#Rust Converter

[coolthingsguyslike]

[clemsblog]

[foxd73-blog]

[radiantengineers]

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[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Just cleaned the sink with 50/50 white vinegar/water, cleaned, and de-rusted my bike with Oxy Clean, 50/50 white vinegar/water, and steel wool

[artapir]

Exposed bioenergetic breaker box beneath the crumbling facade of a dilapidated tenement building, Midjourney 5.2-6

[mariogman25]

You ever wanted to fight @demilypyro in Bloodborne/A TTRPG?

Allow me to present...

Danielle de Pyro, Demon Queen of Castle Cainhurst (Or Castle Lazerus for the moment)

(Art by Deputy Rust)

Available now on itch.io for Monster of the Week

For full experience, please check out the Starter Bundle

(Check back with me later, I'll be posting a full bundle later with everything converted back to Bloodborne)

(Permission given by Demily Pyro to use her likeness, not officially affiliated, this is a fanwork inspired by her, Nightmare Kart, and Bloodborne)

[seat-safety-switch]

In diagnostics, there's no tool more powerful than that of positive thinking. Even though your public school teachers, parents, and assorted hippies have sold you a lie about the strength of not complaining too much, keeping motivated when repairing any complex system actually works. It can be easy to get frustrated and give up on your sixteenth straight hour of making zero progress, but remember: you're smarter than the dumb asshole who made this fucking thing, and you're gonna show them who's boss.

Now, psychologists are going to say that this is not actually positive thinking. This here is what they call an "extrinsic reward," or to put a finer point on it, spite. I don't care what they call it, and you shouldn't either: the chances of being able to walk your ass right into 1970s Plymouth HQ and telling the guy who fucked up the design of the torsion bar mounts are extremely low. Especially if you don't have a time machine.

Probably he is already dead, and Hell is regretting taking him. You won't get any satisfaction out of a confrontation at his gravesite, but you will have a working front suspension in your Volare and a couple good tips about rust removal. Also, much less hair and probably a drinking problem, but it's very difficult to pinpoint that to any particular cause. Could be the brake cleaner.

You get my point, though. Get good and mad at the dumbasses who didn't build it right in the first place, and then convert that anger into motivation. If you're really lucky, the folks who fucked it up will still be alive, and you can send them an email about how much they suck. That'll get them really good and pissed off to build something better next time, just to show you who's boss. It's called a virtuous cycle, and it ends in me being able to synthesize corn dogs out of thin air in my kitchen by 2026. I'll need to be able to, because I have a lot of spite projects I'm working on, which take up a lot of the time I'd otherwise be spending at the grocery store.

[deatherella]

Rusty Stuff

And yet another thing I finally took previews of. That's why your feed is getting flooded by me. I don't like taking previews so stuff just piles up in my downloads folder waiting.

4to2 Rusty Pipes from @radioactivedotcom's Rusty Set. There are a lot of pipes in this set for us to enjoy rusting up our lots with.

There's one of the two recolors. Almost all the items are repo'd to the first numbered item for a template. I've divided them up in folders with their respective masters. Files are compressed and have a collection file. They're in deco/misc and deco/wall. Or since there are so many files (40 or 50 something), you can have them as collection only, too.

Download Rusty Pipes in catalog.

Download Rusty Pipes as collection only.

I converted the rusty fence, too. There's a 2-tile gate in the works but I have to fix the animations. The top row in my preview are my recolors, the bottom row have radioactive's originals. I made these to work in Sims 2 so there may be some slight differences from the original fences. The bottom row are six different fences lined up next to each other. You need to have the 4t2_RadioactiveModularFence01 mesh in your game for all the other fence recolors to work. These shouldn't conflict with anything unless you just happen to have another custom fence in your game with a same guid. The guids are random by simpe.

