicking it heedlessly away. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

When you shake your head, he jerks his toward the doorway spilling light across the porch. “Come on, then. Let’s get this done.”

You forget his name almost as soon as he tells you, but your land manager seems nice enough. Brusque, sure, but harmless as you sign the papers and pay for the first month’s rent. He waives the deposit— literally waves your words away like irritating wings are fluttering near his ear— and explains, “Place is mostly unfurnished, but you got a bed at least.” 

You can’t do anything but stand there stock still as he tells you your house number— seven— and drops the key into your open palm. “Don’t bother callin’ me f’somethin’ breaks. I’m useless at plumbin’ and ‘lectrical. You’ll need to call someone in the profession.” You curl your fingers over cold metal, and the grooves of the key bite your palm as he wags a finger at you. “Y’lose your key, it’ll cost you a fiver to replace.” He waits until you’ve nodded enough to satisfy him, and then he sends you on your way, closing himself away again. The light leaking from the crevices is extinguished by the time you reach your car door.

You guide your car carefully along the gravel path, driving past darkened trailers, past a red dome made of bars and a picnic table, past a trailer with a caved-in roof you stare at as you pass. A great crack churned up the porch floorboards, and between them now sprout tall, dry, brittle grass made feeble by winter’s bite. There's a streetlight nearby, but it's broken; the moonlight that plays on the dilapidated structure makes you shiver. Still, there isn’t much time to react before you’re at your place. Your trailer is a carbon copy of the well-kept rectangular box beside it, except the other has a chain-link fenced-in yard at the front. A clothesline denotes the edge of your side yard from your neighbors’. 

As you cut the engine, the world goes quiet. You sit in the stillness, and for a moment, there’s just you, your car, and your new home beyond a scraggly dirt yard.

You think of the other places you’d called home before your temporary motel rooms. You think first of your childhood home, and your mouth fills with peaches, with the hollowness of piano keys and the rich dirt from under the wraparound porch. You think of that tall white house, where your delighted shrieks echoed through warm wood hallways as you ran out the back door toward the stables beyond. Your clumsy fingers had carved your name over your bedroom door in elementary scrawl. Pa’d been so angry when you did that, but he relented and ruffled your hair in the end, shaking his head. He always was too fond of you.

Then you think of the home you could call your own— not your parents’, but yours. Yours and Paul’s. Stately, proud, with more of a brick landing than a porch leading up to the dark oak door. Inside are gauzy curtains and rich wallpaper; plump pillows line the couches just so, and the servers display decorative crystal. As you remember, your mouth fills with powdered sugar and water lilies, the gloss of fine china and the silk of ruffled bed skirts. But there’s metal on the back of your tongue, the copper acrid and biting as it overwhelms the rest. You shudder a breath, breaking from your recollections to finally emerge from the car and face your newest home.

In the moonlight, you can see that it also has a porch, but it’s sagging. You mount its stairs, and they’re rickety, creaking under your heels. Inside, when the screen door cracks back into place behind you, the interior of number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park feels like a void of stillness. The light switch flickers erratically before coming to life when you nudge it with your fingertip as if it hasn’t been called to do its job for quite some time. A long narrow hallway directly across from you leads into darkness, with a living room on your right and a kitchen on your left. All of what you can see is empty aside from a thick layer of dust coating the window frames, which are cracked with dried paint, the drips of sloppy workmanship forever preserved in lacquer. There’s mildew growing at the corner of the wall in the living room, and you hesitate to explore it further, opting to head left instead.

At the threshold of the front door, you’d landed on a filthy, matted-down rug. You clack forward with hesitant steps as if afraid to disturb anything, as if this is someone else’s place, not yours. When you edge into the kitchen, cautiously pulling open the refrigerator door, the cold air leaking from inside is reassuring. But when it suddenly kicks and rattles as if sick or angry, the sound makes you tense and jerk away quickly. It’s empty in this room, too— every drawer and cabinet is barren when you tug them open, aside from the dried corpses of flies mounded in a strange pile on the linoleum in front of the kitchen sink. At least the land manager said there’s a bed. Vague unease begins to well in your chest; you hurry down that dark, narrow hallway, flicking the switch as you pass, but nothing changes. The light does not come on. In the back room, the bed is nothing more than the vague lump of a mattress, lonely on the floor. 

The screen door snaps closed behind you as you rush back down the rickety porch stairs. When faced with the choice, you elect to wrap yourself in your scratchy Kentucky blanket, your winter coat, and some extra socks to sleep in the Lincoln despite the bleak midwinter.

Because number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park trips off your tongue; it doesn’t taste like home.

The sun streams cheery light through the windshield, and you wake at just after six, mouth dry as cotton weeds. Your back and neck are sore, cricked from their position against the headrest all night, and the muscles spasm when you stir. You rub your bleary eyes clear, holding your palms against your lashes as if reluctant to remove them and see the state of your new home as it was last night. Eventually, you relent; in the light of day, you peek again at the worn trailer with its gray siding, faded and covered with moss at the concrete base, that rickety porch, and the dull brass knocker concealed behind the screen door… 

You take a moment to consider but can’t decide if it’s any better in the light of day.

With a handful of your stolen toiletries, you venture back inside, and the screen door makes you jump as it snaps closed while you’re standing closeby. Your heart hammers, blood rushing in your ears, and you chastise yourself lightly once it calms. I have to remember to lower the door closed, otherwise people’re gonna get mad with me making such a racket in the morning. 

A quick glance past that closed door you hadn’t explored yesterday reveals that the bathroom is in a bad state, so you avoid it aside from what’s necessary. You brush your teeth at the kitchen sink, setting the toiletries— tiny bottles and sachets of soap— in a carefully-laid line along the side, conscientiously avoiding the pile of flies near the toes of your kitten heels. With minty freshness on your breath, you feel finally awake, and it’s clear what your first order of business should be: getting this place spic and span. No use living in a pigsty, as mama would say.

You take a moment to survey the trailer more carefully, walking in circles around the living room, the kitchen, and the singular bedroom as you peek into nooks and crannies and compile a mental list of the supplies you’ll need. You move gingerly as if you still do not want to disturb this place, though it’s not quite as foreboding as it was last night. 

It’s just an empty box, after all.

You don’t bother unloading the rest of your meager belongings before driving into town for your cleaning supplies and other essentials: bedding and bath towels and cooking utensils and furniture to provide you with somewhere to sit and eat. It hits you then, as the ranches and yards subside into businesses and parking lots, how little you truly have. How much you’d relied on others before, how much you’d taken for granted.

Downtown Hawkins in the daytime is a bustle of quaint activity. The streets aren’t overly crowded because the town is not overly populated, but you can take your time perusing the shops you drive past. And you do— your eyes scan them almost desperately as you try to stamp down on the feeling rising inside that writhes in the pit of your stomach. A video store. An arcade. A laundromat. None of use to you right now, though the laundromat has you thinking of the dress you’re wearing, the way it pinches your arms and pulls tight around your stomach as you drive. You’d managed to ignore the feeling during your flight, but now—gasping and huffing on the comedown as you stop running, and with the enormity of your situation looming before you— the writhing is spreading from your stomach to your chest, pressing outward as if you’ll burst, and the wardrobe you’ve been wearing for months now is finally beginning to suffocate you.

Seeing the thrift store feels like a gust of fresh air has been breathed directly into your lungs, and you don’t even need to ponder it before parking and throwing the car door open to access the backseat. After all, there is no reason to endure any longer; no one is stopping you now. So you dump the contents of your two trash bags onto the Lincoln’s backseat and the remnants of your old life spill over onto the floor. Almost detachedly, you sort the contents into ‘keep’ and ‘sell’ piles; you keep your undergarments and pantyhose and shoes, and you stuff all the dresses— all their linen and gauze and luxurious cotton, all their structured hems and nipped waists and darted busts— into the trash bags to be sold.

