#and the flex discs

[wackyattack]

While the article does say it is not conclusive about the health impacts of what they have found, it's always a good time to look into reusable menstrual products. If the health benefits/concerns (such as toxic shock) are not a good enough incentive, there are also environmental and monetary reasons to get reusable menstrual products!!!

For all disposable pads, and the majority of tampons you are going to have plastic components, from the packaging, to insertation method, and for pads the plastic lining on the bottom that it uses to stick! In the study linked above it says that people may end up using MORE than 7,400 tampons in their life time which is a lot of one time disposables and creates a lot of waste!

However, even if you are being super environmentally friendly by using organic tampons with a cardboard inserter, there is also the cost to think about!

Without spending a ton of time looking into options/doing math (there are a LOT of variations in pricing) but I'm going to say that you can get a box of 30 regular absorbant tampons for about 8 dollars. Taking our average of 7,400 tampons in a life time, that means that you will be buying 247 boxes of 30 tampons!

If prices don't rise, or you aren't buying more expensive organic ones or any of that, it comes to about 2,000$ that you will be spending on tampons in your life!

2,000 DOLLARS. that's insane.

On the other hand you have reusable menstrual products! Depending on what you decide to get, your initial costs are going to vary!

If you decide to go with reusable pads, you are probably going to want to get at least a few of them depending on how often you will need to change it and how often you want to be doing laundry. The same goes for reusable period underwear.

Reusable pads range from a price of around 10-20$ per pad, and period underwear from 14-40$ per pair. BUT! these can last you practically forever if you take care of them! It is however a bit more of an initial cost to be sure since you will probably want to buy multiple.

Now getting into other options!!

I have personally tried reusable pads and period underwear, and while I like them, they are not my favorite (although on heavy days, I will typically use a reusable liner, or thing pair of period underwear just to be safe). I personally prefer menstrual cups, not to be confused with menstrual discs, although those are a great option as well!

Both discs and cups are generally made out of medical grade silicone (although there is, I believe, one brand that's makes cups out of tpe). When taken well care of, they can last you up to 10 years, and unlike reusable pads/underwear, you don't need multiple to switch out during your cycle. I would say the cost varies from about 25-50$ with an average price of about 36 dollars. So if you menstruate for about 4 decades, you would probably spend around 150$ in total compared to the almost 2000$ with using disposable products!

Also, both of them can be worn for up to 12 hours without risk of toxic shock! There are very very few cases of toxic shock when using a menstrual disc/cup and those are really only in cases where people left them in for waaaaay too long, or were super unhygienic.

They can be comfortably inserted and removed in advance to your period because they don't need to be full of blood to come out comfortably! This means that if you are worried at all about your period starting, you can just pop it in, and if it doesn't end up starting, you don't have to pull an uncomfortable dry tampon out.

Both also can hold a lot more than a tampon, so for many people, they can actually keep it in for the full 12 hours without worrying about it getting full!

As far as care for them, you can boil them every few cycles and wash them with a gentle soap (or even just a good rinse of water) between uses.

Menstrual discs use your anatomy to stay in, sitting on the pubic bone! They have a less steep learning curve compared to a menstrual cup as far as ease of getting it in or out, but perhaps more of a learning curve when it comes to getting them out cleanly! One nice thing they have is an auto dumping feature, meaning that you won't have to physically empty it as often. (I'm not going to spend time here explaining what that is, but if you look at the links at the bottom about discs, there should be information there!)

There are also disposable versions of this product available if you are really uncertain about it and not ready to spend as much money on it, although to be honest the rims of the disposables are more firm than any of the reusable discs I have tried, but definitely an option to try!

One nice addition that many reusable ones have is that they have a string or a loop that makes it easier (and typically less messy) to pull out, some have spill guards like the diva disc on the right, or different size options like the lumma discs on the left.

Menstrual cups also sit inside the body, but instead of sitting on the pubic bone like a menstrual disc, they use a suction seal to stay in! They can stay upright the while time you take them out which in generally means it's easier to get it out cleanly. Also because they use suction, I have found that they lead less when they are full as compared to a menstrual disc. Most will have a stem of some sort, but unlike a menstrual disc this is more to help to gently move the cup downward, and you should not pull out the cup using this, as it won't break the seal, and puts a lot of stress on the stem. Instead you use the stem to gently wiggle it down and then break the seal by pinching the bottom of the cup.

While there is more variety coming around with menstrual discs, there is a lot fmmore variety in cups, as there are many many different shapes, sizes and lengths!

Here are some resources for learning more about cups and discs as well as some good options for pads/underwear

Finding a cup

More about the difference between cups and discs

What is auto dumping for a disc?

A reusable pads option! (There are a lot of options, these are just ones I have tried)

Period underwear!!

The same website with the cup quiz also has a YouTube channel called put a cup in it, as does period nirvana, and they both have a ton of helpful information when it comes to using cups/discs, and I watched hours of them before deciding to get one myself. There is a bit of a learning curve involved but i genuinely love using a menstrual cup

my period is back again and id like to take this moment to remind everyone with a uterus to avoid using tampons at all costs, if you can. a recent study was conducted with 14 different popular brands of tampons, revealing that every single one of them contained toxic metals such as lead, arsenic, and more.

[dbarenzu626]

01000001 01110010 01100101 01110011

...Anyone know binary?

Anyways, "TRON Ares" fanart! It's no secret that I'm a fan of the TRON franchise, Disney's underdog marriage of video game and digital aesthetics has been an inspiration to me. Whether it was popping in the VHS tape for the 1982 film back when I was but a boy of ten or heading to see "TRON Legacy" in theaters with friends when it came out in 2010 to even clocking in my time to the countless video games based off the Grid, I owe a lot to the digital franchise that could.

Of course, the thing with "TRON Ares" is that it's a bit of a significant shift in the franchise. For starters, it's a complete reset button of Joseph Kosinski's prior "TRON Ascension" pitch, since the Mouse House essentially shelved it back in the day when Brad Bird's "Tomorrowland" cost the company a couple million in losses (it wasn't that bad thoooooough). The second is the most obvious: director Joachim Ronning is a director who one can read his filmography and see mixed bag results with and trusting him with the digital experience could prove a risky one. Third? The choice of its lead actor: Jared Leto. I'm sure I don't need to explain why this choice is divisive, but if you've seen the production of "Suicide Squad" (the 2016 one, not The) and "Morbius", then you probably know why.

Nonetheless, I've grown close to the idea that perhaps Ares might have some merit behind it besides being a giant reset button of sorts: for starters, the plot is leaning in the direction of digital meeting the real world, something that was already established in "TRON Legacy" and is now seeing fruition here with a commentary on artificial intelligence. There's also the soundtrack led by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross (or more properly, for this film's case, their band Nine Inch Nails, which is... insanely hype), to which, BTW, I called as far back as April 2024 with some friends on a Discord server when I shared a piece off the "Challengers" soundtrack:

All in all, while I have my cautiousness, the optimism wins here. And for a film like this, I think it's best to carry a bit of optimism because it's what may lead to more in the franchise. Besides, we're getting this and a new game this year with Bithell's "TRON Catalyst", sooo... can we get some Lorcana rep next? C'mon, you know you wanna, Disney...

For this piece, I based it off the screenshots that Disney has released so far, behind-the-scenes pics of Jared Leto in the Grid suit from their shooting in Vancouver and then what I could see from the D23 teaser (shhhhhh, I needed references), mixing it in with a "TRON Uprising"-style influence. The tricky thing is trying to keep the character and actor looking like the character and actor without losing definitive features, something tricky with Robert Valley's art style for the show, but yet something he did well with CLU's character in-show too. But all in all, between that and a near furious digital look, I think I did pretty well! Text and textless versions above, of course!

If you don't know, "TRON Ares" comes out October 10, 2025. And Disney better get the first teaser out sometime in the near future~

(P.S: If you also don't know, "Something I Can Never Have" is a song title from Nine Inch Nails album Pretty Hate Machine and amazingly enough, a reworked version of that song serenaded the D23 trailer for "TRON Ares". Doubles as a reference to both its artists and to what I'm theorizing is Ares's character!)