Download Rusty Fences

I still have the rusty playground meshes in the works. I have a working merry-go-round that looks like this at the moment

I need to shorten the handle bars and align them with the maxis merry-go-round or our little sims will look silly on the toy. Does anyone know if anyone has mastered a seesaw for Sims 2? There's one in the set and I'd like it to be useable if possible.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1969 Plymouth Road Runner

1969 Plymouth Road Runner

1969 Plymouth Road Runner

1969 Plymouth Road Runner

Parked for 25 Years: 1969 Road Runner Barn Find Emerges With Lots of Surprises

Introduced for the 1968 model year as a more affordable alternative to the GTX, the Plymouth Road Runner became an instant hit. By 1971, when Chrysler discontinued its high-compression v8 engines, the Road Runner moved nearly 200,000 units. 1969 was the nameplate's most successful year, with about 81,000 examples sold.

The weathered hardtop you see here is one of those cars, and like many of its siblings, it's been neglected for a very long time. The Road Runner has been with the current owner for 10 years but spent all this time in storage. Before that, it reportedly sat for another 15 years under previous ownership.

That's a whopping 25 years off the road and long enough for a classic to develop rust and all sorts of issues associated with long-term storage. Fortunately enough, that's not the case here. This Road Runner lived its whole life in California and is absolutely rust-free. What a lucky Mopar, right?

Specifically, even though it rolled off the assembly line with a 383-cubic-inch (6.3-liter) V8, the Road Runner now relies on a 440-cubic-inch (7.2-liter) RB. The latter was available in the Plymouth Road Runner in 1969, but only in six-barrel form. This mill is the more common four-barrel version.

But here is the cool thing: the current owner has the numbers-matching 383-cubic-inch V8 in the garage. This basically means he could restore the car to its original specifications.

For the time being, he's planning to return the car to the road. He wants to go through the drivetrain and suspension, and he'll keep the 440 V8 under the hood. The latter was fitted sometime in the 1990s and powered the car for about five years before the Road Runner went into storage.

While I would return the car to factory specs, I definitely understand why the current owner wants to enjoy it as is. The 383-powered 1969 Road Runner is very common. Of the 81,105 units sold in 1969, a whopping 78,906 were ordered with the 383 V8. The convertible is somewhat rare, with 1,880 examples sold, but the coupe and hardtop are very common. This hardtop is one of 45,629 produced, while the three-speed automatic gearbox narrows it down to one of 24,351 units. In short, this Road Runner isn't necessarily worth restoring relative to its current market value.

But the fact that this Road Runner will return to the road rather than spend its retirement in a barn is good enough for me. It's yet another classic Mopar saved and a good reason to celebrate.

[voidofthevoidmv]

HELP! Our Sitters are TIME TRAVELERS!!!

(A gravity falls time travel fanfiction teaser)

Prologue/teaser ⬇️⬇️⬇️

Time log- 11:05 pm filed:

LOCATION: Barranquilla, Colombia

DATE: 1970-something

STATUS: SECURE

Progressing as scheduled…

It’s a quiet night down here in Colombia, at least it was for a great many of residents. Truly, it would've been described as a peaceful moment. The sky was filled with more stars to count, and the atmosphere was a deep shade of purple which coated everything in a soft nightlike shade. The air was warm too, not too hot nor too cold. A perfect night really, for the majority folks that is.

For some, not so much- Which was something of a newfound reality concerning a certain person in particular. Hidden behind the depths of dark alleys, past the crowded streets and through the celebratory storefronts- Stood a bright red convertible half covered in tarp alongside a man-soaked head to toe in water. The front of his shirt was stained rusty red, as well as any area around his face really, and the only truly accurate word to describe him would be ‘Shaken.’

His nose was especially rosy as if he’d been drinking or at least somewhat inebriated, and not one single part of him seemed dry to touch. His ratty brown hair was long behind his ears and curled a bit from the moisture and overall painted a picture. It was clear that something terrible had happened, if the shifty eyes glancing about and the incessantly trembling limbs didn’t speak volumes in that of itself.