If the employee behind the counter is surprised to see the quality of the items you’re selling, more suited to a department than a thrift store, he doesn’t show it. Calmly, you pull out each dress, laying the fabric out carefully before you slide it over the counter towards him. As the garments emerge from your trash bags, their associated occasions flash in your mind. The yellow gingham you’d often wear when visiting family. The pink peony was often seen in your kitchen, protected by an apron covered in flour. The blue linen, one of your old favorites, makes you think of Sunday mass. All get passed to the man on the other side of the counter, all but one that sticks in your memory, left laid against the bedspread back in Georgia. 

The man examines each dress and punches staccato numbers into a calculator with the eraser of his number two pencil until they’re all gone from you, and in their place is a wad of bills you can use to shop for a new wardrobe.

If the employee behind the counter finds it strange that you’ve sold your department store dresses to buy thrift store ones, he doesn’t show it.

Gathering your replacements doesn’t take long because you know exactly what you want. Your new wardrobe should be modest and comfortable, comprised of a practical assortment of casual dresses and cardigans, a couple of nicer frocks for your Sunday best, and some loungewear for the house, including a bathrobe that makes your cheeks burn when it slides across the counter toward that same employee from before. After making your purchases, you carry the plastic bag into the dressing room, slipping behind the velvet curtain and pulling one casual dress out at random.

You rip down the tiny zipper on the starchy dress you've been wearing since yesterday, and the release of pressure is bliss. Though the cotton of your new dress is a little scratchier than what you’d been wearing before, you don’t hesitate in kicking the old fabric aside before gazing at yourself in the mottled thrift store mirror. 

The new dress buttons up past your decolletage. It’s almost long enough to skim your ankles, and it is at least one size too big, maybe two. It looks more fitting for a forty-year-old than your twenty-one years; some might even call it frumpy. But it’s what you want.

Because when you think about the clothes you’d been wearing— think about how, over the last year, your breasts and hips and thighs and stomach had gradually broadened, softened, begun to press uncomfortably against the fabric even after your mother had let out the seams as far as they could go— frumpy doesn’t compare with what you’d experienced.

You remember the sympathy in Paul’s tawny brow as he stared down at you. ‘No, Buttercup, I’m sorry. Think of it as an incentive,’ he’d said kindly when you’d asked for an allowance to purchase bigger clothes. ‘I’m just trying to help you.’ You remember how the ladies in town could see the way the beautifully tailored dresses, once so flattering, now bulged and bunched around the heft of your changing body, especially around your midsection. And you knew, though they were always too polite to say it, that when you gathered with them after church or ran into them at the grocery store, they couldn’t help but glance at your tummy and wonder if you were pregnant. But you weren’t pregnant. You were just…

Fat.

The reflection in the mirror suddenly doesn’t feel like you. That’s not your soft jaw; those aren’t your round cheeks. Your dress wouldn’t balloon so far outward over your breasts and stomach, and your thighs wouldn’t rub together because that isn’t you. But those are your eyes, and your hair, and your lips and fingers. And when you twist to look at your backside, so does she; when you smooth your palms over your ample hips, she does too. So she must be you.

You just wish she wasn’t.

You pull your attention from your body and focus instead on your dress, trying to detach from that knowledge again. The important part is that this dress doesn’t restrict or cling or reveal any unsavory lumps and bumps, and that’s what you want. You pull on some woolen stockings and a loose cardigan since it is still January, and after sliding on your low heels once again, you leave the thrift store behind.

You can run from that dressing room— can slip back into your car, load the new plastic bag into the backseat and coax the engine to life— but you cannot run from your feelings. And seeing yourself in the mirror has left you hollow and wanting, exposing the void inside that begs to be filled in that familiar way, the way you’ve grown used to over the last year. Your kitchen at home may be bare, but from beyond your windshield, you can see what will help you fill it. There’s a bright spot down the road and across the way in the lot beside the general store.

Miss Daisy’s Diner.

As you leave your purchases behind in the car, your eyes glaze over the help wanted sign written in beautiful script in the diner window; you’re more focused on filling that hollow place inside you. And inside Miss Daisy’s Diner is more than enough to satisfy the ache.

There isn’t just the promise of good food waiting for you at Miss Daisy’s. There’s the scent of grease and salt on the air, sure, but there’s something else there too. Something that beckons you forward, light and almost ticklish, like the heat of panting breath, the softness of a furry ear dragging under your chin to the tip until it flicks off. Before you know it, you’ve taken two steps forward, and a waitress in a swish of skirts and a flick of her manicured nails has plucked a single menu from the stand.

“One?” she asks, chipper as you nod. “Booth or table?”

“Table,” you answer, and she leads you to one. 

She leaves you with the menu, but you don’t yet look at it, consumed by the crowded atmosphere around you. The restaurant seems almost suspended in time with its black and white tiled floor, the retro-patterned tabletops, the chrome, the beveled glass windows, the teal and white booths and chairs that squeak with vinyl when you adjust in your seat. The walls are loaded with pictures and posters, memorabilia of the 50s and 60s: Coca-Cola bottles, old cars, Elvis and Marilyn, novelty signs advertising products for cents on the dollar. The effect is charming, made even more so when you realize that each table, including yours, is decorated with a white daisy in a glass of water. Somehow, the interior of this restaurant feels jubilant and comforting, like the bright joy of Easter, even though it’s January. Maybe that has something to do with how full it is— though it’s around ten o’clock on a Thursday, the place is no less than three-quarters full.

“Hey there, dear. You decide what you want yet?”

The croak interrupts your reminiscing, and you startle upon seeing a different woman than the one who’d brought you here— older, with gray hair coiffed into a beehive and pink lipstick crackled on her lips. “Oh!” You are immediately repentant. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I haven’t looked yet.”

The woman snorts, but it’s all in good humor. “Ma’am,” she echoes you, though where yours was respectful, hers is slightly sardonic. “No need to go reminding me I’m old, dear.” You crackle with nerves, but she grins at you with slightly yellowed teeth. “I’ll come back when you’re ready. Just flag me down, all right?”

You manage a nod, nerves easing as she taps the table with her wrinkled hand and leaves you to it.

The menu is not overly vast, but it takes some time to decide what will fill that void you feel, what you’re really yearning for. In the end, you settle on a Reuben sandwich with french fries and a chocolate milkshake. Though all the waitresses are dressed the same here to fit the theme, you’re grateful for your waitress’s distinctive beehive as you catch her attention, peeking at the nametag she has pinned to the right of her collar when she arrives. ‘Sherry,’ it reads, and oddly, there’s a little doodle of a shamrock beside it which looks to be drawn on in permanent marker.

“Comin’ right up, sweetie,” she promises you.

“Thank you, m—” you swallow the ‘ma’am,’ and Sherry’s smile widens as she wags a finger at you.

“Watch it, you; I heard that,” she says, her voice a croaking tease. “Don’t you start.”

You giggle, and when she leaves you again, it isn’t just the promise of food that makes you feel better.

The sandwich comes quicker than you expected, considering how busy it is, and it's delicious: creamy Russian dressing, salty corned beef and mild Swiss sliced thin, piled together with tart sauerkraut. The outside of the bread is grilled crisp and not too greasy, and the fries are hot and crunchy, a perfect balance with the thick, sweet coldness of your milkshake. It’s perfect; you couldn’t have asked for more.

As you eat, you watch the waitresses flit about in their matching yellow dresses with white collars, aprons, and cuffs, gathering behind the bar counter when not visiting their tables or pushing through the swinging doors to the kitchen. You watch them laugh and chat with one another, and it pricks at something familiar inside you. It’s been years now, but you still remember what it feels like to flit from table to table, to smile and serve, to share in that camaraderie behind the bar, though the place where you’d done it was nothing like this. 

Once you’ve thoroughly cleaned your plate, Sherry stops by again just as the jukebox kicks on to play Baby I’m Yours by Barbara Louis.