[whatudottu]

I cannot cartoon without legally compensating with a... well it's not realistic but it's not the cute ISAT style- have an Isabeau!

and a mini sif in the background

[outtamymindbaby]

Period day 3

I love Flex Menstrual discs - a game changer

It’s comfy and holds me for hours

The second day - I felt achy, I grabbed a cookies n cream/cookie dough milkshake from Ben and Jerry’s it was delish. - then I needed a slice of pepperoni. Cravings checked off seriously.

I gave a homeless lady a ride back to her stay after watching her struggle walking with 4 bags - I gave her my extra pizza (one that I bought just in case I wanted an extra but I knew I was full of the shake and slice). The slice was meant for her. So that’s wonderful.

Today I want pancakes and pepper steak pasta

Feeling bratty and just want to lounge.

I’m sleepy

Oh & I almost called a person I’m not supposed to

I cried

[elegyforaria]

I yearn for nothing more than to Be Clean without needing to shower and to Be Fed without needing to eat and to Play Video Game for seven year. Ok?

[smexthoughts]

So what they don't mention with a flex disc is even though it is one size fits all, it is also a good idea to remember that if you are actively exercising things change shape, in my case as we are getting smaller, the disc is more likely to have to be adjusted after internally empting(where you squeeze your pelvic muscles to push the contents out), it will still divette, and it can still be a bit messy with sex, because of the new use of muscles...

[europlusautomotive]

Mercedes-Benz is one of the most sought-after luxury cars in the world that is known for its performance & smooth running. However, issues with the functioning of the chassis flex disc can adversely affect the running of your Mercedes as the power generated by the engine will not be able to reach the wheels of your car. Have a look at the infographics to know the premier garage in Canoga Park that can help fix your Mercedes chassis flex disc failure.

[blueywrites]

welcome home

ghost x reader x soap

when soap and ghost return from mission and find you, a civilian medic working on base, curled up on the rec room couch, you end up giving the boys a thorough welcome home.

18+ only. plus size fem reader. scent kink. the guys are dirty (literally). mild bush/ball/cock worship. threesome.

-

The rec room is dim, lit only by a stingy bank of ceiling fluorescents that flicker slightly whenever someone leans on the wrong bit of wall. The overhead lights are switched off, replaced with the softer, amber glow of a crooked floor lamp someone had dragged in from god knows where. You liked it better this way; made the place feel less like a barracks common space and more like the kind of living room you'd grown up in. Well-worn couches, stained coffee mugs no one claimed, the faint whirr of the old mini fridge in the corner humming like a tired cicada.

You're unwinding there in your favorite crewneck, the fabric a muted russet that brings warmth to your features, its oversized fit far more comfortable than the scrubs you quickly shed after your shift ended for the night. The fleece lining on the inside is wearing thin at the cuffs, but the familiarity of it grounds you. In black leggings speckled faintly with lint, you sit curled up on the worn sofa, your socks mismatched but thick, the wool catching slightly against the cushions beneath your feet. You're halfway through a tepid mug of builder’s tea when the door bursts open behind you.

The scent hits you before the sound does. Sharp, brackish sweat cut with gunpowder and oil, layered under something deeper: leather, steel, the dry stink of sand and smoke. Your head turns instinctively.

Soap strides in like he owned the place, flushed and gleaming from exertion. His dark shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, translucent with sweat in places, and there's a scrape on his forearm that hasn’t stopped bleeding yet. His tactical vest hangs open, bouncing against his hips as he moves. He has that look again—eyes alight with residual adrenaline, skin pink from wind and heat, hair still damp and pushed messily back from his brow. He's chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too broadly, which means he has something stupid or dangerous in mind. Probably both.

“Christ, it’s warm in here,” he mutters, toeing off his boots near the radiator, which clangs faintly with old heat. “Were you lot tryin' to boil yourselves alive while we were gone?”

Ghost follows him in, quieter. He peels off his gloves without a word, the black fabric damp in his hands. He isn’t even out of his gear yet, still dressed in his reinforced trousers, boots caked with dried mud, black compression shirt clinging to his back and chest. His skull mask is pushed up, exposing the lower half of his face; the mouth veneath is drawn, his jaw flexing beneath a few days’ growth of stubble. You can see the faintest smudge of something dark on the side of his neck.

Neither of them have showered.

And yet your stomach flutters.

“Back already?” you ask, voice lower than usual, though you hadn’t intended it to be.

“Early extraction. Ghost didn’t even break a sweat,” Soap drawls, flicking the fridge open and extracting a bottle of amber liquid from the back like it's his reward. “Which is bollocks, ‘cause I’m about two degrees from heatstroke.”

He unscrews the cap with his teeth and fishes out three glasses from the shelf: one a chipped mug, another intact, and a clear plastic cup with the England crest on it.

“C���mon, love,” Soap says, sliding onto the couch beside you with the practiced ease of a man who both doesn't understand personal space and feels he doesn't need any, especially with you. “You’re off shift, yeah?”

You nod. “Just.”

“Then drink with us. Celebrate a job well done." He wears a wide, slanted smile, one that makes your belly flip when it conjures the memory of him wearing the same expression above you, his ID disc swinging from the chain around his flushed neck, skimming the valley between your bouncing breasts. "No bullets in my arse this time,” he adds, and you blink the haze of the memory away, left warmer as you roll your eyes playfully the way you know he wants you to.

You've shared a bed with him more than once, during late nights when the air was too heavy to sleep, long stretches between assignments, moments stolen in the lull between your worlds. It was easy with him. Good. Sometimes rough, sometimes slow, always welcome. And never more than what it was. But lately, your eyes had started to wander to the sergeant's looming shadow: the man who never touched and rarely spoke, but always seemed to be watching you whenever you were near.

And Johnny had noticed; he wasn’t the jealous type. He’d seen the way your glances caught on Ghost, too, how the room felt just a little too loaded when he and the big man visited medical or you crossed paths with them at the rec. He knew, too, that Ghost had heard the sounds you made together through the paper-thin walls of their bunks. That he had listened. Johnny told you so once, voice low and filthy while he fucked you slow, laughing when it made you go all soft and squirmy underneath him.

But Ghost never said a word. Because Ghost, the reticent bastard, wouldn’t make a move.

Not unless coaxed.

And not by his sergeant.

You glance toward Ghost, who has folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, his gaze cool and unmoved. The amber light flickers against his cheekbones, casting sharp shadows up the bridge of his nose. His dark eyes are on you again, and you shiver at the quiet intensity there.

“He’s not joining,” you murmur, more an observation than a question.

Soap flashes you a devilish grin, leaning closer. You can smell the salt on him, the heat rising from his skin like a slow exhale. “He never joins. He just sulks and stares.”

“I can hear you,” Ghost says flatly.

“Don' I know it,” Soap says wickedly, looking at you pointedly before pouring two fingers of whiskey into your glass, then his own. “Here. Just one.”

The glass is cool in your palm, slightly sticky from whatever surface it last sat on. You raise it, hesitate, then throw it back. The burn is immediate: sharp, medicinal, tinged with something smoky and a little sweet. It settles in your chest like a hot coal.

You exhale, lips parting with a soft hiss.

Soap watches your mouth the entire time.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s a look,” he murmurs. “You always this good at takin’ it down?”

You shoot him a glance, more amused than offended. “You’re shameless.”

He leans in again, voice low now, warm as the whiskey. “Only when I’ve earned it.”

You don’t move when his fingers brush the hem of your sweatshirt, nor when he looks past you, over your shoulder, to where Ghost still stands unmoving. Sharp like a snap decision, Soap leans back and catches his index in your mug, dragging it with a scrape of porcelain across the table to meet his plastic cup for another drink. He pours with more ceremony this time, angling the bottle like he's showing off. The whiskey catches the low lamplight, shining golden as it sloshes into your mismatched glass. He fills it higher than before— definitely more than a shot— and slides it across to you like a challenge.

“One for my glorious return,” he declares, raising his own. “And one for the quiet bastard over there.”

