#top dollars for scrap cars

[scrapcargta]

Quick Cash for Cars in North York

Looking to sell your car in North York? Cash For Scrap Car GTA is your go-to solution. We offer cash for cars in North York, providing fair prices and a seamless selling process. Say goodbye to the hassle of private sales and experience the convenience of Cash For Scrap Car GTA. Contact us now for a free quote.

[junkcarsinc]

Cash For Junk Cars Near Me

If you have a junk car taking up space in your driveway, you would surely be thinking, “Where can I Sell My Junk Car for Cash in Chicago?” Are you searching for a profitable way to sell your old junk car, we at Cash For Junk Cars- Junk Cars Inc. present a great opportunity to get rid of your old car and get paid.

Read More: https://junk.cash/cash-for-junk-cars-near-me/

[junk-my-car-inc]

Cash For Car With No Title

If you have a junk car in Chicago and have lost the title, you may be wondering how to sell it. The first step is to contact Cash For Junk Cars – Junk My Car Inc. The process of junking a car in Chicago is not as complicated as one might think. In fact, we have a pretty straightforward process that anyone can do, as long as they have the right information.

Read More: https://cashforjunkcars-junkmycar.com/cash-for-car-with-no-title/

[avatarmerida]

I don’t have enough brain cells to do more with this idea but I always think about how in a panel they once joked about Hunter getting his drivers license in the human realm and idk if that’s secretly canon or a scrapped idea or a joke but I don’t care because I’m obsessed with the idea of a Camila teaching him how to drive and how he defiantly drives the exact speed limit at all times and overly checks his mirrors.

And then he gets his license and Willow has permanent shotgun and he looks at her looking out the window under the guise of checking his mirror but she’s almost like a dog the way she loves to stick her head out the window and feel the wind in her hair. She takes it out of her braids so her won’t lose her hair tie and Hunter is like 😳

And Gus in exchange for allowing Willow front seat not only had the whole backseat to himself but he’s in charge of music. They have special aux cord for Luz’s old iPod and they jam out to like Simple Plan and Avril but Hunter is a pro at not being distracted because he takes safety very seriously. But he loves to hear Willow and Gus try to guess the words as they still sing along at the top of their lungs.

And like at every stop light when a care pulls up next to them, Gus is like “Hunter, you gotta race them!” And Hunter of course is like “No.” and then Gus starts chanting and Willow joins in and he considers for a brief moment but of course he can’t betray Camila’s trust so he doesn’t give in. Willow and Gus still treat it like he’s racing, cheering at every car he passes.

They def always ask to go the drive thru and he’s a very big “we’ve got food at home” person but then always ends up turning into the parking lot as a surprise. Can you just imagine Hunter ordering off the dollar menu and treating like a big mission while Gus is in the back trying to decide what to get because he loves human food so much and there just so many choices? And then since Hunter is a very strict “hands on the wheel at all time” dude, Willow feeds him his fries so he can focus on driving. At one point she offers him a sip of her soda and if he wasn’t operating a vehicle he would pass away at the idea that his lips have been where hers have been.

Then at some point they’re driving home and car in front of them stops suddenly and Hunter hits the break, sending them all flying forward. They’re safe, always having their seatbelts on but instinctively, Hubter reaches out his arm in front of Willow as though to help stop her. But when he does, the placement of his arm is rather… compromising 😉 and Hunter freaks out and starts apologizing but Willow assures him it’s okay and Gus breaks the tension by blasting another song.

Also maybe he wears his Cosmic Frontier costume in his license photo because it’s an important document and he wants to look his best.

[albatris]

hewwo

I'm revisiting rental car book one and trying to muddle my way through the whole thing in order

felt like posting the little starting part <3

chapter one opening!!!! the very start of our silly miserable little trilogy :3 I'm not sure if it's too slow or not.........

ahoy taglist! @nicola-writes @saturniiforme @polyaubergine @tracle0 @goosemixtapes @valence-positive @the-one-who-makes-negative-noise @ambiguousfiction @afoolandathief @softboiled-doomdesire (new username? :O!) @mecharose @vellichor-virgo @flapuflapu @multi-lefaiye @writeouswriter @itisi-asimplegay @constellationof0rion @writing-is-a-martial-art and also @incandescent-creativity if you're interested, bc of your 👀👀👀👀's in the replies hehe :3

Nat Finch blinked awake.