“How was it?” she asks, and you tell her it was very good. “Any room for more?” She follows up, eyeing your empty plate, and there’s a sudden hot flash of shame, a moment where you think she might turn wolfish. But her tone and expression remain nothing but sincere, so it wanes. Still, you hedge on an answer, deliberating whether to accept the offer.

She notices your hesitation and perks her brows, coaxing, “We’ve got a mean pecan pie.” A little encouraging smile plays on her crackled lips. “Sounds like that might be right up your alley, judging by your accent.”

It is true— you love pecan pie. And that void was lessened by your meal but not quite filled. So you accept, and Sherry brings you the slice.

And you think maybe this is what does it— this slice of pecan pie. The crust all golden brown, the pecans placed so carefully on top, the filling gooey but not falling into a gelatinous heap upon the plate. Your sandwich had been so good, and your milkshake, too, and this, now— this just looks so good.

You take a bite of the mean pecan pie, and it is not good.

You chew slowly, nose scrunched, brow furrowed just slightly. It’s not… horrible. But it’s not good. Certainly not as good as the pecan pie at home.

Miss Daisy’s Diner is so inviting inside, suspended in time, straight out of the glossy world of dreams. The chrome is shiny, the teal booths pleasant, and each table is adorned with a single daisy. The doo-wop of the jukebox mixes with the hum of conversation; the waitresses in their yellow dresses laugh with patrons as they fill up their coffee mugs and emerge from those swinging doors with plates loaded with delicious food. But the pie isn’t delicious, and you would hazard a guess, as you crane your neck to peek at the display of cakes and muffins beneath the far end of the bar, that the rest of their baked goods are the same way: good-looking under the lights, but nothing compared to what you’re used to.

Nothing compared to what you can do.

'Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.'

When Sherry stops by the table to ask if she can get you anything else, your reply comes swift and easy. “I saw the sign in your window. Are y’all still hiring?”

It’s a quick affair, becoming a waitress at Miss Daisy’s Diner. 

When you ask that question, Sherry’s brows flash, but she sits across from you right away, crossing her legs smartly as she asks you a series of quick questions. You used to work at the restaurant in a country club back home, and though it’s been a few years now, you know how to answer them all sufficiently. That kind of knowledge— the knowledge you gain from experience— never really leaves you. When you finish, she looks at you discerningly before shrugging. “Well, y’seem alright to me. Just wait here. I’ll get Willy.” She pauses half out of her chair as if a thought has just occurred to her. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Emma,” you tell her, and despite the croak of her lungs, your name flows like molasses off Sherry’s tongue when she repeats it back to you.

Willy is the owner of Miss Daisy’s Diner, and he looks nothing like the ‘Miss Daisy’ pictured on the menu. Where she appears crisp and plucky, Willy is doughy and lax. You learn that there is no real Miss Daisy, though Willy jokes, "All my chickadees here are Miss Daisy. That’s why they dress alike." He doesn’t even interview you after learning Sherry already talked to you; apparently, that’s good enough for him. Instead, he just rambles about scheduling, uniforms, and payroll, speaking in slow circles that loop back and around again until Sherry cuts him off.

“I’ll get her up to speed, Willy,” she says, and his face splits with a lazy smile. 

“Sher’ll get you trained up,” he concludes as if it was his idea.

He begins to turn from the table, and you pipe up before he can leave. “When can I start?” 

Willy shrugs lazily, looking towards his employee. “Tomorrow?” he offers, and Sherry concurs, and that is that.

When you leave Miss Daisy’s Diner, your Lincoln is parked down the street where you left it, the white plastic bag of your new clothes visible through the backseat window. When you get in, your pillow and blanket are beside you, reminding you of the lumpy mattress and the pile of dead flies that need to be tidied. Your original goal for the day still looms ahead.

But, God, you aren’t complaining. You swear it. Because Hawkins is a refuge, and you have a job, and the bleeding finally stopped this morning. And there’s security in the first chore you’ve decided to begin your new life with. You’re intimately acquainted with mopping, dusting, and scrubbing, having learned to clean well in the last three years. While you don’t particularly enjoy it, there’s comfort in making something dirty into something clean. By tomorrow, your trailer will no longer be a pigsty, and maybe you’ll sleep in your bed tonight. Tomorrow, you get to go back to Miss Daisy’s Diner, back to Sherry and the jukebox and the flowers on the tables, and maybe you’ll be laughing behind the bar this time.

‘For I know the thoughts that I think concerning you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you the end that you wait for.’

Thank you, Father.

In the few days following your first day in Hawkins, you learn many things. You learn that the daisies on the tables of Miss Daisy’s Diner are made of fabric and wire, and the water is dried glue. You learn that Willy— given name Wilbur— might own the place, but the girls run it. You learn that the coffee maker sometimes doesn’t spit out water unless you smack it hard and that you won’t get a shiny nametag to match the others until Willy orders one from a special shop, which may take a while. You learn that the yellow dresses and aprons might look cute, but they aren’t all that comfortable, though Sherry kindly accommodated your request for the largest size she could get. It's not quite as big as the dresses you'd picked for yourself, but she did her best.

Still, these cracks in the facade of Miss Daisy’s don’t make it any less charming to you. The pace is hectic, and though each restaurant has its own way of doing things, you fall back into that ebb and flow quickly with the help of all the girls, who don’t hesitate to welcome you into the herd. That’s another thing that helps— the waitresses are all kind and helpful, though more curious about you than you’d prefer, sniffing at your hair and shoes when you aren't looking. It becomes apparent very quickly that they’re all the same: goats who bleat at one another across the floor and nibble at the strings of one another’s aprons in friendly affection, yours included. You aren’t quite one of them, but they don’t seem to notice.

You can’t hide your accent, of course, so they know you're not from around here. There’s always that awareness in a small town— even your tables ask you about it. You remain vague about your past, reserved but polite with your coworkers and charming with your customers, treating them with hospitality just like mama raised you. The beatitudes guide your manner: meek and humble, righteous and merciful, pure of heart and generous. A peacemaker, bringing harmony to those around you. 

It’s almost enough to make you think you might have white wool after all, though you can’t quite shake the raven feathers that shudder when you return home to your nest with its barren sticks and its piles of stolen trinkets you gathered on your flight to Hawkins. That’s why you spend as much time as you can at work, soothed by the dulcet tones of the jukebox as you flit from table to bar to kitchen and back again until all begins to feel familiar and comforting.

Safe.

By the end of your first week, you’ve also grown accustomed to the back of the house. Even the sight of Harry, the line cook, begins to comfort you. He is large, broad-shouldered and thick, but his movements are measured and gentle, set with a pace that speaks assurance that things will get done when they get done. In fact, his movements are so predictable that every time you shuffle through the swinging doors into the kitchen at the start of your shift, you anticipate the repetitive sound of his thick bull hands scraping the spatula slow and even as he works the cooktop. 

So the sight that greets you now as you catch the door from Sherry is quite jarring. 

Before the cooktop stands a man who is both shorter and thinner than Harry but somehow far more imposing. He’s angular and jagged, frenetic in his movements: booted foot tapping tile, elbow jutting sharp as he jerks the spatula, a wild mess of curls shaking as his head bobs exaggeratedly. And the sound of the kitchen isn’t at all soothing in his presence. There’s some kind of tinny howling coming from him, some unholy noise that nearly makes you halt at the threshold of the swinging doors before you realize it’s coming from underneath his hair and not from him, exactly. You quickly spot the thin cord running down to the tape player clipped to his tight dark pants, though the handkerchief swaying at his hip— old and spilling loose threads, black and white and emblemed with eerie skulls— has your nerves kicking up again just as quickly.

Sherry’s voice is hoarse from smoke and age but, to your surprise, not filled with even a hint of the same nerves as she greets the man. “Afternoon, Ed,” she says, sounding almost fond as she shouts to be heard above the music. 