You glance over the low back of the couch again, but Ghost still hasn't budged.

Soap tips his head toward you. “You’ve gotta drink both, since he won’t.”

You scoff, your eyes returning to the Scot. “That hardly seems fair.”

“But it’s fitting,” Soap says, nudging the rim of your glass. “You look like you can take it.”

You hold his gaze as you lift the second drink, the burn still humming low in your belly from the first. The rim clinks against your teeth as you knock it back, the heat sharp enough to draw a quiet gasp as you swallow. A trickle escapes the corner of your mouth, trailing down the curve of your chin and catching at your soft jaw before dripping slowly toward your neck.

You move to wipe it— too slow.

Soap is already there.

“Messy, that,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your jaw before he drags the tip of his index finger up the length of the droplet. He raises it to his lips, tongue darting out, slow and shameless, as he sucks the whiskey from his skin.

You don’t mean to stare, but your eyes can't help but linger on the wet pink of his mouth. And when they flick up, his are waiting.

“You’ve not eaten, have you?” he asks, voice lower now. Not concerned. Curious. Maybe a bit wicked. “Changin' colors on me. Whiskey’s gone straight to your cheeks.”

You shake your head once, feeling the heat settle high in your face, ripening your complexion. “Snack on the way out. Didn’t have time.”

Soap makes a low sound and taps the glass again, watching the way your fingers curl around it.

Ghost still hasn’t spoken, but you can feel the weight of him in the room— feel the press of his attention even if he pretends to be indifferent. But you dont look at him again, afraid any sudden movement might break his trance and send him stomping.

Soap leans back against the couch, legs spreading slightly, shoulder brushing yours. “He’s not lookin’,” he bluffs, just loud enough for Ghost to hear. “Not even glancin’. Could be all over you right now, and he’d just stand there, arms folded, like a fuckin’ statue.”

You smile, ducking your head slightly, a little drunk already. Not on the alcohol, though that helps, but on the smell of him. The salt and earth, the heady stink of his undershirt, still damp from the field. Sunbaked cloth and body heat and grit.

Without thinking, you tilt closer, let your nose skim his collarbone. Your lips barely brush his skin as you press your face to the crook of his neck.

He stills. Just for a moment.

Then: “Christ, you are drunk.”

“I’m not,” you murmur, voice muffled against him. “You just smell really fucking good.”

That makes him laugh, his chest rising underneath your palm. “Filthy, you mean. Sweaty. Like I’ve not washed in days.”

“Exactly.”

He hums, his hand sliding across the back of the couch, heavy and warm behind you. He doesn't touch you, but the implication is there, all that muscle close enough to make your scalp prickle.

“Look at her,” Soap says suddenly over his shoulder, lifting his chin toward Ghost. “Look at how she’s already meltin’. S’all big-eyed and dewy, lips parted, pressed into me like she’s tryin’ to crawl inside my shirt.”

You go still, both afraid and thrilled that Soap might keep running his mouth like this, burst the whole bubble open after all.

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t want to touch her?” Soap continues, that teasing lilt sharpening just a little more. “Pretend you didn’t notice how she looked at my mouth when I licked my fingers clean?”

You feel your pulse flutter; you listen for it, but Ghost doesn't answer.

Soap’s voice drops to a hush, loud in your ear but meant only for Ghost. “Pretend you don’t picture what her thighs look like wrapped around one of us— both of us— drunk off the smell of it?”

Your breath catches— not just from the words, but from the way Soap’s arm shifts behind you, his forearm brushing the small of your back, possessive without pressure. Your cheeks burn hotter than the whiskey.

You lift your head, just enough to peek out from the crook of his neck. Ghost stands across the room like a statue carved from shadow: arms crossed, shoulders squared, chin tilted down just enough to obscure his eyes in the dim light. But you can still see the tight set of his jaw, the way his throat works when he swallows, the faint glisten of sweat around his nose.

You look at him, and you feel... seen. Whether he returns the gaze or not.

And yet Soap is the one touching you. Soap is the one letting you lean into him, letting your weight settle against his side like he wants to hold it.

“You’re so bloody soft,” he murmurs then, just for you. His palm slides down your back, slow, sweet, to rest at the curve of your waist. “All warm and squishy and fuckin’ lovely. Like a proper bed after weeks of concrete floors.”

You blink slowly, that ache between your thighs growing bolder.

“Bet you’d let us sink into you,” he goes on, lips brushing your hairline now. “Let us get all tangled up in this sweatshirt and those pretty thighs. Be better than any mattress we’ve had since we enlisted.”

He lets his hand settle lower— just at the edge of where soft belly meets waistband— and then he stills again, as if daring one of you to stop him.

“You’d let me have a nap right here,” he says, nuzzling your temple. “Wouldn’t you, love? Let me fuck you slow, then pass out on your tits like a man who’s earned it.”

The breath shudders out of you.

And when you looked again at Ghost, you see it: the clench of his hands where they grip his biceps, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the heat blooming behind his eyes like something primal, barely contained.

He is watching.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek back to Soap’s shoulder. “I do want that,” you murmur, voice low and intimate, but not shy.

Soap’s breath hitches just enough to tell you he heard.

He pulls you onto his lap without hesitation, strong hands guiding your hips into place like he’d thought about it already, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. The denim of his trousers is rough beneath you, the hard line of him unmistakable beneath the worn seam. His palms settle over your thighs first, then slide up to squeeze at your hips and the softness there, wide fingers digging in just enough to claim.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass…” he breathes, softer than you'd expect. “You feel so good. Like you were made for this.”

And those words, that tone, make you sink right into it. You drape yourself over Soap’s shoulders, your arms loose and lazy with drink and heat, fingers threading into the thick hair at his nape. His skin is warm there, damp still with sweat and tacky with the remnants of field-dust that hadn’t yet been rinsed away. You nose along the side of his throat, breathing in the raw, masculine scent of him— salt, smoke, leather, the tang of metal and blood. Faint cologne still clings in the hollow of his throat beneath the grime, like it's soaked into his skin after too many missions and too little rest.

God, he smells like something that had survived.

You press a kiss there, just a brush of your lips. And when he lets out a quiet, clipped groan, you smile.

You don’t need Ghost to move to know he's still there.

He stays where he is, propped against the far wall near the door, one shoulder pressed to the plaster, half-shadowed by the dull glow of the crooked floor lamp. But you can feel the tension from here, can see it in the rigid lines of his body, the way his arms hang loose at his sides now instead of folded, fists clenched like he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

He can’t see Soap’s hands anymore, you knew; can’t see where they’ve slipped beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. Could only guess what Johnny is doing from the way your body shifts when your hips roll and your thighs tense around him.

But you know he can see your face. And oh, do you want him to see it.

You let your head loll back a little, exposing your throat, and your lips part around a sigh that could have been a breath or a moan. Soap is teasing you now, his hands slow and roving beneath your sweatshirt, thumbs circling just above your waistband, not yet touching anything obscene, just feeling. Mapping the soft swell of your belly, the dimple at your hip, the curve where your flesh overflowed his grip. His voice is a rumble against your ear, low and hot.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, breath catching as you shift in his lap, brush against the hard ridge of him pressing against the zipper seam. “All plush and warm, makin’ a mess on me already. Can’t even fuckin’ see what I’m doin’, can he? Poor bloke’s gonna lose his mind.”

You bite your lip hard enough to feel it throb.

Your skin buzzes under the low light, humming with the lingering warmth of the whiskey, the teasing drag of Johnny’s hands, and the fever-dream heat of being watched so closely. Your lashes droop, your mouth soft and slack with pleasure that hasn’t even peaked yet.

And always, your eyes drift back to Ghost, pulled there as that nervous thrill tightens in your chest until the heat and the alcohol finally make something snap.

Lifting your head, arms still loose around Soap’s neck, you find him across the room. You don’t say a word, just let your eyes lock with his.

And then— languid, dreamy— you open your arms again. Fingers spread, palms exposed. A silent but clear invitation.