He was slumped forward in the driver’s seat of his rental car, his forehead pressed to the steering wheel, his body aching like he hadn’t moved in centuries. His feet were bare. His throat burned. His head throbbed. Curled over his shoulders was the familiar softness of the blanket from his back seat, the one he’d been meaning to give to the Larsons for two weeks now. A deep night breeze leaked through the slightly-open window to his right, the cold gnawing at the dampness that clung to his clothes, to his face and hair. He felt filthy, filmy, disgusting—more so than usual.

A muddle of memories and flickers and voices fought for space in his brain, bumping up against each other and overlapping, threads escaping every time he thought he’d grasped one. He was overcome, for a single, surreal moment, by the sense he had just awoken from an exceedingly peculiar dream.

Nat Finch sat up, groaning.

In his lap, plastic crinkled, disturbed by the motion. A collection of granola bars were scattered over him, a few of them having tumbled down onto the seat next to him and the floor below. Like someone had dumped them unceremoniously over his head and just… left him like that. He squinted down at them.

He recognised the brand, vaguely—something hoity-toity and ridiculous he’d seen at the supermarket, fifteen dollars a goddamn box—but they weren’t something that had any business being anywhere near him. His bank balance barely scraped double digits at the moment.

“Who the fuck…” Nat paused, not sure what question he was even supposed to be asking. “Why the fuck…”

His attention edged upwards, to a scrap of cardboard folded neatly in two and perched atop his dashboard.

DO YOUR BEST! it read in a childlike handwritten scrawl.

Nat squinted harder. “What the fuck.”

He tried to think. His brain, sluggish and laden with fog and aching, refused to provide any context for the mystery shower of nutrition. Or the note.

Or… anything else, for that matter. He didn’t remember falling asleep; he didn’t remember stopping his car. He remembered leaving work, but it had barely been dusk when he’d left work. The trip from Stop ‘N’ Go to his apartment was fifteen minutes, tops.

It was not dusk anymore. The black outside was the pitch dark and solitude of the witching hour, and the world beyond his window was dead silent, save for the buzz and pop of a single faulty streetlight a few metres ahead and the chittering gossip of crickets. No people. No cars. No movement.

Nat’s dread climbed. He craned his neck and strained to decipher his whereabouts. The lonely light offered only flimsy, spluttering illumination—some of it splashing into his car, some of it into dry grass and mesh fence lining the side of the road, most of it merely into the rumble of gravel directly beneath it. He had no idea where he was. He had no idea why he was where he was.

The disco ball hanging from his rear-view mirror glittered at him, blinking urgently.

He shoved the granola bars off himself, suddenly feeling contaminated, sending them scattering. A strident, pulsating pain forked through every inch of his body at the movement—he gritted his teeth, letting out a hiss of air and a wince. The blanket went next, ripped from his shoulders and hurled at the opposing window in a multicoloured flurry. It crumpled to the passenger seat and Nat stared at it, prickling all over with the suspicion someone else had placed it on him. Someone else had been here. Watching. Leaning. Looming. Touching. His hand flew to the window winder and wound it, sealing the opening. Sealing himself in and the outside out.

And then he sat still, mind reeling, chest tight. Panic twisting in his stomach. He waited for his brain to kick over, for his memory to rush back, for the moment he shook free the dregs of post-sleep disorientation and went, Oh, that’s right! That’s why I’m here! That’s what’s going on! How could I have forgotten?

A minute passed.

And another.

Frozen.

Rigid.

Nat swallowed, hard. Nothing clicked into place. Nothing clicked and nothing clicked and nothing clicked. Why not? He’d left work and turned left down Rake Street like he always did. He’d done nothing out of the ordinary.

The dark outside was alive. With every flicker-out of the streetlight, it whined at his window, still trying to reach him. A tapping, a whistling, a whispering in its own made-up language. Nat. Nat. Nat. Something’s wrong. Nathaniel. Something’s wrong. The dark that should not have been there. The dark that should have been dusk.

He'd lost hours. He’d lost hours. What the hell had happened to him? The note on his dashboard just sat there, smirking. It knew things he didn’t.

Nat fought to breathe in.

Nat fought to breathe out.

Nat breathed in.

Nat breathed out.