Almost instantly, the headphones are jerked down to hang around his neck, and when the man spins abruptly from the cooktop to face you both, your chest clenches again. His voice is brash and warm, mouth split wide to flash his eyeteeth as his gaze finds your coworker quickly. “Afternoon, Sher,” he says, mimicking her fond inflection, a teasing grin dimpling the corner of his plush pink lips. “How’s my best girl?”

Your eyes quickly dart from him to Sherry and then back, face frozen so as not to reveal your reaction: a mixture of wariness and confusion since he looks almost thirty years younger than her. Sherry just rolls her eyes and purses her lips, which are crackled with deep pink lipstick. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all your best girl, aren’t we, Eddie?” It’s said with long-suffering sarcasm like this exchange is akin to slipping on an old pair of shoes— worn in and comfortably molded to one’s foot. 

The man, Eddie, doesn’t reply, though his smile does widen. Sherry nods your way but addresses him. “This is the new girl. Be nice,” she warns, wagging a gnarled finger.

“Whaddya mean, Sher? I’m always nice.” Eddie huffs through his nose, showily stretching his arms above his head and holding his clothed elbows as his eyes slide to you. Yours dip to the dark stains beneath his pits, the evidence of his toil and sweat that begs the question of why he’d be wearing long sleeves if he’s that hot. “Hello, new girl,” he says lightly, and his voice hums like there’s a secret joke he’s holding back from laughing at.

The cock of his hip, the sharpness of his limbs, the narrowness of his waist where the apron is tied hastily, the stretch of his ribcage against the dirty long-sleeved shirt, the tilt of his lips— it hits you suddenly what he is, just as suddenly as you’d realized that Sherry and the girls are bleating goats and Harry is a gentle bull.

This man is a coyote.

Suddenly, that feeling of safety is threatened. What else could explain that rush of tingling awareness pricking up your neck when he acknowledges your presence, if not the fear that a predator is near?

Instinct drives a prey animal when confronted in such a way. You’ve seen it yourself back at home: hens clucking and skittering in the dirt when they sense a fox, horses swaying uneasily in their stalls when a wolf prowls the woods beyond the paddock. And like a prey animal, your body can either freeze or flee. It chooses the latter. 

You squeak out some semblance of a greeting— even fear can’t entirely overwhelm the graces you’ve been taught— and hurry around Sherry to duck into Willy’s office. You want to close the door, to wedge a physical barrier between yourself and those dark eyes and flashing white teeth, but you resist the urge knowing Sherry will be coming in right behind you, and the gesture is not only futile but potentially rude. 

You’re tying your apron when she enters, and she catches your eyes immediately when you look up. Sherry purses her lips at the sight of your flushed cheeks and wide eyes; she chuckles, but there’s an edge of sympathy. “Oh, come on now, dear," she consoles you. “Eddie might look some type of way, but he doesn’t bite.” Her wrinkled eyes soften as she regards you, the tease in her voice gentling as she adds, “He’s a good boy.”

You force a smile, but her assurances can’t dispel the goosebumps prickling along your flesh. They don’t calm your trembling fingers as they slip your notepad into your white apron, smoothing along scratchy cotton afterward as if attempting to press out the bulge it makes against the front of your body. Your body whispers danger and your mind does, too. And if the spirit guides the flesh, then you know you feel this way for a reason. 

Sherry’s platitudes are no match for instinct and belief.

After your initial spook, your shift progresses much the same as any other. You greet your tables, fetch them drinks, faithfully record their orders, deliver their plates, ask them if they need ketchup or hot sauce, chit-chat just a tad, drop the check, and bid them ‘have a good day now,’ parting with a smile. Your voice doesn’t even waver when you push open those double doors; your call of ‘corner’ is sweet and stable, less tremulous than how you began earlier this week. The only time fear squeezes your chest is when you must clip up your tickets. Because that means you’ll have to approach the coyote, draw near to his jagged elbows, those dark, angular legs, and the abundance of curls that cling damply to the edges of his pale jaw and conceal his expression from your view. At least facing Eddie’s back or side is considerably easier than his front; luckily, he’s so thoroughly occupied by the cooktop that he doesn’t acknowledge you before you scamper off. Your fear becomes a predictable wave: with each step toward him, your chest tightens, and with each step away, you feel the clench begin to ease. 

You’ve just swung returned to the floor, loose and nearly chipper, when Samantha hurries over, holding a loaded plate, her ponytail and yellow skirts swishing as she skids to a stop before you. “Emma! There you are.” She beams brightly, and the words huff out of her as if just the sight of you is a relief. It makes you feel warm inside, and that warmth blooms in the smile you answer her with before asking, 

“Is that mine?” 

You look down at the plate as she nods, noting that the steak has just barely been cut on the corner, not even all the way through. “It’s from table four. She wants it cooked a little more. More like medium-well,” she explains, and you take the plate without a thought.

“Sure thing,” you say, and it isn’t until you’ve pushed back through those swinging doors into the kitchen that you realize what this task will require.

Your throat dries as you approach Eddie, eyes darting over the white of his shirt, how the fabric has gone somewhat translucent where it sticks to the planes of his back. His shoulders roll as he stretches to the side to reach a hoagie roll without moving his feet, which still tap along with the rhythm coming from the headphones slung around his neck. The sound of howling has since subsided to resonant thumping and the faint melody of some screeching instrument, which grows clearer as you edge closer with your plate. 

Closer and closer still you draw until you can detect the faint scent of sour sweat, pungent smoke, and something earthy as the coyote turns his head back to the cooktop, still oblivious to your presence. You halt then, feet sticking as your clenched chest whispers that you’ve come close enough. Eddie continues to load chopped beef, peppers, and onions into the hoagie roll, and you hover some steps away until his chin happens to edge left, and he catches you in his peripheral.

His long eyelashes flick up as his gaze flashes to you, eyebrows jerking in mild acknowledgment, mouth soft and slack. The eye contact makes you hasty; you push out your voice and plate together, squeaking, “Can you cook this more? …Please?” You tack the pleasantry on, nudging your elbows forward as if urging him to take the plate as quickly as possible.

You want him to take the plate, but still, you must resist a flinch when his hand outstretches to receive it from you. His palm is broad, with callouses dotting along the meatiest sections, and his fingers are long and ruddy at the tips. Your breath hitches at the sight of his hand’s approach, but all Eddie does is grasp the plate. As soon as his fingers close around its edge, you snatch yours back toward the safety of your body. “Thank you,” you say, and you hazard a glance at his face.

A dimple forms on Eddie’s cheek as he grins, and his voice is warm and brash when he meets your eye and replies, “For you, sweetness? Anytime.”

And then he winks, a quick flash of those long lashes to conceal a sparkling brown iris. 

Such a small thing, really, to say and to do. Thrown just as casually as a smile for a stranger who holds the door for you, just a brief moment of banter between coworkers as they cross paths in the diner kitchen. 

But the swell of emotion Eddie’s words and wink conjures within you is not a small thing. You jerk away from him, a fierce spasm of your muscles to match the fist of fear that seizes you tightly and shakes you until you’re left trembling. The feeling is visible all over your body— in the tightening of your arms against your middle, the shrinking of your shoulders, the blanching of your face, the quiver of your lower lip, the widening of your wet eyes.

The sudden violence of your reaction clearly shocks him. Instantly, Eddie’s spine straightens, and his face falls. Those dark eyes go wide to match yours, confusion sinking into ruefulness as your back begins to bow— feet planted but spine arching, upper body inching back as if your only desire is to get away from him. All the warm brashness in his voice has deflated as he stutters, “Look, I– I was just— I’m—”

Had he gotten it out, would it have been an apology? An explanation? Would it have put you at ease, unclenched that feeling inside? Who’s to say. Because desperate to repair, to stop your backward flight, Eddie reaches out a hand toward you again. Soft, palm upturned, fingers slack. An entreaty to stay and let him fix things. Suddenly and acutely, your wrist aches at the approach of his palm; with that shock of pain, your freeze finally turns to flight.

In a burst of white and yellow, you skitter and spin toward the swinging doors, leaving your predator behind.