Unlike most people on this warm Colombian night, Stanley Pines was not having a good time.

He could be seen reaching a still shaky hand towards his jean pocket, pulling out an object and a small pack of still dripping cigarettes.

“Damn lighter... Just needa’ smoke...” Stanley hissed to himself as he fumbled with the small copper device again, his burlesque fingers swiping fruitlessly as sparks fly without a flicker of a flame in sight.

He keeps doing this, growling under his breath as the beginnings of frustration start to show on his face. It makes him seem almost ghostly, the scowl making the dark circles under his eyes more prominent than before.

A soggy cigarette in his mouth and stuck between his teeth as he flicked the rusted lighter continuously.

“Cmon… Cmon… Just one more time, just one more…”

This time, he succeeds and much like the small pathetic flame of the device, Stan’s entire disposition brightens.

“Yes! Yes, haha!” He cheered almost manically, his raspy voice spitting out a guffaw as he pumped a fist in the air. Suddenly, his face softened a bit, raising the flame to the small cigarette pinched between the corner of his mouth. With some amount of effort, he managed to light the tip of the cigarette. He exhaled a puff of smoke and leaned even more so on his beloved red convertible.

“I guess one good thing did happen today, huh?” He chuckled again, it was a wry one and had notes of bitterness but a chuckle, nonetheless.

“Alls’ I had to do was get locked in the trunk of a car and chew my way out. Guess I was lucky to nab that guys pack of cigs before he locked the thing… Bet he’s wondering where this baby went, hah…”

After taking another inhale of the cigarette, he held it in a moment before exhaling with wide eyes, pushing himself off the car to bark out a full-fledged laugh. He then rattled his fist to the air with a giant smile on his face- Revealing a mouth clearly torn to shreds and his teeth were bloodied and chipped.

“Hear that, universe!!!??? STANLEY PINES LIVES TO SMOKE ANOTHER DAY!! HAH HAH HAH!” He then made a few rather... Rude gestures towards the sky, presumably to the ‘universe’ specifically.

After a few seconds, the manic episode passes and it's just him and the sounds of night in that back alley. Every now and then he would raise that soggy cancer stick to suck in another breath of smoke and exhale, though it was bringing to get droopy in his fingers. In the dim light of a single streetlamp, it too was a seemingly peaceful scene. Which was really no good for Stan, for it’s always when he has time to himself that he starts to really THINK about things, things that depress him.

Smile long wiped from his face, he dragged a hand across his cheek as his expression shifts that into a frown. In a split second, he looked so awfully tired.

Things really couldn't get any worse than this... Could it?

CLITTER CLATTER!!!

Suddenly, Stan is snapped out of his negative thoughts to the sound of something making a real racket in the nearby alleyway, just across from himself.

“What the-” Startled, he sort of fumbles with his soggy cigarette a few moments with eyes blown wide. That was the issue with being on the run all the time, even the smallest things could have you on the same kind of edge as if it’s life or death.

For instance, that clatter noise was probably a cat or something.

CLATTER! CLITTER CLATTER! CLATTER!

... Of course, that didn't stop him from investigating though. On any other ordinary day on the run, Stan would do well to keep his nose out of trouble, however he was feeling risky. After all, it wouldn't be fair to throw him into another life-or-death situation after the last one- Just the universal law of ‘wait a sec’ honestly.

Why, if something bad were to happen to him now- Why, something would be seriously wrong with the balance of the universe. Or something. Probably.

-And so, with eyes squinting inquisitively, he tossed his cigarette aside and began towards the alleyway. Walking slowly as to not startle whatever it was in the alleyway, he left the dim light if the streetlamp and crossed the boundary of shadow inside of the alleyway. It was like stepping into a whole differently painted room, whereas the first room you were in had white walls and this new room had black walls with the curtains drawn. Not only that, but the alley was incredibly stinky. Stan would feel real bad for anyone who got jumped or something here- Because in their last moments they’d likely be wondering who shat their pants. The clattering noise sounded again, making him only slightly flinch again.