Ghost doesn't reply. But his jaw clench hard enough you can see it twitch, even from here.

You feel Soap chuckle where your chests press together, his voice molten.

“She wants you to see it, Ghost,” he purrs, unable to help himself from teasing. “Wants you to feel what you’re missin’.”

Then, to you, as his hands finally slide lower, gripping your hips:

“Tell me, love. You want me to make you come while he watches? Want him seein’ your face when you fall apart?”

You don't answer right away; instead, your gaze stays on Ghost across the room, watching the stoic man closely. And the signs are there: the muscles in his jaw are visibly flexed now, his fingers still clenched tight by his sides. His whole frame looks wired, like he's barely holding something inside, his eyes dark and fixed to your face as if trying to read every twitch of your lips, every shift in your breath.

Behind you, Soap’s hands squeeze, fingers digging possessively into your hips, rocking you gently over the hard ridge of him beneath his trousers. But you don’t look at him. Not yet.

Your voice, when it comes, is husky, warm with heat and whiskey, but clear.

“No,” you say, loud enough to carry across the room, soft enough to sound intimate. “I don’t want him to watch.”

There's a beat of silence.

Soap’s brow arches, his lips quirking like he's about to tease again—

And then you add, your tone slipping into something velvet and filthy, “I’d like him in my mouth.”

The room goes still.

Soap lets out a bark of laughter— low, delighted, breathless. “Fucking hell, love.”

You feel his hands clench again, tighter now, just shy of bruising as he pulls you down harder onto his lap, grinding you against the firm line of him. His breath is ragged against your ear, his chest rising fast beneath your weight.

“You hear that, Ghost?” Soap calls, his voice all bright amusement and dark hunger. “She doesn’t want you over there, sulkin’. She wants you down her fuckin’ throat.”

Still, Ghost doesn’t move. But you see it— the shift in his stance, the widening of his eyes, the way his chest expands with a deeper, slower breath like he's trying to ground himself but isn't succeeding. His knuckles are pale now, clenched so tight his veins rise stark beneath the skin.

And you know he's imagining it. Imagining your mouth on him. Imagining how you’d take him: on your knees maybe, or still warm from Johnny’s lap, lips kiss-bitten, eyes half-lidded and wet. You can see behind his gaze how badly he wants it.

How badly he wants you.

When he steps forward, it's without a word.

He doesn't rush— just steadily closes the space between himself and the couch, cautiously, controlled. It's the kind of movement a man makes when he’s already lost the argument with himself and is just trying not to lose his grip on everything else.

His boots barely make a sound across the concrete floor, his eyes on you the whole time. But not just you— he looks between you and Soap, the press of your bodies, the way your thighs frame Johnny’s lap, the bruising grip of his broad, tanned hands on your hips, the way they slip lower to knead your wide ass. His expression is unreadable, but his body betrays him.

Because by the time he reaches you, the thick ridge beneath his trousers is unmistakable: heavy, straining against the front of his waistband. And when you reach out with one hand— slow, like he might startle— you feel the subtle flinch in him.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your finger traces along his belt, featherlight, then circles the buckle. You feel him tense; his cock twitches visibly beneath the fabric when your knuckles brush over it.

You look up at him, heat pooling in your belly, your voice low.

“I meant it.”

Soap hums low in his throat, one hand slipping under the waistband of your leggings to grope at your ass as your fingers work open Ghost’s belt slowly. The buckle clinks, its metal warm from his body. You mouth at the front of his trousers through the fabric, catching the scent of him now, and god, is it thick. Deep and musky, soaked with sweat and the faded presence of gun oil.

You drop your jaw, dragging your tongue over the rough fabric, and Ghost hisses through his teeth.

Beneath you, Soap begins to rock you more deliberately now, the denim of his jeans rough against your leggings, his cock straining against the fabric, grinding up between the softness of your thighs.

“Go on, love,” he murmurs, voice hot and wicked in your ear. “Show him how pretty you suck cock. He’s been dyin’ to know.”

You drag Ghost’s waistband down with practiced slowness, hands trembling slightly from anticipation, from need. His cock springs free— thick, flushed, heavy. Your breath catches at the sight. And you can't help it; you steal a moment to bury your face against the coarse, sweaty curls at the base, inhaling greedily. He smells like sex and tension and everything that makes your mouth water.

You kiss the root, nuzzling, tongue darting out to taste the salt of his skin, the sweat collected there. Ghost groans— a low, guttural thing— and finally, finally, touches you, resting one large hand at the back of your head. It's heavy, dizzyingly large, cupping the curve of your skull with the sort of latent power you know could crush the bone if he wanted to.

But he doesn't; doesn't even tighten those thick, rough fingers. Ghost just holds you there, letting you taste him for the first time. You lose yourself in it for a moment, so much so that when Soap shifts under you, pulling your leggings down to mid-thigh, you sigh out a startled moan against Ghost's silken skin.

Soap groans when the curve of your ass presses down harder against his lap. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his tone almost awed as he bucks up to answer you. “You’re soaked.”

You don't reply, just open your mouth for Ghost, lips wrapping around the head of his cock, your tongue teasing the underside as you suck him in slow. Johnny shifts even more beneath you now, likely working his pants open, but it can't pull your attention from Ghost's cock. Its weight is obscene, stretching your mouth, and you revel in it— the taste, the heat, the way his thighs tremble slightly as you drag your tongue beneath the crown.

It's only when you feel Soap's blunt head bump clumsily against your pussy, red hot and eager, that you begin to quiver with need. Your hole flexes when he presses up, and your mouth drops open, and then they both slide into you in the same moment— your body welcoming them in, already open and wet, your breath hitching as your throat fills and your cunt does too. The angle is perfect: Soap buried deep from beneath, Ghost pulsing against your tongue, the two of them claiming you in tandem.

Ghost’s hips roll once— slow, cautious— and you moan around him in encouragement, the vibrations making him shudder. You keep one hand at his hip, grounding him, and reach the other to cup and knead his balls, slick with sweat, musky and perfect.

You're surrounded by them. By the scent, the weight, the breathless grunts and quiet curses and the heavy slide of Soap’s cock as he rocks up into you from below, forcing Ghost a little deeper into your mouth each time. Their rhythm syncs around you, your body nothing but sensation, exquisite and aching.

And Ghost—God, Ghost.

You look up at him, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, eyes wet with want. And he looks as wrecked as you feel. Silent, but his breathing is ragged, his lip caught between his teeth as he watches your mouth work him over with filthy reverence. The sight makes you moan softly, the weight of him thick on your tongue, the heat of him flooding your mouth. His foreskin slides wet and slow with every pass of your lips, and you tongue beneath it deliberately, learning the contours of him by feel. His taste is already blooming over your tongue: clean salt and musk, the silk of his skin steeped in the scent of sweat, fabric, and restraint finally slipping loose.

Soap shifts his grip, pulling you closer into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him fully now, your knees braced on either side of his hips, thighs spread, his cock sheathing deep inside you with every grind of your hips. The denim rasps against your skin, hot and textured, a perfect counterpoint to the slick glide of his cock.

He rocks into you again and again, slow and deep, his hands gripping your back like he can’t decide if he wants to fuck you or hold you.

And your mouth is still full of Simon.

You arch slightly over the back of the couch, low enough to give you leverage, high enough for him to stand comfortably before you. One of his hands grips your skull, gentle but anchoring, while the other braces against the backrest beside your shoulder. He's staring down at you now, jaw tight, chest rising hard.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny groans, his hands traveling up under your sweatshirt again, splaying even wider over your back, kneading more intently at your softness. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

You make a sound around Ghost’s cock: half moan, half admission.

“Having us both,” Johnny continues, voice velvet-rough. “Just like this. Me fuckin’ you full while you suck him off. God, you’re fuckin’ tight.”

You moan again, louder this time, and Ghost bites off a curse above you, soft and gritted. His cock twitches in your mouth, so you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, drag your lips slowly up the length of him before descending again, tongue tracing every ridge.

Johnny’s eyes never leave your face.