Five things he could see were that gaudy leopard-print steering wheel cover, the smeared windscreen from too-old wipers, the radio, the hazard switch, his own hands, crusted in cracked, dried mud.

Four things he could feel were the press of the seat under him, the press of his work uniform over him, the sting of the cold on his feet, pain, pain, pain.

Three things he could hear were crickets and streetlights and dark.

Two things he could smell were the dull citrus hum of the vent-clip air freshener and the fact it was doing nothing to hide the fact he hadn’t showered in a while.

One thing he could taste was—

Okay, okay, alright. Okay. That would do it. Nat breathed in. Nat breathed out. Calm. Calm. Calm. A panic attack would help no one.

He reached gingerly for the ignition, exhaling in relief when he grasped the key still inside. He had that, at least. He hesitated, perched on an agonising threshold between hopeful anticipation and whatever reality was about to find him.

He turned.

Nothing.

He turned again.

Nothing. The car stuttered and clicked uselessly, refusing to start. Relief left him as quickly as it had arrived. Flat battery.

Nat breathed, “Ah, fuck.”

Nat breathed in.

Nat breathed out.

He twisted towards the back seat, feeling along the faux leather for his work backpack. He hauled it to himself and rammed an arm inside to seek his phone, shoving through a jumble of familiar shapes—notebook, hoodie, empty soft drink can for recycling, empty soft drink can for recycling, gum, nametag—ah, there it was.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Nat whined, his finger colliding with the power button. “Please, please, please—”

Nothing. Flat battery.

Nat breathed in.

Nat breathed out.

Nat plonked his forehead back down on the steering wheel and released a long, agonised wail.

Simmering anxiety climbed into roiling terror. Terror branched sideways into paranoia. Paranoia bloomed up through his chest and into his throat, where it squeezed tight and threatened to choke him. He’d lost hours. Anything could have happened to him. Anything could have been done to him. The dark outside mocked and laughed. The disco ball blinked its rhythmic little warnings. He could feel it all, even when he wasn’t looking.

Nathaniel. Something’s wrong. Nathaniel.

“No shit,” he muttered back.

Nat breathed in.

Nat breathed out.

What next?

He lifted his head and flipped the sun visor down to look at himself in the mirror. With no phone screen and no overhead light to guide him, it was hard to get a full picture. He tilted his head, twisted his neck, attempted to catch himself on some jittering streetlight. He snagged a few glimpses—a dribble of blood from a cracked lip here, a smudge of dirt on a cheekbone there. His shirt looked bloody, too, though that could have been more mud. His hair wasn’t sitting right, all caked together and hanging in thick clumps.

Two trembling hands lifted, the quiver partially from weakness and partially from fear, and Nat gripped at his face. Tugging along those familiar edges and curves and juts, finding them not so familiar. Finding them wrong. Hollow. Caved in. His fingertips wandered down towards his jaw—

—and along the thick, uneven mumbling of stubble that hadn’t been there when he’d left the apartment that morning.

Nat’s heartbeat tripped up. He hadn’t lost hours.

He’d lost days.

Nat breathed in. Nat breathed in. Nat breathed in. Not enough. Too fast. His chest heaved. His lungs refused to fill.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no. He couldn’t have lost days. He couldn’t have lost days. Jesus Christ, Nat had never been the shining poster child of mental health, but he’d never lost days. He’d been God knew where for God knew how long. He’d been—his feet were bare, his hands and face were streaked with mud, someone had clearly been messing around in his car—he’d been taken. Drugged. Kidnapped. That scribbled note? He was being toyed with, probably by some deranged serial killer. And what was with the granola bars? Some kind of clue? A message?

He had to go. He had to run. He had to get help. Something close to a whimper climbed up his throat and fell from his lips. His hand crept to the door handle, and stopped.

Nat didn’t move.

He’d seen horror movies. Not many, but enough. The chase, the hunt, the twisted mind games before the inevitable kill… these were part of the fun. There was probably someone watching him right now, folded into the shadows and out of sight, waiting for him to panic. Waiting for him to make his first mistake and step outside.

Waiting for him to start the game.

He couldn’t leave.

He couldn’t stay.

Could he stay? Could he just wait it out? Someone would find him. Someone would look for him. Someone would look for him, right?

No, no one would look for him. No one would care enough that he was gone.