It’s a temporary balm, of course. You cannot avoid the coyote in the kitchen forever. After all, you have a steak to retrieve. This is your responsibility, and though the temptation to ask Samantha to fetch it for you is there, you know it would be wrong to give in to that impulse.

Out of the kitchen, in the front of the house, Miss Daisy’s Diner carries on as if nothing has happened. All is calm; all is bright. You hear the familiar clinking of utensils against ceramic, the swish of yellow skirts and the squeak of sneakers, the bleating of the girls mixed with the crackly doo-wop of the jukebox. Someone has put on Try Me by James Brown, and you whisper the words along with him as you shake off the tension like feathers ruffling to wick off water. ‘Try me,’ ‘hold me,’ ‘need you,’ you sing, the words repeating over and over like the lazy spin of a record on the turnstile. The slow beat eases you back into the rhythm of the floor as you steal precious minutes before you must return to the kitchen.

When you can delay it no longer, you edge back through those doors, breathing slowly to keep yourself from turning away as you anticipate the sight of his body, angular and jagged, coiled tight. But the slope of the coyote’s shoulders is low, and the frenetic swaying of his hips is still now. The howling has quieted, and the jerking of his spatula is slow, slow like Harry’s, which you’re used to. It helps to ease your cautious steps as you reach him, stopping a short distance away. You can see that the plate of your steak is prepared for you to retrieve it, resting on the counter just on the other side of him.

It doesn’t take as long for Eddie to notice you this time, and your chest threatens to clench when his chin turns your way. You try to push out a reminder of what you need. “C-can you—”

Eddie doesn’t make you ask. “Yeah,” he interrupts, “No problem.” 

The three words do not sound angry or sad; they do not sound like much of anything, really. His mouth does not open wide to say them. Instead, his white teeth hide behind his pink lips as he passes you the plate with no other words exchanged between you. And as soon as you receive it, Eddie turns his face away.

Each successive visit to the kitchen that afternoon proves the truth of the matter. Since that first encounter, the coyote’s tail has since been tucked between his legs. The points of his teeth have been filed, and with them, over the course of those hours, your fear of his bite finally begins to ease.

So why, then, does your wrist still ache? 

chapter two: I'll be seeing you is coming soon.

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#blueywrites #new skin #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x plus size reader #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader fluff #linecook!eddie #stranger things fanfiction #st fanfic

[seat-safety-switch]

I assume that engineers are very busy, and so they don’t necessarily have time to make the things they design serviceable. I get it – you’re not building a masterpiece to survive all of eternity, you’re just doing your job. You’re over here, working on the radiator and cooling program, this other guy is doing the radiator support, and the mid-senior-junior-vice-president electromechanical engineer down the hall is up to her neck in work trying to figure out how to mount the horns in a way that doesn’t anger the crash testers.

The chances that the three of you, collectively, slow your productivity shit way down – or worse, have a meeting – to make it easier to reach the electrical connector for that horn so you can remove it without cutting your hands on the fins of the air-conditioning condenser are about negative one billion percent. That would be preposterous – horns don’t break, right? Tell that to the dumpster-dove Spider-Man bandages that I have applied to my right hand because of your shortsighted design decisions.

And your boss isn’t gonna show up and demand repairability become a priority. No, your boss gets paid because people buy cars, and people will stop buying cars if the car lasts forever. Even if they jam an Android tablet in the dash sideways and start making the wheels bigger. Hell, my neighbour is still booting around in a 1994 Camry XLE, and the minute he expresses even the slightest subconscious desire to be rid of it, he will have a lawn full of folks offering top dollar for such an esteemed chariot. Toyota probably would have gone bankrupt back then making shit like this, if they hadn’t had all those trucks to sell to terrorist organizations in distant foreign wars. Those guys are gonna have to buy a new truck every couple of months when their old one gets shot up, so it’s okay to make those super-durable.

All I’m asking for is that you think once in awhile about making a bolt accessible. It’s not hard, just make sure they drill a hole over top of it, so that I can stick a nice long socket in there when the captive nut on the other end breaks off and just spins forever. Even though you might have a good day at work because of taking a shortcut like that, I guarantee you that the massive amounts of bad karma I am heaping upon your name while intermittently sobbing in my garage are not worth it. You’ll get reincarnated as a lighting engineer.

[silverstrayz]

Starscream: "Knockout! I have been unable to reach you for the past 2 cycles! Need I remind you, as the deceptions only medic you should remain aboard the ship unless I order you otherwise......If I find out you've been street racing with the humans again?!"

KO: "Relax, it was just a casual drive, Commander Starscream."

Starscream: "Is that so?"

(Soundwave walks up behind Starscream, resulting in attention from the duo)

Starscream: "Is there something you'd like to add Soundwave?"

(Soundwaves visor displays a video from a dash camera mounted inside a police cruiser traveling the back roads. The cruiser makes its way around a curve when 6 cars traveling the opposite direction blow past it in a split second. Soundwave pauses and then rewinds frame by frame before pausing again. In the still image is a familiar looking red car. Starscream turns and his eyes lock with KOs. KO glances at Soundwave.)

KO: "Well, aren't you full of tricks."

Starscream: "You have disobeyed my orders yet again Knockout! You. will. pay. dearly."

KO: 😳

Thank-you for reading my little story, please don't take or use my artwork. 😙

Close up, cause why not?

#knockout tfp #transformers knockout #knockout #tfp #tfp knockout #transformers prime #decepticons

[march-hare01]

Article by: GTHO bible

“It was love at first sight,” is how Gary Thompson remembers the night he saw his 1970 Falcon GTHO Phase Two for the first time.

“It was up on stands on the lot at John Gigante Motors on Parramatta Road in Croydon,” reminisces Gary today from his home in Mount Annan, New South Wales.

“My friend Paul Bianco and I were headed to the ‘brickies’ for some street racing action.

We had just driven by when the bright orange of the car caught my eye, and we immediately turned around to go drool over it,” remembers Gary. “They wanted around $4,200 for it. The salesman didn’t mind letting a 21 year old behind the wheel of such a powerful beast either!” After the road test, Gary talked turkey with the salesman clinching a deal that afternoon which included a then nine month old Electric Blue 351 XY Falcon 500. “They gave me $3,000 as a trade-in,” smiles Gary. This was fifty one years ago back in 1972, and the barely one-year old Falcon GTHO was just out of warranty and had just been traded-in by its first owner.