CLATTER! CLATTER!

Sounded almost... Metallic. Like somebody was kicking a piece of shrapnel around. He knows the sound, he used to do it with... It reminded him of Ford in a way. Back when they were just kids, stupid, oblivious, happy kids...

Before... Before he-

“Focus Stan... Stop being weird about things...”

Eyes finally adjusting to the darkness that encompassed the grimy alleyway, Stan could now see the true culprit behind the tinny sound being kicked around.

It was a tin can...

“Well, waddea’ know...”

Stan nearly jumped out of his skin all over again when the can jerked towards him- And a bright light flashed.

“Woah!!!”

...A tin can that was somehow moving on its own.

Stan began towards the thing as it jerked across the dirt ground, moving in such a way it seemed almost like somebody tied a string to it and was just tugging it all around to mess with him. But it also sparked a few times, which made it seem like maybe there was a firecracker wedged in the can or something.

It took him a few times, but pretty soon he had the cylindrical object cornered.

“Gotcha!”

Ok, so sue him, he was just a little curious...

...Ford wasn't the only curious one, you know?

He reached out to grab the little can, his hand making contact to its smooth surface and he noted that it was cool to the touch. Not a firecracker. No firepower at all, which was super weird.

Was it just Stan, or did everything suddenly get REALLY quiet?

In the eerie silence however, he hears something coming from inside the can- Which believe it or not, begins to tremble in his hands. It's really moving on its own- It's not just Stan shaking or anything...

Kssssshhhhh....

The strange noise from inside the can sounds like it's getting louder, despite the homeless man clearly seeing absolutely nothing from within when he peered inside the empty old can. It was freaky, but he was morbidly curious. Plus, it was getting to the point that he had to hold the can with both hands to keep it from literally squirming out of his hands- It would probably go bouncing off the freaking walls if Stan hadn't been holding it.

It was the kind of noise that made your head ache a little bit, what, was it called again? Teni- Tenino? Tentitus? The thing with the ringing in your ears, Tinnitus? Stan figured it was a similar thing.

KsssssssSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

In an instant, the sound from within the can gets awfully loud- Almost like a train whistling as it comes barreling at you at full speed- And Stan had enough sense to pull his face away from its opening to visibly cringe at the sound. Whatever remained of his teeth was bit into a sharp grimace and he was overcome with a terribly strong sense of WRONG.

“What the fu-”

Suddenly, a stream of color bursts forth from the can- Interrupting Stan and causing the con-man to yelp and drop the can whilst backing away. For what had somehow emerged from within- Because yes, something HAD emerged from that dumb old can- Was some kind of impossibly large serpentine worm thing, with a gaping mouth and a rainbow of stripes painting its multicolored back.

It almost seemed to sap all the vibrancy of everything around it, glitching in a way that made it seem out of place- Or at least as out of place a ginormous man eating worm that just emerged from a tiny can could be.

“What the what the what the-” For the first time in a long time, Stanley Pines was at a loss for words.

He didn't even get a chance to fully get back on his feet- (Which confuses him greatly because how he managed to fall to the ground in only few short minutes is beyond the point.)

He scrambled to a standing position- Trying not to gape as the worm thing- That could FLOAT apparently- Began to coil in midair and loomed above him. From this angle, Stan could get a really go view of its giant mouth- And if he’s being honest- it didn't exactly look like the sort of thing he wanted to be on the business end of.

Millions upon millions of sharp needle-like teeth line its outer mouth, and the inside going down its throat looked to quite literally be a STATIC ABYSS.

“No no no nope no-” His feet finally put themselves to good use and he made a break for the alleyway entrance.

This seemed to trigger the beast to action.