No, there was no way they’d let him wait this out. They would find some way to lure him out, drive him out, force him out into the waiting hands of the cold night air. Unprotected. Alone. All at once Nat felt a million eyes boring into him, leering from beyond the black, drinking in his every move. He shoved himself lower in his seat, clutching his dead phone to his chest, making himself as small as possible.

Nat fought to breathe in.

Nat fought to breathe out.

He tried a final time to reason with himself.

When he’d worked twelve hour shifts four days straight, he’d started being dogged by the idea someone had snuck a microscopic tracking device into his takeaway pizza, which he had subsequently consumed. When he’d been behind on rent for the third fortnight in a row, he’d become fixated on the idea other customers in the supermarket were reading his thoughts and laughing at him. Look at this fucking loser. Grimy hair and track pants. Can’t even afford instant ramen.

Panic and stress tended to climb on top of him bit by bit. Panic and stress tended to twist all kinds of everyday events into all kinds of unnatural, terrifying shapes. It was normal. Even the tiny, audible hints of speech pushing through the dark, giving voice to his anxiety, those were normal under the right circumstances. It was all… no, not normal. It was a pattern. Tomorrow, he’d be fine. Tomorrow, he’d understand he’d never been in any danger.

So even though he was here now, helpless and stranded in the empty night, barefoot and filthy, abandoned by his memories and surrounded by leering scrawled words and fucking rich people granola bars—he had to take this moment of clarity and hold it tight.

Tomorrow, this would all make sense.

DO YOUR BEST! the dark around him sang.

“Go to hell,” Nat spat.

And with that, he wrenched the door open.

[youmightfindyourself]

About five years ago, for seven dollars, I bought an old citrus juicer at a thrift shop.  It was one of those vintage small appliances which seem built to survive gas explosions and hammer attacks. When I turned on the motor with a metal toggle switch, a drive shaft spun a heavy ceramic knob that gouged out the hearts of lemon and orange halves, leaving not a scrap of pulp uncrushed. The thing worked beautifully, almost like new, so I looked up its serial number on the internet to see when the unit was manufactured, guessing it might be almost 40 years old. 

Wrong. It dated to the 1940s. It was 70, the stubborn monster, still giving satisfaction with every use.

I can’t say the same about my coffee grinders. I use the plural because I’ve owned a lot of them, all bought in their original packaging and dead within a year. They’re good ones, supposedly, with burrs not blades, but they stop performing before long, ending their long journeys from overseas factories in unmarked graves in my local Montana landfill. 

I have a whole ghost kitchen in this landfill, and soon I will need to reserve a bigger plot. For the nifty under-the-counter fridge that has stopped getting cold after three years and no one in the area can fix. For the cool, bagless vacuum cleaner that clogs and chokes when I run it over a rug. For the set of glass measuring cups whose numbers and hash marks are swiftly fading and becoming illegible, much like those on the dials of the washer my wife bought just three years ago. For the remains of the Pyrex casserole that shattered when I removed it from the oven, strewing the floor with blade-like shards, some so tiny I probably won’t find them for another couple of months, and only when they lodge in my bare feet. 

Should I go on? I think I will. It’s important to get to the essayistic part, where I ask what it means when the objects in our lives demoralize us in a blizzard of malfunctions that seem to be hastening by the month. But it’s also important—to me, emotionally—to bury the reader in details of the unceasing material disappointments I’ve faced. Disappointments of the sort we will all be facing en masse in a few days. Merry Christmas!

Like the cute yellow mittens my wife picked up at Target which unraveled the second time she wore them. Or the new suitcase which won’t stand upright when it’s full. The laptop computers that have turned to bricks within months of their warranties expiring. And the hybrid sedan with 50,000 miles on it that also turned into a brick while going eighty down the freeway, losing its power steering, its power brakes, its power everything. I survived, by some miracle, issued legal threats, and the car’s manufacturer repaired it, free. Then it bricked again a few weeks later.

It’s the little things too, of course, because they’re constant. The staples that won’t pierce five stacked sheets of paper. The matches that sizzle and smoke but won’t catch fire. The grocery bags split by the corners of the milk cartons whose inadequate seals leak drops. The strangely short power cords on electronics. The two or three new pens I use each week that, because no ink comes out of them (at least not continuously, in lines) aren’t really pens at all, in fact, but tributes to pens. Potemkin pens, mere props. 