*** I’LL NEVER FORGET THE NIGHT THE FLYWHEEL EXPLODED THROUGH THE BONNET! ***

“I’d had the Phase Two for just ten days when my good mate Paul who was the test driver for Jack Brabham Ford where we both worked, lined me up to race his peppermint green Lotus twin-cam Mk1 Escort.” “We’d taken off in a symphony of noise, dust and wheel spin.I was revving the HO to 7,200rpm in 1st gear when I clutched to change to 2nd gear. We were flat out side by side on Newbridge Road at Moorebank, it was just before midnight.”“There was a loud bang! Then everything went pitch black.”“I had no headlights, and no dash lights. The electricals had been cut completely.” “Thunder struck, here I was doing 70 mile per hour trying to steer the big Falcon in complete darkness as I slammed on the brakes.My foot went straight to the floorboards and it took me a second to register that I was steering a runaway freight train!” tells Gary as he relives those harrowing frightening moments gripping the thin steering wheel with white knuckles whilst attempting to pull up a ton and a half of an out of control hunk of metal. If anybody had been watching this event unfold, they would have heard a loud explosion, and witnessed pieces of flywheel shrapnel explode through a bulging bonnet, and sparks coming from under the car where the rear of the engine block was tearing up the road. The gearbox bellhousing had also taken leave with the exploding flywheel, leaving Gary with a gearbox full of neutrals. “I was about a kilometre down the road before I came to a stop.”“Paul’s Escort had also suffered shrapnel wounds lodged from projectile bits of the flywheel embedded in his door panels.”“My ten day old car looked like it had been struck by lightning.”“It’s bonnet bulged upwards with a huge gaping hole where 20 ounces of flywheel had exited like an Apollo 11 rocket. The engine was now pointing skywards pressing against the underside of the bonnet.” A tow truck was quickly called from a nearby phone box, and the damaged Falcon GTHO taken to a local panel beater. “The next morning I was told it would be a write-off,” tells Gary, who then decided to have the car taken to another panel shop instead. “I’ll never forget the night the flywheel exploded,” says Gary. Two weeks later the Falcon was all repaired like new again. “The panel shop had offered me an XY GT style bonnet which came complete with air-scoop shaker assembly left over from a Falcon GT. The original XW grille was left on, but we added later model XY taillights.” Gary opted to remove the original black GT side stripes, “We did this for no other reason than to make it look different.” Mechanics at Jack Brabham Ford rebuilt the original motor with new bearings, and fitted a steel flywheel instead of the cast iron factory unit which had exploded into a million pieces. “They even had to repair the dowels at the back of the engine block which had broken off when the motor scraped along the road! The gearbox input shaft also needed to be replaced because it was bent like a banana. We ended up fitting after-market extractors as the original exhaust manifolds had been severely damaged. Before having the engine repaired, Gary who worked in spare parts at Jack Brabham Ford knew John Goss from McLeod Ford. “I had actually bought his ex-race car motor from his Phase Three GTHO for $300. I was going to rebuild it, but it was cheaper to repair my original engine. I sold this bare motor, less the Phase Three race camshaft which a mate fitted to his car, and broke even getting my money back on the whole deal. Originally registered with GT-187 number plates, the HO was re-registered with GT-388 after the repair. Gary kept his Falcon GTHO for a few years after this, and vividly remembers the first time he took it off the clock winding it past 140 miles per hour. “My wife and I were returning from my in-law’s house in Queanbeyan, and as we went through the township of Collector along the Federal Highway, a small Datsun 1600 was right on my backside along the windey bits.

“On the first open straight of road, I took the HO off the clock!”

“My nervous wife looked at the speedo and said ‘it’s on the H where it reads MPH (miles per hour)’.”“I took her word for it.”

“I wasn’t game to take my eyes off the road at that speed!” laughs Gary now.

Five decades would pass before Gary laid teary eyes on his old bright orange Falcon, which is now in the hands of Melbourne collector Joe Barca.

“I never thought I’d ever see my GTHO again,” says Gary in disbelief.

“I was thunder struck again, this time though by the condition it’s in now which is better than it was new!”

Chris Dent from Falcon GT Restorations in Sydney had completely restored this super-rare Ford for a previous owner to a Gold standard Concours condition, resulting in winning the Grand Champion

‘The Best Car of Show’ at the 2015 Falcon GT Nationals.

The current owner Joe tells,

“It had won every category in the show it was entered in.

It cleaned up every trophy! I had to have it.”

It was this moment that Joe knew he had to buy this outstanding GTHO should it ever come up for sale.

As chance would have it, not long after the Falcon came onto the market for sale by tender, and Joe was the successful bidder paying $500,000 for this very special one-of-a-kind car.

“It’s also my wife Debbie’s favourite colour,” states Joe with a wink, as he justifies this expensive purchase.

This said, the Phase Two isn’t Joe’s first rodeo as he’s owned many Falcon GTs and probably more GTHOs than anyone else on the planet.

Unbeknownst to Joe at the time, Gary Thompson the former owner was also the under-bidder who wanted to get his old car back.

Gary’s son Trent then arranged for his dad to see his old Falcon.

“As you can see Dad was very teary seeing it again,” says Trent.

“At least he got to sit behind the wheel again.”

It was at this time that Joe learnt more about this car’s history from Gary who shared his story and photos about the night the flywheel exploded.

This helped Joe to make sense of some minor existing battle scars in the transmission tunnel on the car.

[81-op-pastries]

Night before Christmas - F1 edition🏎️

Hello I haven't written as many stories as I want to because of some health issues but I wish you all a merry Christmas ❤️ and I'll work on them still I promise that, until then here's a little poem.

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the paddock,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a stock.

The helmets were hung by the garage with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

Oscar Piastri nestled all snug in his bed,

While visions of podiums danced in his head.

With trophies and triumphs, a season well-spent,

He dreamt of success, a true champion's intent.

When out on the track, there arose such a clatter,

Oscar sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the pit lane, he flew like a flash,

Tore open the garage, ready to dash.

The moon on the crest of the virtual waves,

Gave a luster of silver to the cars on the pave.

When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

Oscar knew in a moment, it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.

"Now, Lando! Now, Lewis! Now, Max and Seb!

On, Charles! On, Daniel! On, Fernando and Esteban!

To the top of the podium, to the victory lane!

Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up to the housetop, the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of gifts, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, Oscar heard on the roof,

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As he drew in his head, and was turning around,

Down the pit lane, St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in red, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

Oscar couldn't believe his eyes, what a sight!

St. Nick was a racing fan, that much was right.

He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,

Filling the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the pit lane he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But Oscar heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

#oscar piastri #op81 #poem #f1 #formula 1 #f1 christmas #lando norris #fernando alonso #max verstappen #charles leclerc #daniel ricciardo #sebastian vettel #esteban ocon

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1970 Pontiac Formula 400

1970 Pontiac Formula 400 – The Other Performance Firebird

The story behind the development of GM’s F-body ponycars has been well documented. When Ford’s groundbreaking Mustang debuted in 1964, it tapped an emerging youth market that was hungry for a new type of car geared specifically to them. GM misjudged the public’s response to the Mustang and then scrambled to develop a similar style car after witnessing Ford’s unprecedented first model year sales success. Chevrolet was the lead division in engineering the F-body, and Pontiac grudgingly accepted the platform for their use in March 1966, only after GM management turned down PMD General Manager John DeLorean’s proposal for his own Mustang fighter.

Pontiac didn’t have much time to transform the Firebird from its Camaro configuration before releasing it in February 1967. Their design and engineering lead time was significantly reduced and consequently, the Firebird was forced to use quite a bit of Camaro sheetmetal and other components. Competition between Pontiac and Chevrolet was intense, and having to use the other division’s engineering and design was a bitter pill for DeLorean’s maverick staff to swallow.

The circumstances surrounding the second generation Firebird were another story. Pontiac actually began working on their second generation just as the first Firebirds were hitting dealer showrooms. From design to engineering, Pontiac dominated the divisional rivalry, and this time around the Firebird would be all Pontiac from roof to road. There was little carried over to the second generation with the exception of the Trans Am nameplate and basic engine configurations. The suspension was tuned for more responsive handling with little compromise to ride comfort. Computer aided engineering chose the proper front and rear spring deflection rates predicated on model and usage. Stabilizer bars were used front and rear and the steering box was mounted ahead of the front axle for better response.

The sexy new body was rooted in GM styling chief Bill Mitchell’s infatuation with Italian sports car design. GM chose heavily from the rounded shapes of Ferrari and Maserati, and it showed in the smooth flow of fender lines, the curved window glass and raked windshield. One remarkable difference from pervious GM designs was the lack of a quarter window. Instead, the doors were lengthened to take up a larger portion of the quarter. The massive doors were heavy, however the side appearance was cleaner and far sportier. A lift bar door handle added to the smooth side look. Chrome was distinctively absent. The Native American-inspired Firebird emblem was on the decklid and the nose of all but base model cars.

Up front, the twin nostril grille and single headlamps provided a clean appearance, thanks to the use of Endura to create a bumper-less front end with a valance that cleanly rolled beneath the grille with large cross hair parking lamps mounted in the lower corners of the valance. At the rear, the smooth tumble home enhanced the Firebirds fuselage shape. The tail was flat and filled with twin tail lamps that met the quarter panel’s round rear profile. A recessed tag housing, thin blade chrome rear bumper, and rounded lower valance completed the rear end’s clean look.