There was a screeching noise, and Stan could feel his heart drop to his stomach white the strange incomprehensible creature let loose an unholy noise and readied itself to lunge. Yet, for some reason, Stan couldn't help but feel he wasn't running fast enough-

Time seemed to go in slow motion now as the creature leaped towards its prey.

“WAIT-” Stan couldn't even finish his sentence, as the worm surged forwards towards him like a semi-truck, its mouth opening impossibly wide to completely encompass the homeless man. Whatever noise he had been making beforehand was immediately swallowed into nothing as the beasts mouth clamped tightly shut.

Victorious, the creature curled into the air afterwards- Almost pleased with itself as it did so.

Uninterested in anything more, the worm was quick to burrow quite literally into midair to leave, and as it zoomed past the rainbow color on its slimy skin seemed to blur into some kind of optical illusion.

Soon, there was nothing in the alleyway but a red car, the stunning night sky, and the sounds of quiet resonating through the area. That, and upon the consumption of Stanley, there was a ginormous patch of static developing where he had been last seen. The static seemed to only spread even more and more as time progressed, devouring everything in its path and destabilizing it...

Life itself was crumbling in on itself...

Soon, all that was left of the scene was a singular wet cigarette on the grimy alleyway floor, but eventually, even that too dissolved into pure static.

One thing was for absolute certain, Stanley had been dead wrong.

Things certainly could get worse...

And they did...

Time log- 11:10 pm filed:

LOCATION: ????

DATE: ????

STATUS: COMPROMISED!

⏳🪱🪱🪱⌛️

And that’s the end of this little teaser, hope you enjoyed haha- Trust me, it’s pretty sweet I swear. I just had to technically kill off a character to prove a point. Tbh, I might tweak this portion a bit, just cuz I can.

Basic gist if your interested:

It's been 4 years since that fateful summer in Gravity Falls, and our favorite young Pines still can't get a break. The two 16-year-olds are enlisted by the Time Anomaly Removal Crew- Which has since dwindled after the events of Weirdmaggedon- Because a TIME WORM has been set loose upon the timeline!

They must ask the twins to deal with it because they don't really have very much experience dealing with monsters, and with the extreme loss of bodies in their department they can't risk losing more officers. Dipper and Mable have half a mind to refuse; however the worm is targeting versions of their Grunkles from the past

(Cuz Time worms are drawn in by “canon people” which are folks whose presence holds great precedence in the timeline.-)

It has already managed to eat a couple stans and Fords from points in time- However there's still a way to save the timeline which is by killing it. Luckily, the TARC have managed to predict the trajectory of the worm, and plan to send the twins in earlier so that they have the jump on it. They have hologram disguises so that no one puts together their relation to the current time-period pines...

Meanwhile, in the 1900s, the 12-year-olds Stan and Ford are apprehensive of their newest babysitters... Yes, the disguised versions of Mabel and Dipper- Now Travis and Vanellope- Take to babysitting the young twins to scope out for time worms and protect the kids from being eaten. Chaos ensues.

Lemmy know if folks are interested lol

[mychlapci]

I think it’d be really funny if ratchets scanner broke, so he had to use manual probes to check stuff on bots. Mostly it’s just sticking a piece of metal into a gap in some playing and such, so most bots just squirm through it. That is until he has to take someone’s temperature. Just feeling the plating won’t work, he needs an internal temp. the mouth won’t work, because it’s secondary function besides energon intake is to vent the heat that comes from converting energon into fuel.

That leaves him with two options, technically, but honestly there’s only really one right option. Imagine jazzes surprise when he’s asked to bend over the table, maybe cracking a joke or two, not really paying attention as he leans his head on his hand. He tries to glance back when ratchet pops his panel, but just gets smacked upside the head and told to stay still. And then suddenly he’s being forcibly pinned to the exam table, and something huge and wet touches his aft.