Baffled by how to measure this decline in the quality of common wares—a decline whose significance I promise to cover once I’ve further gratified my rage—I opened the matter to my Twitter audience and quickly garnered more than 2,000 replies, by far the longest thread I’ve ever triggered. The complaints were specific and formed patterns. One was a loathing for newer washers and dryers because they don’t wash or dry well, and then they break. The clothes that go inside them were disliked, too. (A former top executive of Levi’s chimed in to confirm that jeans aren’t what they used to be.) 

My favorite replies were the picky ones. One person noted that the “juice content” of juice is going down. Another observed that the “foaming liquid hand soap” which suddenly is dominating store shelves is really just normal liquid soap, diluted.

Many blamed these problems on the government. They believed it had crippled certain products (major home appliances, especially) with environmental regulations, causing them to function poorly and turn rapidly to landfill fodder—an ecological net loss, perhaps. Some folks blamed our trade agreements with China and the evils of capitalism itself. Weak-link computer chips in items that don’t require them also came in for abuse. One highly philosophical reply spoke of a sinister general trend toward the degradation of everything human. “There’s a war on value that’s going that’s comprised of three parts: war on quality, war on money, war on life.” Lofty rhetoric, but I understood. When my suddenly de-electrified hybrid car became a hurtling giant stone inside which my wife and I were helplessly strapped—all for the crime of trying to save fuel and, ultimately, earth—it was hard not to feel tricked. 

Only a couple of my correspondents challenged my premise—and the flood of testimony—that stuff is getting crappier, and acutely so. They made an economic argument. They claimed things are worse because we want them cheaper, but if price is adjusted for inflation, they’re of the same quality as always. These rant-killing sophisticates annoyed me. Our new washing machine with the faded dials and the vanishing enamel on its corners (I forgot to mention that defect) is the costliest model we’ve ever purchased. As for the much of the cheap stuff—those Target mittens, say—they aren’t merely inexpensive, they’re valueless. In fact, they’re of negative value when one considers the waste of materials involved, and the wasted energy of driving to buy them, then driving to return them later—a second trip that, in this case and many others, wasn’t worth making. Instead, we took the loss. And the world took the loss. A small one, but they add up.

In England in the 19th century there arose certain thinkers—John Ruskin, William Morris—who believed that the quality of material objects reflects and affects the quality of society, even of the spirit. “Have nothing in your home,” wrote Morris, the father of the Arts and Crafts movement, which aimed to elevate the lives of the working and middle classes, “that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” This would be a tall order nowadays. 

Recently, my wife needed a carrot peeler. She needed one rather quickly. Off to Target. The one she bought (the only one on sale) looked handsome enough, and the brand was one she recognized, but it failed in the useful department, miserably. It wasn’t sharp enough to peel a carrot. Like my pens which aren’t pens because pens put ink on paper, her peeler which didn’t peel was a nullity, a simulacrum, a representation of something, not the thing. 

The world is going digital, we’re told, and someday there will even be digital real estate inhabited by people in digital clothes drinking digital orange juice extracted with digital juicers.  People will play at the lives they once took seriously, lives that had once had heft and weight, and the juice content of juice will fall to zero. I suspect my old physical squeezer will still be working then, but the rest of my kitchen gear won’t. Not much of it. I might not last, either. I fear I won’t. The psychic toll of goods that don’t endure is that one loses faith the future will even come, and then one loses interest in it coming, for little that we own or use or cherish seems likely to be there with us to meet it. 

One wonders whose obsolescence is being planned—our products’, our belongings’, or our own?

[janicesweekley]

Scrap Car Removal Markham

Are you tired of seeing your old and unwanted car taking up space in your driveway or garage? Do you want to get rid of it without any hassle and get paid top dollar for it? If you live in Markham or GTA, you are in luck! Scrap Car Removal Markham is the best solution for your scrap car problem.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

A Shinichiro x reader, is a human who is enhanced with robotics part such as one arm or leg. This a a universe that has robots and cyborgs those who have the most money or most influence have the best models of robots and Cybogs. Shin is an engineer who collects scraps in a scrap graveyard to find ways to build/repair robots in his lab. His next trip to the graveyard he finds Y/N injured and takes her to his lab to fix her up. Strangers to Friends to Lovers.

been sittin' on this one for a while. feeling this vibe tonight, though.