Your brow is damp with sweat, your skin glowing with heat, mouth stretched open and wet. You know how you looked— fucked-out, wanting, nearly wrecked— and knowing Johnny can't get enough of it just increases your pleasure.

“You love it, don’t you,” he pants, his voice rougher as he begins to fuck up into you harder now, making the slap of your bodies echo softly in the low-lit room. “Love bein’ between us like this. Mouth full, cunt full. Don’t even know who to come for.”

You whimper.

Then, just as he slams into that spot inside you that makes you jolt, you pull off Simon’s cock with a wet gasp, strings of saliva clinging to your lip as you drag your hand down to wrap around him instead. Still working him. Still letting him feel the slick grip of your worship.

Your voice comes out cracked and hoarse, eyes fluttering half-lidded as your body bounces in Johnny’s lap.

“Fuck, Johnny…” you breathe, loud enough to make Ghost shudder above you.

You jerk him slow, tenderly, your thumb rolling over the swollen head, still flushed and slick. Your free hand cradles his balls, gently tugging, letting your tongue drag along the underside of his cock as you look up at him, lashes damp.

“You can let go,” you whisper. “I want you to. I want to hear it.”

Simon’s mouth parts slightly, and something in your chest leaps, yearning for his answer. But no words come. Just a quiet, bitten-off grunt and the tremble in his thighs.

And all the while, Johnny keeps fucking you, his hips driving up into you from below, his voice spilling constant praise in your ear.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy, babe,” he whispers, biting your shoulder. “So fuckin’ perfect. Can feel how much you’re lovin’ this— fuck. Grip me like that again and I’m gonna come.”

You can feel it rising in you too, tight and dizzying, but it twists when he says that. And the sound you make, the sound that feeling squeezes out of you, is so desperate and raw it shocks even you.

The pace turns frantic.

Johnny's thighs flex beneath you now, solid and unyielding, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare skin, biting at the soft swell of your ass as he fucked up into you with brutal rhythm. Every thrust jolts you forward, makes your thighs and belly wobble with each bounce, your whole body alive with friction and heat. Sweat pools against your sides, between your breasts, slicking the waistband of your leggings where they cling around your knees.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass—” Johnny growls into your neck, his voice strained and ragged.

You're panting, moaning, arms limp around his shoulders as you take it, want it, so very badly.

But your mouth needs more.

It needs him.

You turn back to Ghost, eyes hazy, lips wet, and opened for him again.

His cock slides back over your tongue with no hesitation this time, just need. Your arms wrap loosely around his hips, holding him close, grounding yourself to the sharp lines of his body as Johnny bounces you hard enough to rock his cock deeper into your throat.

Simon doesn’t move anymore, doesn't thrust. just holds you, both of his hands gripping your head now, fingers flexing, breath hitched in his chest.

And still you moan. Louder now. Tighter.

Each of Johnny’s thrusts forces Simon deeper, and each inch of him against your tongue makes your head spin. Your jaw aches, your cunt aches, your mind spirals.

You can barely think.

You only know that you want them, both of them, to fill you, to unravel for you, to give you the evidence of their pleasure, that last piece of themselves.

You whimper around Simon’s cock, eyes glassy, drool slipping from the corners of your mouth, needing—

And then—

Low. Hoarse. Like it's being torn from him, Ghost speaks.

“Fuck— love, I’m not gonna last—”

It breaks you open.

You clench around Johnny so hard it makes him gasp. His hands fly to your hips, anchoring, his next thrust wild and uncoordinated as his orgasm slams into him.

“Jesus fuck—” he chokes, buried deep, spilling inside you with a low, broken moan.

You sob around Simon’s cock, grinding down hard on Johnny as your own climax overtakes you— wet and fierce, like your body can't hold it in anymore. Your legs shake, toes curling in your socks, pleasure crashing through you with dizzying intensity.

And Simon—

You feel him pulse on your tongue, thick and hot, his hips bucking forward in a stuttered jerk as he comes hard down your throat, voice breaking in a guttural moan.

“Shit, love— fuck—”

You hold him, let him give it all to you. Swallow what you could, the rest slipping from your lips, dripping down your chin as you whimper through the aftershocks. Your thighs tremble, muscles twitching, your whole body flushed and shaking with exhaustion and satisfaction and something more you can't begin to name.

Gradually, everything slows. Softens.

Simon’s hands ease in your hair, smoothing it gently now. One slips to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the mess with startling tenderness. Johnny is still beneath you, arms wrapped around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder, breath coming in hard, hot gusts.

And you stay there, bodies tangled in the low flicker of lamplight as your skin begins to cool. The room is quiet now, save for the slow, exhausted inhales of three people too wrung out to move just yet. Johnny’s face is still tucked against your shoulder, his grip slack but lingering, like he didn’t want to let go. Simon’s thumb is at your cheek, still smoothing gently along the bone like he hasn’t realized he's doing it.

Your voice breaks the silence— thin, rasped, but unmistakably smug.

“Welcome home.”

There's a beat.

Then Ghost huffs out a short laugh, almost a scoff, though still fond. He ducks his head slightly, one hand rubbing his face like he can’t believe you.

Johnny lets out a wheezy breath of a laugh beneath you, hands squeezing your waist.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, voice still hoarse. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“Good timing, right?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself sink into their warmth.

Simon’s hand moves to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading wide, grounding. Johnny’s thumb traces slow circles into the softness of your hip.

And for a while, none of you say anything more.

You don’t need to.

You're all home.

[clairewritesfanfics]

Rick Sanchez-level intelligent Reader who casually opens a portal to the wasteland where all the Marks are and takes Angstrom with them.

He glared at you. “Who the Hell–”

Your palm slammed against his face so hard spit flew out his mouth.

One of the Marks whistled and another guffawed, but you ignored them. You grabbed Angstrom roughly by the collar. 

“All that knowledge and you act like the biggest dingus across a hundred realities.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Going after every version of Mark Grayson? You set off a chain reaction, dumbo.”

“He's a menace to society, they are a plague–”

“Listen, idiot, infinite versions means infinite possibilities. For example, what happens if you kill a Mark Grayson whose wife goes on a rampage and kills infinite versions of you? Then a version of your son decides to go after her in every reality? And then the cycle is passed onto her daughter or son or mother–do you see where I'm going with this? This grand-scale act of petty revenge means destruction for the multiverse.” You got up, spraying your hands with sanitizer. 

“They're all scum! Every universe..." He clenched his fists. “All those countless worlds, in every single one of them, he is a heartless monster! If my own death means they lose then–”

You introduced the sole of your boot to his face. “Did you fail middle school or something? Your human definition of countless is nothing in the face of infinity. Every evil iteration you encountered, somewhere there is one who made the opposite choice, you fucking twit!” You forced down your knee until he fell on his back, the sand turning into a fog from the force.

You sighed and then turned to face the reflections of your husband. Shoving your hands into the pockets of your lab coat, you relaxed into a smile. “Hello, Mark.”

Their faces were a mix of shock and suspicion, though in their hearts they couldn’t help but be impressed. 

You chuckled. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen your face look like that, but I guess that’s what being married for over a thousand years does to us.” 

“You’re not afraid of us,” the one without a mask stated, arms and legs flexed.

“How can I possibly feel anything but love for you? Every single one of you is a version of the man I adore.” You paused and then shrugged. “Unless one of you cheated on a version of me with that Eve girl.” Disregarding human rights was your bread and butter, and genocide was nothing to you, but adultery? That’s a turn off. 

The one with a mohawk, turned speechless for once, glanced at the unconscious Angstrom. “Shouldn’t we grab him?”

Just as he said that, Angstrom started gaining consciousness. The variants were poised to speed blitz him but you just made a face of irritation before pulling out a silvery sphere from your coat.

The sphere split into three discs. The top part kept Angstrom in place with a powerful gravitational field while the middle portion shone a light over his body. “Analyzing subject genome… Running simulations… Simulation complete.”

The middle and bottom portions manifested large robotic limbs armed with scalpels, lasers and other gadgets. “Prepare for recombination.”

Looking at Marks’ surprised faces, you giggled. “Nanites,” you explained. 