Imagine the horror on the faces of everyone who was waiting outside the med bay when they hear Jazz, beloved, scary head of spec ops, one of the highest ranking officers in the Autobot army, That Jazz squealing at the top of his lungs. Not screaming, squealing like an earth pig. They can hear the crying and begging t he ough the closed medbay doors.

A couple minutes later, Jazz comes limping out, rust stick in his mouth, tear tracks on his face, and a vaguely haunted expression. And right behind him is ratchet, who immediately jabs a finger at ironhide. “You’re next, get in here.”

The fear of what ratchet might do to them if they leave keeps everyone frozen where they sit, and ironhide immediately complying.

Surely Jazz was just being difficult right? It’s not like ratchet is going to shove a thick, long probe up his aft and unconsciously rock it back and forth all while ignoring his cries just to check his internal temperature. Right?

Yeah he’ll be fine.

Bluestreak starts praying to primus when they all hear ironhide start shrieking like a new spark.

man, Ratchet's handing out prostate exams left and right

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

Bit of an odd request but I have autism and I’m extremely sensitive to certain senses like sounds and smells (like I know there’s an outside smell or that small high pitched sound that no one else seems to hear) and I would love a Hunter x reader where they get along because they just get eachother when it comes to the weird sensitive senses even if his brothers find it odd or crazy. Thank you! Xx

“Tuned In”

Hunter x Reader

There’s something in the air again. You smell it before anyone else does. Not in a poetic way, not in a metaphorical “a storm is coming” kind of sense. You literally smell it.

Something metallic. Almost like ozone. It’s faint, but it snags in your nose like a fishhook. You wrinkle your nose, arms folding as you lean against the edge of the Marauder’s ramp.

Hunter glances over.

“You smell it too,” he says, not a question.

You nod, relieved. “Yeah. Like static and rust had a baby.”

He grunts in agreement, the corner of his mouth twitching like it wants to smile. The others haven’t even noticed—Tech’s muttering to himself about recalibrating his datapad, Wrecker’s humming off-key while snacking on ration bars, and Echo is deep in repairs. No one else flinches at the subtle, high-pitched wheeeeee from a nearby power converter.

But Hunter? Hunter looks toward it with a frown. “It’s about to blow. We should move.”

⸻

Hunter gets it. Somehow, without explaining.

When you mention that certain fabrics feel like sandpaper or that someone’s breathing sounds too wet and you can’t focus, he doesn’t dismiss it. He just tilts his head and says, “Too much?” and then either removes the problem or removes you from it.

He doesn’t need a long explanation.

You didn’t expect anyone in this chaotic, blaster-filled, war-torn galaxy to understand what it’s like to live with senses tuned like a hypersensitive comms dish. But Hunter lives it.

You catch him sometimes, standing completely still in a crowded spaceport, his face twisted in quiet discomfort. You recognize it instantly—it’s not pain. It’s overload.

“What is it?” you ask him once.

He taps behind his ear. “Echoing footsteps. Six people, heavy boots. Off-rhythm.”

You blink. “That’s what’s bothering you?”

He gives a sheepish shrug. “Can’t not hear it.”

And for the first time in years, you feel seen.

⸻

The others don’t always get it. They don’t mean to be insensitive, not at all.

Wrecker tries to be careful, but he’s just loud by default—his hugs, his voice, even his laughter. It rattles in your bones sometimes.

Echo’s understanding, but logical. “Can’t you just tune it out?”

“No,” both you and Hunter answer in perfect unison.

Tech… Tech tries. He studies you like an interesting datapoint and sometimes blurts things like, “Fascinating. Is this a cognitive processing trait or a neural receptor variant?”

Hunter shoots him a look. “Not helping.”

Later, you find Hunter sitting beside you in the ship’s darkened medbay—quiet, low-lit, safe. You didn’t say anything, but he just knows.

“You want quiet,” he murmurs. “Low light. Soft fabric.”

You nod, curled into a soft blanket you scavenged months ago. “And someone who doesn’t think I’m weird.”