Scrap Yard (Part 1): Shinichiro Sano x Fem!Reader

wc: 1k

tw: fluff

masterlist

Scrap metal.

Shinichiro loves scrap metal. He's not sure when he first came to know of its existence or how he came to possess the first fragments of shiny silver, copper, and brass that decorate his office. But he does know that the first time he fixed something, he was in the first grade and almost shit himself watching the old clock come back to life.

From then on, Shin knew he was destined for great things. Well, things were better than his hometown and upbringing, at least.

Taking off at lunch was normal for a nice day, and everyone at the robot factory knew Shin would make his way to his old motorcycle and rev it up before speeding through downtown to the one place he loved most: the junkyard.

And today is no different.

As Shin uses his thirty-minute lunch to pick through items and dust them off, he watches his step - rodents loved this place just as much as he did - and keeps a sharp sense of hearing out for the sound of the trash collectors. One wrong move and he'd be swept away with the other discarded items destined for the burning landfill behind the junkyard.

"You ever think about this place like a gold mine?" he wonders to no one, eyes scanning the hunks of old cars, signs, and trash collected together in one place. Shin inhales the scent of promise deeply, filling his lungs with the acrid smell of rusting metal before exhaling with a smile. "Let's get to work."

First, he unpacks his little helper, TeeBo, from the back of his motorcycle. TeeBo is his refurbished metal detector, but the difference between him and the other detectors is it's not handheld. "Listen, Tee," Shin begins, holding the device out and watching it power up. "Today, we're scanning for radios."

"Radios?" it repeats, the metal propellor unfolding from the top of its inhuman head.

"Radios. With wires."

"On it, boss," the little device sings, then lifts out his hand and begins its journey high in the sky. Shin follows behind it, hands in his pockets while the device scans piles, then returns a beeping sound - no radios here. Really TeeBo does most of the work identifying each item and examining the yards of trash for Shin, but Shin always follows closely in case TeeBo misses something.

TeeBo flies ahead of him, scanning every way and returning the same beeping sound. Shin didn't need another radio for the collection (it would be number 75). Still, he would like to have another to refurbish and put up on iTrade for a pretty penny, labeling it as a "collectible vintage item." People would pay top dollar for something like that.

The sound of TeeBo flying around fades as the machine does its job quickly. Shin briefly looks down at his watch, noting the time, before looking back up and hearing a small siren.

Shin breaks out in a smile and jogs toward the sound, excited to see what TeeBo had found. But when he sees the item, he pauses, stopping in his tracks.

"Holy shit." TeeBo cuts his alarm off, and Shin takes a step toward you, reaching out to touch the very real and damaged thing that had set TeeBo off. Your arm lays by your side, almost broken, the control box flipped open and wires poking out of the communication compartment. It was basically a radio. Overall, you looked like hell. Your hair is unkempt, black smudges litter your face and torn clothes, and your arm looks almost completely severed.

"Hey." Shin snaps his fingers in front of your face, which seems to have gone dormant. "Hey, wake up." Your whole body begins to reawaken, and your eyes flutter slowly.

"What..."

"Your arm looks like it's in bad shape," Shin begins, eyeing the droid part carefully. "You're gonna need help with that."

"That'sssss... why I came to the... junkyard in the firssssst... place," you slur, lolling your head around to look at Shin. "To fi-th my arm."

"Damn," Shin breathes. "I can help you out if you need it, you know. Like... fix your arm."

"That would be great," you offer. "But you don't have any credentials, do you?"

"I'm an engineer," Shin chuckles. "I know how to fix anything."

"Okay, by anything... you couldn't have meant droid arms." Shin scrunches his brows together, attempting to solder a connection between the communication line and the central system.

"I'm trying here," he mutters. He glances over at you sitting on his bed, now all cleaned up and looking very... typical. If he looked at you from a certain angle, he wouldn't be able to see the amputated arm at all. Underneath all the grime, you looked like an ordinary girl he might pass on the street. But from what you told him, your life had been anything but ordinary.

A car crash at ten left you orphaned, without a right arm or any family to care for you. You'd been given a yearly replacement of the droid arm you would receive, but that didn't do much for you when it came to learning how to use it for school, play, or everyday life. And repairs for the arm were too costly.