Inside, the Firebird’s wide, expansive dash housed the instrument panel consisting of three center nacelles for gauges, with smaller gauges at the right and room for the heater controls and additional switches and knobs. Directly below the center of the dash was another stack that contained the radio and ashtray. Even the base interior was sumptuous, with Pontiac’s indestructible Morrokide vinyl upholstery covering the bucket seats and door panels. The quarter trim panels and headliner were composed of molded polymeric material that provided a smooth surface and absorbed sound.

The 1970 Pontiac line up was composed of the base Firebird with 250 cid six, the mid range, 350 cid Espirit, the 400 cid Formula 400, and the 400 cid Ram Air Trans Am. Of the four, perhaps the most intriguing was the Formula 400. While the Trans Am was loaded with visuals like a shaker hood, fender mounted air extractors, wild front air spoiler, rear wheel opening air spoilers, and wide center stripe, the Formula had none of these. For those who preferred to have a muscular pony car sans the exterior adornments, the Formula 400 was just the ticket. Outside, the only difference between the mild mannered Espirit and the Formula was a special fiberglass hood that sported a pair of front reaching hood scoops (first considered for the Trans Am), sport style dual outside mirrors, and a pair of Formula 400 scripts below the Firebird nameplate on the fenders.

Under the sheetmetal, however, is where the $3,440 Formula’s credentials lay. Standard engine was the 400 cid V8 which generated 330 horsepower @ 4800rpm and 430 lbs.-ft. torque @ 3000rpm. Car & Driver tested a Formula 400 with this engine and automatic transmission and recorded a 0-60 acceleration time of 6.4 seconds and quarter mile performance of 14.7 seconds at 98.9mph.

The optional engine was the Ram Air III V8, which produced 345 horsepower @ 5000rpm and 430 lbs.-ft. torque @ 3400rpm, thanks in part to a higher compression and a more aggressive camshaft profile. While Pontiac offered a 370 horsepower Ram Air IV, it never found its way into a Formula 400. On the Ram Air III equipped Formulas, the hood scoops were opened and a pair of rubber “boots” were fitted to the hood’s underside. They snugged up to holes in the air cleaner snorkels and fed cold outside air to the Rochester Quadra Jet carburetor. Subtle “RAM AIR” decals were affixed to the outboard sides of the hood scoops. The Formula’s 400 engine was dressed up with chromed air cleaner lid and valve covers. Dual exhausts with chrome tips were also standard.

Standard transmission was the M13, a heavy duty Dearborn three-speed manual box. A pair of Muncie four speeds was offered optionally, the wide ratio M20 and close ratio M21. Also optional was the M40 three-speed Turbo Hydra Matic transmission. A 3.55:1 rear axle ratio was standard, while air conditioned models received 3.31:1 ratios. Optional ratios were 3.07:1 and 3.73:1.

The Formula received a firmer suspension with 300-pounds/inch deflection in the front springs and 103 pounds/inch in the rear. The front stabilizer measured 1.125 inches in the front and the rear bar was .620 inches with firm control shocks mounted at all four corners. Front disc brakes were standard with rear drums. Standard tires were F70 x 14 on six-inch steel rims. The Trans Am’s tighter suspension was offered optionally. It consisted of 300 pounds/inch front and 126 pounds/inch springs in the rear, 1.250 inch stabilizer bar at the front, and fat .875 inch bar aft. Wider F60x 15 Polyglas tires mounted on 15 x 7 Rally II wheels without trim rings rounded out the package. Add the variable ratio power steering and power brakes and the Formula responded right now! to steering input and could dive deeper into corners and come out faster. Its only competition was big brother Trans Am and the Corvette.

Inside, the Formula’s instrument panel was faced in a wood grained appliqué. Optional was a Rally Gauge that placed an 8000-rpm tach in the left housing along with a small analog clock. In the smaller center housing was the engine temperature and oil pressure gauges. The right housing contained the 160mph speedometer with the smaller fuel gauge and voltmeter to the far right. Two consoles were offered, one between the front buckets that contained the transmission shifter, the other between the optional rear buckets.

Of the 7,708 Formula 400s produced in 1970, 2,777 were equipped with manual transmissions. Exactly 4,931 were fitted with the M40 automatic transmission. One of those M40 equipped Formulas is owned by Jack Nichols of Orlando, Fla. Jack performed a complete restoration on the Formula several years ago, bringing it back to correct factory standards. The Atoll Blue Formula is fitted with the optional Ram Air engine, open scoops and underhood induction system. Inside, the tan Morrokide interior features console, optional three-spoke Formula steering wheel with padded rim, Rally gauges and air conditioning.

Text and Photography By Paul Zazarine © Car Collector Magazine, LLC. (Click for more Car Collector Magazine articles) Originally appeared in the March 2008 Issue

#pontiac firebird #ram air #formula 400 #pontiac #1970 Pontiac Formula 400 #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle

[amwult]

installing "car play" in my truck is very expensive but mounting my ps vita on the dash & plugging it in is very cheap

[zephrunsimperium]

Wrote some stuff for my Human Bill AU. TW for religious trauma and brief mentions of suicide and drug use.

Pine trees passed in a blur outside of Bill’s window, the speed of the car on the winding Oregon road turning the forest into a jumbled mess of green and brown not unlike a painting smudged by a careless artist. God was pretty careless when He made me, Bill thought, knee bouncing fitfully. I probably wasn’t even meant to exist. He nodded to himself. Perhaps a few years ago that thought would have seemed frighteningly blasphemous, but he’d since accepted the fact that he was going to go to hell - one blasphemous thought wouldn’t make a difference. And it made more sense than what he had been taught as a child, didn’t it? That he was just a factory mistake, part of a bad batch. God didn’t make mistakes though… Maybe an angel had done it then.

An angel…

Bill turned his attention away from the window, peering up to his left at the man in the driver’s seat. Stanford was bobbing his head along to a quiet Marvin Gaye song on the radio, occasionally tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. He mouthed the words, but didn’t sing; neither man had spoken since Bill had been discharged from the hospital. A look at the clock on the dash told Bill they’d only been driving for some fifteen minutes, but the heavy silence that had filled that time had made it feel so much longer. At least Ford didn’t look mad at him. That was almost more nerve wracking though; it was inevitable that Ford would get angry at him eventually. Bill would screw up somehow - he always did - and Ford would throw him out and leave him to his drugs again. Only this time he wouldn’t end up in the hospital. He’d make sure of that.

Ford would surely be disappointed in him for his inability to be a good person, but that wasn’t new. He had to know that their reunion wouldn’t end up any different than last time, right?

Well regardless if Ford knew it, Bill knew it. And yet he was still sitting here, allowing Ford to chauffeur him to his house in the woods to eat up his time and income for as long as it took for him to realize that Bill was unredeemable. How fucking selfish.

Ford made a turn and a picturesque cabin came into view - the house he’d been telling Bill about. Look at how well he’s doing for himself, Bill thought, his stomach turning. His sweaty fingers tightened around the cane across his lap. Look how well he’s doing without you. You’re going to screw that up, you’re going to ruin everything and you don’t even give a shit.

The car came to a stop on a gravel driveway and Ford broke the heavy blanket of silence. “This is home!” he said, glancing over at Bill with a smile he didn’t deserve. He tried to offer one back anyway. “I’ll show you around and then you can wash up for dinner?”

Bill nodded. “That sounds lovely.”

Ford got out to grab Bill’s solitary suitcase of belongings from the trunk - a few old pairs of clothes, some math textbooks, and a collection of paraphernalia like marbles and bottle caps and pens that he couldn’t bear to part with for reasons he couldn’t explain - and Bill struggled out of the passenger seat, joints protesting at being forced to move. Joints were supposed to move, he thought sourly, filing the crunching of his bones away as mounting evidence that he was God’s mistake. Maybe that meant he wouldn’t go to hell though. Maybe instead of burning for all eternity he’d just shrivel up in the flames and cease to exist. Or maybe that was too much to hope for.