His voice is low and sure when he replies, “I’ve never thought you were weird. I think you’re wired differently… like me.”

You turn to look at him.

He’s close, but not too close. You always notice that—how he knows when you want space, and when you don’t. And right now, you don’t.

“You can hear heartbeats,” you whisper. “That doesn’t weird me out.”

He huffs a soft laugh, barely there. “I can hear yours. Calms me down.”

Your breath catches.

“Even when mine’s fast?”

“Especially then,” he says quietly. “Because then I know how to help.”

Your eyes sting, and you look away, blinking quickly.

“I didn’t think anyone in the galaxy would… just get it.”

He leans in slightly, voice like velvet. “You don’t have to explain yourself with me. Ever.”

⸻

Later, after a mission gone sideways, you’re both crouched under cover, breathing hard. Blasterfire zings past. But it’s not the noise that breaks you—it’s the smell of burning plastoid. Acrid, oily, cloying. You cover your mouth and gag.

Hunter throws a smoke capsule, buying you cover, then grabs your hand without a word and leads you out the back.

When you’re safely behind a hill, he doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He just presses a cloth soaked in clean water against your nose and sits beside you silently, matching your breathing.

And when the panic finally ebbs, he says, “You told me once you don’t like being touched unless you ask first.”

You nod, chest still tight.

“Is this okay?” he asks, reaching one hand toward yours.

You look down at his hand. It’s warm, steady, grounding. You lace your fingers through his and grip tight.

“Yeah,” you say. “You’re okay.”

⸻

That night, back on the Marauder, you find a new blanket on your bunk. The soft kind you mentioned once. You pick it up and inhale—he washed it in that hypoallergenic soap you use.

There’s a folded note on top:

“I know it’s not perfect out there. But I want to be the one place that feels right to you. —H.”

You press it to your chest and smile.

You’ve never felt so understood.

[identifying-cars-in-posts]

I GOT A NEW CAR

Everybody meet the new baby that i will never shut up about forever!

This is Clifford the Third, my new 1996 Nissan Pickup!! I probably paid too much for her but given that I live in Massachusetts and she has virtually no rust I’m okay with that lol.

So a brief history of the Nissan Pickup! These trucks were released in the US in 1985 and were sold through 1997, when they were replaced with the Frontier. They were the successor to the beloved Datsun 720, which had been in production since 1979. They are in fact just called the Pickup! They’re colloquially known as the D21 - their chassis code, and the Hardbody, because of the double walled durable construction of the trucks’ bed.

The D21 was available with a couple different engines and drivetrain layouts. Mine is a 4x4 with the KA24 motor (which it shared with the 240SX/Silvia). She’s also a King Cab, meaning she has a slightly elongated wheelbase to allow for two small inwards facing jump seats in the back of the cab. Still a two door though.

AND SHE’S A STICK! She has a 5-speed manual transmission, and it’s the best transmission i’ve ever personally had in a car. She’s my third manual, the other two being a 1999 Toyota Corolla and a 2004 Subaru WRX, both of which were great but the Corolla had a really sloppy gearbox that felt incredibly vague at times, whereas the WRX had a sportier transmission that was pretty unforgiving and stiff. This one is definitive about where each gear is, but also won’t get too jerky or loud if you shift a little early or late.

Nissan Hardbody trucks are known and loved for their durability, versatility, and simplicity. They’re super bare bones but what they do have is built remarkably well and meant to withstand lots of abuse. If they don’t rust and have basic maintenance kept up it’s not uncommon for them to go 300k+ miles with minimal issues. Mine has around 184k miles, high but manageable. She also has a few modifications from the previous owner, namely a straight piped exhaust (no muffler, just one big long aluminum tube), aftermarket bumpers and lights, locking hubs, and a small lift. The guy i bought it from had plans to make it an off-roader but had too many projects and needed to offload one to make space in his driveway.