"I just avoided using it. I mean, I couldn't even use it in gym class. It was an "unfair advantage." And I got kicked off the softball and basketball team as soon as things got rough."

Shin understood that. But what he couldn't wrap his head around was--

"How did you end up in the junkyard again?" Your eyes slide over to him, and your mouth opens to prepare your excuse: a drunken night gone wrong. But Shin puts his solder gun down, and you sigh.

"I got into brawling for cash," you grumble, looking away. Shin sighs, shaking his head. It's what cast-off robots and droids did to make money when things were too complicated. "Got my ass kicked pretty bad."

"Don't go back down there, y/n," Shin warns, turning his focus back to the arm. "There isn't anything good that crawls up from that cesspit."

"I crawled out of that cesspit," you joke.

"Yeah," Shin huffs. "And right into my lab to get fixed." Though, as he spends his third week trying to work on the item, he isn't so sure that it was a stroke of bad luck that brought you here to him.

No, he thinks, glancing over at you briefly. It's not a bad thing at all.

[carbreakersnorthwest]

SCRAP MY CAR STOCKPORT

Turn your clunker into cash with Car Breakers Northwest! If you've got a scrap my car in Stockport that's taking up valuable space, we're here to rescue you. Our hassle-free process makes it quick and easy to get top dollar for your vehicle. With our expert team and environmentally friendly practices, you can trust us to handle recycling responsibly. Don't let your old car be a burden any longer – choose Car Breakers Northwest and say goodbye to your scrap car today!

[phantom-does-a-thing]

i don’t have any morespecific questions off the top of my head but! are there any fun facts/behind the scenes details about ‘it won't be the same when my favorite person leaves’ or ‘just a bit of rain’ that you would be willing to share 👉👈 bc personally those two have been making me go bonkers lately

OHO! I am always willing to share and I will absolutely find something to tell you bc I love both those fics. "It won't be the same when my favorite person leaves" has been living in my head, I literally woke up the other day and forgot it wasn't actually canon that's how deep it has been engrained in my head. Sorry this is going to get long!!!!!!

So talking about that one first since it's in my head: That fic has been in my mind for MONTHS, ever since I listened to Episode 10 (like before I even finished it) I just really really wanted the idea of them having to stay at a motel or something. I think I did start writing an iteration of it that I completely scrapped.

Originally, I had started writing the fic from RIGHT after the base burned down and right after the battle but it frustrated me SO much that I just... dropped that fic bc personally I hate like doing a ton of scene changes or having characters go places. It's just so... clunky, it always throws off my pacing.

OH WAIT I think one of the inspirations for the motel idea was one of ur drawings as well the one you did of like the three of them plus Ashe cuddling, like I wanted to put them in a situation of one bed + cuddles and that was the situation that presented to me. All that build up for the final scene <3

Quick behind the scene fact, I actually went to the website of my local pharmacy and put a ton of things in the cart online to like buy just to try and see how much money it would cost. It ended up like 170 dollars and I said "no I am not making William pay that much" and dropped the price significantly. Just as a little fun fact of the entire writing process.

This fic also took me a really long time to write, like disregarding all the time it took for me to plan it and think of an idea (I might have gone through 2 or so iterations of it to plan out how I wanted to do it). Like actually WRITING it was a doozy, I don't know how it became 11k words.

This one was also a little more out of pocket for me, it's a LOT more dialogue heavy than most of my other fics which was definitely... interesting. To say the least. I was super worried about the characterization the whole time lol I had to use the excuse of "this is a high stress situation they are not thinking straight" to make it so I wouldn't go insane from nitpicking everything. I want to try and get bettter with writing dialogue so this was a step in that direction but it was sooo hard.