In a matter of minutes, Angstrom’s grotesque mutation was gone. The middle and bottom discs presented him with mirrors to show the result of the surgery. 

“H-how…” He gawked at his reflection. He looked like he did before all of this. “All those doctors and professionals, not a single one of them could cure me.”

You leaned down and pressed a condescending finger on his forehead. “You’ve been to what, a few thousand realities? Tsk. Clearly you haven’t even scratched the surface of ‘countless’ when you haven’t met me.” 

You turned towards the Marks. “I took away his portal abilities and special physique so do be careful when you take your anger out on him.” 

“If you took away his powers, then how the Hell are we supposed to leave?!” The one with a veil demanded.

Your face blanked.

In a split instant you were right in front of him.

He nearly fell down on his ass.

You giggled, “Pissing off someone who clearly surpasses you? You’re so cute, Markie. I forgot how hot-blooded you can be.”

You glanced around the others. “Relax, I wouldn’t leave you guys to die out here.” You snapped your fingers and the discs cut into the air, forming a door. “This portal will scan your quantum composition and take you to your respective reality of origin. Pretty useful, huh? It will ensure that no one gets lost and–” You threw a look at the Mark wearing black and yellow “–no outsider can take over your reality.”

“Why should we trust you?” The Mark in Omni-Man’s costume asked what everyone else was thinking.

You shrugged again. “Well, you don’t have to, but what other choice is there?” 

The air split.

Two Marks tried to grab you but you were gone from the sand. 

“Think about it, sweeties!” You yelled as you stood in the air above. “Unless one of you ding-dongs can vibrate fast enough to phase through time and space, you either rot here or you pass through that door.”

The fully masked Mark flew right next to you. Your feet were flat as if they were still on the ground. “You’re… not flying.”

“Hm? Oh, no. My boots can manipulate the atoms of anything, including air, so I can walk on them. Personally, I find it more impressive than walking on water, and much more efficient than having to alter the air to thrust myself into flight.”

Your little sphere beeped. “Doctor, the cake has finished baking. Shall we leave now?”

“Almost forgot about that.” You beamed at the Mark floating beside you. “Gotta go now. You boys enjoy your playtime.”

a/n: a short little imagine i wrote during my breaktime. granted, reader feels more like a herta and rick sanchez mix. but whatever.

[muffinpink02]

Ok imagine post sex, you’re just lying there and alexia gets up turns on some music and makes you get up and salsa with her

Tiny bit of smut 18

Your legs were still shaking. Your pussy still fluttered from the memory of Alexia’s mouth, tongue and fingers.

It was the third orgasm of the night. Alexia had pinned your body down with her strong arms as she ate you out like some wild animal. Never giving you rest bite.

You looked over at her as she got up from the bed, completely naked, your eyes traveled down her inked up back, watching the way her muscles flexed.

Your eyes trailed down to her firm cheeks, you could see your teeth marks still dented into her skin. The bruising slowly started to show.

Your cunt fluttered again.

The Spaniard moved to her vinyl player, the one you gifted her for her birthday. She flicked her fingers over the collection of discs that sat beneath it.

You closed your eyes, taking in a deep breath and gently stretched your body out, groaning when you heard the pop in your back.

Then music filtered your ears. Salsa music to be exact.

“Dance with me.”

“What?” You let out a soft laugh.

“Come, I want to dance with you.”

You didn’t argue it.

You slowly rose, your legs felt like jelly. But you moved.

“You know I don’t know how to salsa.” You whispered, almost shyly.

“It’s okay, just follow me.” She husked before slowly kissing you.

You tried to follow, but you just ended up doing your own thing, moving your hips and letting her twirl you while she moved you how she wanted.

After a few minutes you stepped on her foot.

“Sorry!” You laughed.

“It’s okay.” She giggled before kissing you again.

She smiled softly at you, her eyes almost twinkling.

“I might not be good at salsa, but I’m good at one thing.” You whispered as you began to kiss her naked chest.

“Sí? What’s that?” She gasped as your tongue laced over her nipple.

You gently sucked on her, moaning as her fingers laced in your hair. You slowly dropped to your knees, kissing her skin as you knelt. Your eyes stayed on hers. Smiling up at her.

She stroked your hair as she watched you, her chest already rising.

“My tongue dancing over your clit.” You whispered against her thigh before gliding your tongue through her wet lips and straight to her clit.

[brainstrip]

Greatest Hits – A Brainstrip x DRAUFILM Collaboration

Turn up the nostalgia and deck out your Sim’s space with a collection of decorative music memorabilia that celebrates the art, the sound, and the style of physical media. Whether your Sim is a die-hard collector, a casual listener, or just wants to flex their impeccable (or questionable) taste, this set brings the perfect harmony of retro and modern aesthetics.

With stunning album artworks designed by @draufilm, Greatest Hits offers a wide variety of CDs and vinyl records in different formats—stacked, displayed, sleeved, unsleeved, or even mounted like true works of art. Whatever their genre of choice, your Sim can now show off their collection in style.

Collection Includes:

🎵 CD Case – 18 swatches 🎵 CD Display – 3 variations, 3 swatches 🎵 CD Wall Display – 11 swatches 🎵 CD Stack – 18 swatches 🎵 Vinyl Sleeve + Disc – 18 swatches 🎵 Vinyl Sleeve – 18 swatches 🎵 Vinyl Sleeve (New Variation) – 18 swatches 🎵 Vinyl Display – 3 variations, 9 swatches 🎵 Vinyl Wall Display – 18 swatches

From classic rock to cutting-edge electronica, Greatest Hits lets your Sim showcase their love for music—no streaming subscription required!

You can find the objects by searching “Draufilm” and/or “Brainstrip”!

💾 DOWNLOAD

Objects & swatches previews:

[revelboo]

[/slams a request form on your desk like an over zealous court room anime dude]

Mx.Revel, consider this a request of the utmost importance! This request is for none other than your personal favorite cybertronian, whom ever they may be.

Thank you for your time, your honor, I concede.

That’s Wheeljack, buuuut how about an angst ficlet? Was thinking about how utterly ill equipped Shockwave is to deal with emotions other than anger and a scenario where Soundwave is grieving a cassette. Shock wanting to do something for his friend, basically the only Cybertronian that doesn’t find him deeply unsettling, and he doesn’t understand he can’t just replace the cassette with something near the same size. Honestly, I just wanted to do an alternate take with these two. Title is ‘Clumsy Heart’ by The Matches. 18+ 🌶️

Clumsy Heart

IDW Shockwave x Reader, Soundwave x Reader

• Servos of his one hand flexing as the uncomfortable noise in his processor grows, those invasive thoughts and shadows of memory that aren’t his floating to the surface, half seen and hazy. Watching Soundwave cradle the still form of a cassette to himself, the way his servos ghost over that small shape making the chaos worse. Becoming uncomfortable, unable to really understand this grief, but realizing that he should know this. That he hates this. He can repair the frame, but the spark is gone. Senses his friend won’t appreciate it if he resurrects a pale shadow, even if he’s not sure why he knows that.

• Spark aching at the loss, Soundwave is aware of his other cassettes echoing his pain. Of Shockwave lingering nearby, head tipped to study him like his grief is something foreign and fascinating. “Leave me,” he says, servos gently touching that little face. Had they looked for him at the end? Knowing he’d be there in time to save them like he always is. All of them trusting without question that he’ll protect them. And he’d failed. Feels like coming apart, losing something so dear to him, a part of him. Finally, Shockwave drifts away, leaving him to grieve with his surviving cassettes.

• Leaving the base, trying to get rid of that tangling, unpleasant feeling of dissonance, Shockwave tips his head up to the night sky. Trying to understand. Wanting to. Can’t bring back the cassette, but he can find a replacement. Something similar. If it’s the loss of a small symbiote he cares for that is paining Soundwave, maybe another small thing he can care for will ease that grief? Doesn’t know, can’t really understand why he grieves at the loss. Everything dies. It’s inevitable. And it’s illogical to mourn the inevitable. Striding into the night, he ponders replacements. Something that can speak with him like a cassette. Something small and alive. One of the little, organic natives would do.