While many people either take these off-roading or turn them into drift trucks, my plan is to bring her back to mostly stock. I’m in the process of tracking down OEM bumpers and a more typical cat-back (from the catalytic converter back) exhaust system so she’s a little less obnoxiously loud. Since i mostly just need reliable transport more than a toy and she is now my sole car, I want to just make her relatively normal. But I love her a lot and am happy to be able to share!

[redsrooftopprincess]

Gravity (Part 2)

This may be becoming a thing. There will be at least one more chapter and I have no idea what to call this thing. Maybe by the end I'll know. 😅

Gn reader x Raphael

Warnings: Hypothermia, language (but I think that's a given in a Raph fic?)

Part 1 Part 3

It had been one week. One week since he'd slipped. One week since the fever carried him to your rooftop.

You haven't spoken. More specifically, he hasn't spoken. Apart from texting you when he made it home like you insisted he did every night, it had been radio silence. You texted him before his patrol like you always did, and he stared at his phone, expressionless, before putting it back in his pocket.

What could he say?

He'd already had the conversation a thousand times in his head, and as far as he was concerned, it didn't need to be said. He didn't need you to let him down easy.

Because you'd mean it. Every damn word. You're sorry. He's your best friend. Nothing has to change.

But it would change, there was no way it couldn't. Things were different now.

That night had been the worst of it. He'd left not long after his confession. At that point, just the sound of your voice was enough to make him weep, and he didn't want to make things worse. Not that he thought they could *get* worse.

He made up some excuse about Leo calling it early, and ran.

He was running now, through the freezing rain, a sudden cold snap in the middle of spring, and hoping that between the temperature and the downpour hammering into his coat, he could think about anything else.

It wasn't long before he was considering ditching the coat. It was already soaked through, and weighing him down, which was hard to do.

That gave him pause.

He stopped, ducking under an overhang, and opened his coat, pulling the fabric back to expose his side. He twisted and looked at the small device mounted onto his shell just under his shoulder blade. There was supposed to be a little red light. There wasn't.

Shit.

They each had them. One of the first inventions D had come up with after they'd started doing patrols as kids.

A blizzard had suddenly torn through the city one night, and they were woefully unprepared with only winter coats. The cold dropped their body temperatures, and then them. Splinter had to hunt across the rooftops until he found them, asleep and hypothermic, huddled behind a construction dumpster.

Donnie didn't leave his lab for days. He blamed himself, he should have known the blizzard was coming, that their gear was insufficient, he should have had *some* kind of backup heat supply. No matter how many times his family told him otherwise, it was his fault, and he would never let it happen again.

So he built something to fix it. Raph didn't really get a lot of the specifics, but the overall was that the small devices "converted kinetic energy into heat that was then stored and distributed throughout the inside of their shells." Or, as Raph understands it, as long as you keep moving, you won't die.

One night a few weeks ago, someone had gotten lucky and he had taken a rusted rebar to the chest that had shattered on impact. His regulator had been damaged by the shrapnel, but the weather had already been warming up, and then the season hit and it was forgotten about.

The rain must have been the final nail, only the exterior was watertight. It was dead. He could already feel the cold and damp setting in. He needed to get home. Fast.

He set off, the only sound other than the roar of the rain was the gradually slowing heartbeat that pounded in his ears.

*Fuck* it was cold.

It wasn't long before his waterlogged coat became too much to carry. He ditched it behind an air conditioning unit, and kept moving.

Hailstones felt like bullets as they pelted bare skin, and through the sheets of rain, the haze of cold and exhaustion that had started at the edges was encroaching. It wasn't long before he was too tired to think.

He was moving on pure instinct, without even the presence of mind to pray he could make it somewhere safe. Somewhere in the back of his mind a tiny Leo was lecturing him for not hitting his emergency signal.

He stumbles. He is so, so tired. The soft darkness of sleep is pulling at him like a rip tide. He drags himself to the next rooftop, barely touching down before he collapses.