Bill hobbled inside the house while Ford held the door for him, eyeing his new surroundings. It looked tidier than their dorm had been in college; Ford had probably cleaned up to prepare for Bill’s arrival.

“Your room is down the hall this way,” Ford explained as he led the way. “I honestly never thought I’d use the guest room - I’d been using it for storage before we arranged for you to be here. It’s rather bare for now, but I expect you’ll be here for a few months so we can fix that up as time goes by.” He opened a door and flicked the lights on. “See, it’s not much but, ah- We could go shopping tomorrow perhaps.”

Bill’s stomach churned even more. Not much? This room was nearly the size of his apartment (Not his apartment anymore, he reminded himself. He’d lost his job, he’d lost his home, he’d lost what little reputation he had. All he had now was what Ford gave him and eventually that kindness would run dry.) though maybe that was a poor rubric by which to judge. His apartment had been crowded nearly from floor to ceiling with things he couldn’t bear to throw out, receipts, notes, magazines he didn’t remember when he’d subscribed to, old milk cartons, rocks and leaves that had been pretty when he’d picked them off the ground but had since dried out and turned brittle and brown-

“I’ll leave your luggage here?”

“Yes, that’s fine.” Bill kept his eyes away from Ford’s, inspecting his new space, the window and the curtains, the hardwood floor, the closet, the dresser, the cozy looking bed and its pillows and blanket. “Thank you.”

“Hehe. You’re very welcome. Ah- The kitchen is the opposite way from where we came in and you’re right next to the bathroom. You can use the shower there. Oh and you can change into some of my clothes if you’d like. I thought about getting you some new ones, but I didn’t want to guess your size and you ought to be able to pick out what you like anyway.”

No, I ought to be thrown out now. But Ford wouldn’t do that yet. He would wait until Bill had sapped everything he had like a leech. “Thank you,” he said again. It wasn’t enough, but what else was there to say?

“Yes. I- I guess I’ll leave you to it then? Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with. I, um. I’m glad you’re here, Bill.”

Bill sighed. For the first time that day, he turned around and met Ford’s soft, starry eyed gaze. “I’m glad to be here too.”

***

Bill rested both hands on the sides of the bathroom sink, staring intently at the creature in the mirror. It was a pitiful thing, the kind of sorry vermin you’d swerve to avoid and then wonder if you should turn around just to put it out of its misery. How in the world could God, a being of perfect holiness and light, create this monster with its sunken eyes and deathly pale skin dotted with triangle shaped burns and cuts and bruises? It looked like its pallid skin had been stretched too tightly over its skeleton, like the bones might rip through the thin covering at any moment.

God didn’t make you this way, he mused, staring with relentless disapproval into his good eye. (“good” eye seemed a stretch of a description; any sane person wouldn’t want to look at either, red rimmed and wild as they were) You did that all on your own, Cipher.

Well good. If he got himself into this then maybe he could get himself out again. He’d taken his sweet time in the shower, scrubbing every inch of himself until he was practically raw. Just because he would eventually do something to make Ford throw him out didn’t mean he wanted to hasten that inevitability. Until that time, he would be presentable, he would shower daily, he would shave, he would brush and floss, he would do his hair, he would wear cologne. He would sit up straight, he would be polite, he would eat whatever food he was given, he would tidy the house, and he would most certainly stay clean. No drugs, no cigarettes, he would even limit his caffeine intake.

It would be hard, but he’d try like hell. He ran his bony fingers through his wet hair - thinning already at his ripe age of twenty five - trying to stand up straighter. He’d try like hell for Ford…

#zeph's human bill au #bill cipher #fan fic #gravity falls fan fiction #gravity falls #stanford pines #human bill cipher #billford

[comatosebunny09]

You've been putting off that oil change for far too long, sis.

You can't ignore that angry, red oil lamp leering at you from the dash much longer. So, you call a mom-and-pop shop to schedule an appointment for an oil change. And to your surprise, they have an opening right now!

Sure, you don't want to shell out the coins to keep your car running. Rather spend your money on booze, food, and whatever other oddities get you through the weekend. But you're an adult now. You've got 'sponsibilities. You want to trade that car in for a Mercedes someday.

Right?

You whip down the sunny highway, weaving through traffic. Pull up to the quaint repair shop you'd phoned earlier, still wearing your uniform and smelling like the struggle—it's inventory week. Lots of heavy lifting, sweating, and hating your life. 

It's surprisingly clean inside despite being low-key. Freshly painted, ivory walls. Glittering tile floors. Smells like bubblegum and lemon interweaved with motor oil. Warm and homely in contrast to the biting cold outside.

A neatly-arranged lobby sits on your left, two rows of chairs flanking the wall-mounted T.V., abuzz with the weather. Ceiling high windows permit sun rays to shine through. To your right is a marbled counter with a black top, unmanned, tidy stacks of paper, and intricately arranged business cards adorning it.

The door behind the counter is cracked open, a conglomerate of drilling, whirring, and shouting over heavy machinery pouring in. You ring the bell perched on the counter's edge to get serviced. Wait a few beats. Convinced no one will hear you over all the ruckus going on outside, you turn around to lean against the counter, thoroughly engrossed by your phone.

You don't notice when he sneaks in. Situational awareness has always been shit despite your profession. Hear him before you see him, his tone like static tearing into a quiet room. You flinch, spinning around to face the room's new occupant with squinted eyes.

"Good morning, Miss!" says this blond mountain of a man, throwing you off kilter. "How may I assist you?"

He's all teeth and sunshine, this guy. Towers a good foot over you. He wears sandy skin stretched over sharp features. Wiry, dark brows. Freckles stipple his nose. Dimples crater his cheeks. Wheat-colored hair bleeds into a deep crimson on his shoulders and frames his jaws. His face is smudged with what you assume is oil. But it does nothing to detract from how incredible he looks.

You can make out the virility of his body through the confines of his royal blue jumpsuit. Arms lean and bulging with veins pouring from his rolled-up sleeves. Homie clearly works out. He drums his thick fingers on the countertop. You gnaw on your lip, unconsciously imagining them wrapped around your throat...

Despite majoring in linguistics, you've suddenly forgotten how to speak. Mouth gaping like a fish. Eyes blinking rapidly. Your heart is pounding over time in your ears. You're scorching hot.

Breathe, girl.

Breathe.

When you've found your voice again, you clear your throat. Try to act all casual, like you didn't almost wet your panties. "I-I'm here for a nine-o-clock oil change."

"Ah!" he remarks as if you've unearthed the meaning of life. You resist snorting, watching this ball of electricity bounce around and fiddle with a clipboard. He passes it to you, grin never faltering, your nerves slowly draining away. "Please fill out all of the highlighted areas with your information!"

He's intense, sure. Like an ecstatic puppy waiting for its owner to toss a tennis ball. But he gives you good vibes. Smile is infectious. You can't help the ghost of one sliding past your lips as you grab a pen. Feel heat pervading your cheeks, and you glance down to jot down your info.

You slide the beach boy your documents and keys when you're done. He dangles them between you, chuckling at your choice of keychain. A gaudy, fuzzy, pink ball that's been through some things. You're suddenly self-conscious. A little more self-aware, with your hair sticking up at odd angles, your uniform coated with a film of dust, and the laces of your boots peeking out. Though, dude doesn't seem to notice or care.

He tells you to make yourself comfortable halfway out the door again. Motions to the coffee bar nestled beneath the T.V. Flashes you another thousand-watt smile. Says, "my name is Kyojuro, by the way," before going outside to bring your ride around back.

As you plop your weary bones into a chair in the lobby, you can't help wondering how someone that hot ended up working at a place like this.

But dammit, if you don't enjoy having something nice to look at while you wait.

Masterlist

#rengoku kyojuro x reader #kyojuro rengoku x reader #rengoku x reader #kyojuro x reader #just musing #mdni #tw: swearing #tw: suggestive #mechanic!au