• Breath fogging in the morning air, you check the rifle. Exhausted after being up all night finding every single photo he’s in and cutting out his face. Taping those hateful little visages all over his Xbox, all his games, those stupid baseball cards and then lining them up for execution on the lawn. A petty bit of satisfaction as you line up the first shot and fire. For the bra hanging on the back of a kitchen chair. A game disc explodes in jagged shards. For those slutty lace panties on your kitchen counter. The cards aren’t as satisfying, just scattering. For that bitch in your bed and the look on his face when you’d come home early because work was slow. Slowly, picking targets and destroying them since you can’t go after him, he’s not worth it. The crap he’d left when you’d grabbed the rifle and chased him and her naked out of your house last night? Fair game.

• Is this a valid course of action? It seems logical. If something has been lost and is causing a problem, replacing it should resolve the issue. Aware that it might be a bit more nuanced than that, because of emotions he can’t grasp, he moves through the woods outside the base. It’s a sound theory and it can’t make things worse to try. Probably. That, too, eludes him. An answer that relies on emotion.

• Reloading the rifle, you hear a branch crack and come crashing down in the woods behind you. Making you flinch and nearly drop the gun. It’d been windy the day before, a branch must have broken. Turning toward the sound, your mouth falls open as a giant steps out of the woods, a single red optic finding you, antenna flicking up. “Acceptable,” it growls as the fine hair at your nape prickles. Opening fire on it as it strides your way, completely unfazed. Dropping the rifle to run, you scream as it bends and snags you in a giant hand.

• Still weighed down by grief even after laying the cassette to rest, Soundwave’s head lifts at the sound of screaming. Of terror and pain that goes right through so soon after his own loss. Freezing as he spots Shockwave entering his quarters and his attention drops to the small form wriggling like mad in his grip. Speechless as the scientist drops the human on the desk and the tiny creature lunges to their feet and runs, only to stop short as they hit the edge and realize how high up it is. Can feel the chaos and fear in their mind, that panic so bright and hurtful. “A replacement,” Shockwave says, gesturing at the terrified thing with his cannon. Like it’s as simple as that. Like a human can replace his cassette. That people are interchangeable. Turning away from the edge, terrified eyes look up at him and that fear nearly cripples him. You can’t replace what he’s lost, but you do need him. Hates Shockwave right then and those frightened eyes.

Next

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

The Forgotten Mach 2: Ford's 1967 Mid-Engined Mustang Prototype

The Forgotten Mach 2: Ford's 1967 Mid-Engined Mustang Prototype

In the Swinging Sixties, Ford's promotional photo featured a stylish couple beaming with joy as they prepared to take a ride in the Mach 2, essentially a mid-engined Mustang. This sleek, closed coupe boasted a 289 V8 engine, ZF 4-speed transaxle, and amenities like a radio and heater.

"Wait a minute", you may be thinking, if you're old enough to remember the Sixties, or if you've been reading this blog for awhile. "Wasn't there a mid-engined Mustang before there was any other kind?" Well, yeah, there was a drivable concept car based on the front-drive German Ford Taunus V4 powertrain, the Mustang 1*, but that was in 1962, and the roofless projectile seemed to be aimed mostly at SCCA racers ...

The Mach 2's story began in 1966, when Ford's Total Performance program aimed to infuse the GT40's mid-engined glamour into a production car. A Mustang convertible chassis was transformed into a concept chassis by Kar Kraft, incorporating Mustang front suspension, front disc brakes, and Galaxy rear drums. The independent rear suspension was borrowed from engineer Klaus Arning's patented multi-link design for Mustang 1.

Two running prototypes were built, with fiberglass bodies styled by Gene Bordinat's team. The first, a white car intended as an SCCA-ready weekend racer, suffered from chassis flex, while the second, a red example, had a reinforced chassis. The red Mach 2 was showcased at auto shows and featured in car magazines.

With a 107-inch wheelbase, similar to the new Corvette C8, and a weight of around 2,600 pounds, the Mach 2's performance was lively. Ford envisioned pricing it around $7,500, slightly above the Shelby AC 427 Cobra.

However, the Mach 2 program was ultimately scrapped. Ford's success with the Mustang and Shelby's modified versions meant that the Mach 2 was relegated to the sidelines. The white test car was crushed, and the red prototype was returned to Kar Kraft, disappearing from public view.

Rumors of the red Mach 2's fate have persisted, with some speculating that it may still be hidden away, waiting to be rediscovered. The possibility of finding this forgotten prototype has captivated car enthusiasts, offering a glimpse into an alternate history of American automotive innovation.

1967 Ford Mach 2

1967 Ford Mach 2

1967 Ford Mach 2

1967 Ford Mach 2

The 1967 Ford Mach 2 was a mid-engine sports car concept that was never mass produced. It was a two-seater with a GT style, low-sloping hood and front fenders, with a body made of fiberglass. Ford built the first one which was based on a shortened version of the 1966 Mustang convertible floor pan. Two more were built by Kar Kraft based on 1967 Mustangs and powered by a 289ci high performance engine mounted in the middle of the car. It had a five-speed manual transmission, independent rear suspension, and adjustable pedals derived from the 1962 Mustang-I.

Two fully functional prototypes were built:

• Red prototype: The production car candidate, with a revised engine cradle, adjustable Koni shocks, and a redesigned front end

•White prototype: A development mule for racing, with a modified 289, competition-spec components, and a lighter fiberglass body.

The Mach 2 was extensively tested, but the results were not encouraging. The road car handled well, but generated too much body roll at high speeds. The race car's chassis was not stiff enough, distorting under heavy loads. By the fall of 1967, Ford's designers had shifted their focus to the Mach 2A, and the three Mach 2 prototypes were left with Kar Kraft for disposal.

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

₊❏❜ ⋮[ 𝔸𝕨𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕟 ]⌒

You awaken to static that permeates more than just your vision-it thrums insistently within your mind. A fizzing hum envelops you, reminiscent of thousands of tiny cicadas creating a symphony behind your eyes. Breath is unnecessary, and blinking is a forgotten action. Instead, your head tilts at an unearthly angle, an unnatural slow-motion scan of your surroundings beginning.

Ruins stretch out before you-an endless expanse of gray under a dilapidated ceiling with light bleeding through cracked metal like blood through a wound. Shadows dance furtively, shifting as four figures retreat slightly, their expressions a mix of disbelief and astonishment.

"What the hell is that-" one of them spits, a beefy figure with heavy boots and hands balled into fists. He exudes a sense of raw power-not yet hostile, merely loud and brash.

"Ken, you kicked it," another groans, this one a small, slim figure adorned with a crooked smile and vibrant, red eyes. Her voice crackles like the surface of a well-worn vinyl record-nostalgic and charmingly battered, yet imbued with an insatiable curiosity. She's the one who planted the chip inside you, igniting an ember where there had been none.

Your legs twitch as they unfurl from the strange position they've been in, long and eerily smooth, stretching out like fine strands of metal. Your hands flex, fingers clicking into an articulated shape, fitting together like pieces of an abstract puzzle. You are tall-towering over your previous self, or perhaps towering over a past you can no longer grasp.

A glimmer of sunlight caresses your chest, and instinctively, you glance downward. Armor-sleek and glossy-wraps around you like a second skin, a shield reflecting the fractured light. A smooth screen occupies the place where your face should be, and within your chest cavity, a hum resonates as if a quiet engine purrs beneath the distortion, carrying warmth-a comforting familiarity.

Tentatively, you attempt to speak, yet your voice bursts forth in glitches, reminiscent of a warped cassette tape. "...H-hel... lo?"

The girl- Mel -steps forward, her interest piqued. "It can talk?"

The third figure, a wiry guy with exaggeratedly large red eyes, makes a bold advance, excitement thrumming through him like an electric current. "Can it dance?" he adds with a snort of laughter.

"Maybe don't provoke the potentially sentient murder-machine?" the fourth quips, a zombie wearing a dusty detective-like jacket and sporting a melting green face, lurking behind a crate as if sheltering himself from the chaos unfolding.