Ok now for the little details:

William had called Vyncent at least once more prior to the call that I actually wrote

Listen, William was thrown against a car in that fight he has a REALLY bad concussion and should not be left alone

Re: previous point, Dakota ALSO shouldn't be left alone because he's also super injured so it's a lesser of two evils and definitely a bad situation for Vyncent trying to deal with

I don't know how well it came across, but I was definitely trying to convey a communication barrier between Vyncent and William. From Vyncent's POV and like when he was speaking I 1) tried not to refer to the motel by "motel" since Vyncent wouldn't know what that means and 2) Vyncent knows that William has a really bad concussion he just doesn't know how to convey that but he knows Will is really hurt

When Vyncent came to get William he was not trying to hide ANYTHING. No headphones, no shoes, he didn't even tuck his tail in. He is *stressed* his main concern was finding William

Re: previous point, literally any passerby (this is like 2 am idk who would be out) would just 100% think that this like monster creature thing kidnapped a sobbing child in the middle of the night

Vyncent was very close to breaking down, when William grabbed him and like hugged him, he nearly broke as well.

Both William and Vyncent were trying to take the role of responsibility, Vyncent just has no idea what he's doing but he knows he's the least injured

OH I just saw this skimming through the fic but yeah Vyncent was purring as a way to try and comfort William bc that's a way of comfort that he is familiar with

Vyncent did not like the idea of Will going out on his own at all bc he didn't want them to be separated any more. He was already stressed after anything else

I need to emphasize the scene of Will and Vyn coming back to the motel and him noticing that Dakota had been crying that scene is so important to me

Dakota had been in and out of sleep the entire time, he's in so much pain (A lot more than in canon but he is sooooo injured) and can't stay asleep for super long bc of the pain. He kept crying out for someone while Vyncent was gone and no one was there.

another small side note: phantom has never seen a motel irl. He has no idea what a motel looks like. Phantom had to look up images on google. The only impression phantom has of a motel is from supernatural.

All three of them switched outfits btw this detail is also important to me, I mostly do it with Dakota n William but I needed to add Vyncent to it. William was wearing Vyncent's jacket (it was the least damaged, raised least suspicions). Vyncent was wearing Dakota's flannel (needed something at least) and Dakota was wearing William's sweatshirt (comfort).

Ok I think that's good I will tell you some things about the other fic tho.

"Just a bit of rain"

This one was like I really just wanted to emphasize more of that communication/language barrier between Vyncent and the other's. I think that was my main focus behind it. Also I thought it would be interesting to come up with different aspects and I just love the trope of character being afraid of storms.

Vyncent didn't know how to communicate the issue and Tide and the others didn't know how to go about it either. That was my main goal behind the fic. I wanted to convey that panic and frustration because Vyncent was stressed about the others getting hurt mostly.

It's been a hot second since I wrote this so I can't remember much of the process behind it but I can point out some details.

Vyncent went to William in the middle of the night because he trusted William's word so what William said would be safe, Vyncent would believe that

He could sense that there was going to be a storm, he could feel it in his tall bones or whatever idfk. But he knew it was gonna storm and it kept him awake so he needed to get reassurance from someone he knew he could trust.

"William knows what he's talking about" n all that or whatever idk it was the middle of the night.

I think William used to love storms but now... not so much

Vyncent was struggling so hard to wrap his mind around the concept of a storm not being some sort of catastrophic event. I am really obsessed with the miscommunication aspect of this fic I need you to know that. It was so fun to write.

Everyone assumed it was the noise that was bothering Vyncent bc of his sensitive hearing and all that so they also had a hard time wrapping their head around what could be wrong.

Every confrontation that they had, Vyncent was pretty quick to get defensive because it was a really "animal backed into a corner" type situation and he was getting stressed and frustrated

Tide being the first one to understand what the issue is when Vyncent starts going on about how dangerous it will be. That is very important to me.

The entire "walk me through your thought process" or "I need you to explain what your thinking" is something that I think they use a lot around the base bc they all have different needs or feelings and it's hard to get around those types of things. So often its just "tell me your thoughts from start to finish" so they can troubleshoot the issue.

its like rubber ducky decoding.

The one of the first points I mentioned when Vyncent went into the storm I think was the rain smelling nice and that was the biggest reassurance to Vyn bc like he's used to rain smelling like AWFUL but it didn't smell bad to him. The smell is very important to him.

He deserves to be able to stomp in some puddles I think, splash around n all that.

I don't really know what else to point out for that fic, I was kind of just emphasizing things with no meaning but those things I really like about the fic. That one was just super fun to write I think. It definitely deviated more from what I usually write or what I'm used to doing since there a few more nuances to it I think.

Anyway yeah yippee thanks for letting me ramble for a bit, if there's any other questions you have I would loveee to answer them.

<3

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