Confusion reigns in your mind as the chatter swirls around you. A wave of static crashes against your thoughts, accompanied by echoes of distant laughter-images of sunlight, warm embraces, parents, and blurred faces drifting further into oblivion.

You blink (symbolically and with effort). "...Name...?" you rasp, each word slipping from your voice box like a garbled disc. "Do I... have one?"

Mel tilts her head, her expression softening amid the sharpness of the moment. "You don't know who you are?"

In response, you shake your head slowly, static crackling through the motion like a fragile wire. "I was... in a field. Then... dark. Then..."

You look down again at your hands; these appendages are unfamiliar to you. You are-indeed-an enigma, a puzzle you cannot solve.

She crosses her arms, contemplating. "Well. You woke up smiling. Kinda." Her brow furrows slightly, aware that your face is merely a screen with very large and unnerving eyes in place of a typical visage. "And you've got a screen for a head..." Her lips twist into a playful grin. "We'll call you TV Head for now."

You blink, processing what she has just assigned you-a name, a label. It feels like a placeholder, yet it carries a certain resonance.

"TV Head..."

You repeat, your voice still distorted but managed with newfound steadiness. You tap the side of your face-your screen-with a mechanical curiosity, marveling in a moment of clarity. "That... is me."

The four of them exchange glances, a web of silent communication weaving between them, one you cannot decipher. Then, with a heavy sigh, Ken breaks the silence.

"We're not takin' it home."

"Yes, we are," Mel counters, her tone firm. "You broke it, and it imprinted on me."

"I didn't-!" Ken throws his hands up in exasperation. "Fine. But if it starts talking backwards or eats one of us in our sleep, I'm dropping it off a cliff."

You remain motionless as they continue to argue. Not out of fear, but because your mind is in overdrive, processing every detail.

The world is decidedly different. The air is tainted with the scent of rust instead of flowers. The breezes carry no melodies, and the ground below lacks warmth.

Yet they... they feel alive. Even in their stitched, fractured forms, there's a vitality that emanates from them.

Perhaps you are, too.

Inside you, something flickers-like sunlight filtering through the veil of an old memory, promising that there could still be remnants of the one who once danced freely in fields of green.

You just have to survive long enough to find it.

With (Y/n)-or rather, TV Head-an intimidating and lanky tall entity now tagging along like an awkward, towering lost puppy, the journey to the Smiling Dead's run-down car was slow and full of curious glances. Not from strangers-they were far out of sight in these rusted wastes-but from the mismatched crew themselves.

TV Head followed just a little behind, the screen of their face flickering occasionally with static lines and soft glowing shapes. Their voice came out in slow, drawn-out distortion, like it had been dragged through an old cassette tape and stitched back together. Yet each garbled word carried a strange warmth, as if they were trying to show their gratitude.

"...Th-th... ank... y-yo... u..."

Melancholy Hill, whom TV Head promptly nicknamed Mummy Girl, turned slightly to glance back at them. She didn't seem to mind the name. If anything, she seemed amused by the way this glitchy stranger perceived the world. With her pale blue skin, ginger hair, and thick white bandages wrapped around most of her body, she looked more like a mummy cosplay than anything undead. But TV Head saw her as something oddly human. Familiar.

Next was her brother-non-blood-related-who, to TV Head's utter confusion and admiration, appeared to be made entirely out of... bread. A literal loaf, with eyes and a mouth, casually adjusting his hoodie as they walked. He had introduced himself as Breadhead, but the nickname Bread Man stuck in TV Head's glitching processor.

Then came the uncle, Mud. TV Head didn't quite understand what he was. His face looked like it was melting right off his skull, and his dull, swampy-green skin stretched loosely like wet clay under a cowboy hat. Add the cigarette permanently attached to his mouth and a wrinkled suit like he'd slept in a coffin, and TV Head decided on Mr. Melting Face.

Last, but certainly not least, was the towering, half-naked man who introduced himself with a glare and a growl: Ken "The Butcher." His scarred, muscular body was intimidating enough, but what really sealed the name Mr. Butcher Knife in TV Head's system was the actual knife sticking out of his skull. That, and the fact he was wearing an apron and only a single undergarment beneath it. Covered in blood. Lots of blood.

They reached the car. A black limousine with the attitude of a coffin on wheels. The immediate problem became apparent.

"...It's not gonna fit," Breadhead muttered, eyeing the 8'5" figure.

TV Head tilted their head in anticipation. They weren't worried.

"We're not leaving it behind," Mel declared. "We brought a friend. We're taking a friend."

"Friend?" The undead butcher with a knife in his head raised an eyebrow. "We don't know if it has a soul or just wants to microwave us in our sleep," Ken grumbled.

Still, they tried.

Attempt 1: Tip him sideways and try to slide him in like a rolled carpet. Result: Screen gets jammed in the doorframe.

Attempt 2: Head first, legs up. Result: TV Head folds like a noodle, but now the screen is poking out the rear window like a periscope.

Attempt 3: Lay him across all the backseats with everyone else squished around him. Result: No one can breathe. Bread Man gets crumbs in TV Head's wiring.

Through all of this, TV Head remained completely still and completely patient. No signs of pain, frustration, or offense. Just an occasional "...You are... t-t-tired..." or a hopeful "...May I... h-h-h-help...?"

Eventually, Mel, panting heavily and her bandages askew, threw up her arms in surrender. "Okay, okay! Maybe we let it choose how to fit?"

TV Head, a peculiar figure draped in a patchwork of wires and screens, slowly raised a hand, the movement almost mechanical as if it were deliberating.

"...C-c-can... r-return... t-to... b-base..." came the stuttering voice from its screen, like a glitchy digital echo.

"Base?" Mud asked, his brow melting under the weight of confusion as he raised an eyebrow, the heat warping his expression.

"...Ori-ginal f-f-form," TV Head replied, its lanky finger tapping against the flickering screen on its face, the gesture oddly human but unsettling in its mechanical precision.

This revelation made them ponder deeply. Mel turned to Mud, her eyes brightening with a spark of inspiration. "Hey! Maybe if we pull the chip, it goes back to sleep? Y'know, like a reset."

"Maybe." He crouched low, extending a cautious hand toward the port nestled in TV Head's back. The chip sat snugly inside, but no matter how hard he tried, it stubbornly refused to budge, as if it were glued in place.

"Great," Ken grumbled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Did you break it again?"

"She placed it, Ken," Mud deadpanned, frustration creeping into his tone as he shot a glare over his shoulder. "Calm your apron."

With a grunt of determination, Ken, unwilling to be sidelined, reached past them all and pressed a small, blinking blue button nestled beneath the chip port, an illustration of hurried resolve flushing across his face.

Click.

The chip popped free with a small, satisfying sound.

TV Head dropped suddenly, like a marionette with its strings cut, crashing to the floor in a lifeless heap.

.

.

*CRASH!*

The towering, elegant figure slumped immediately into a pile of unnaturally flexible limbs and cables, their screen face going dark. Their limbs twitched once-like the last shudder of a VHS dying in a dusty player-and then they were still.

"...Okay," Breadhead muttered. "That was terrifying."

"Yeah, well," Ken said, tucking the chip into his blood-splattered apron, "at least now it'll fit in the trunk."

Mel leaned over the motionless form, gently tucking one of its arms in. "Don't worry, TV Head. We'll figure you out."

They loaded TV Head in like a folded-up beach chair. Somehow, it worked.

Next stop: home. Or... whatever you call the place the Smiling Dead called home.

[angelthefandomobsessed]

Between Teeth, Between Claws, Between Them - Chapter 2 - Leona Kingscholar x Reader x Ruggie Bucchie

This is a continuation of the first part, which can be found here. I'm thankful for all of the support that BTBCBT (what a terrible, wonderful acronym) has received - I'm glad people enjoyed it!

This one still carries the slightly suggestive energy of the last one, but it's a little bit less strong. I hope you enjoy!

(Link to AO3: Between Teeth, Between Claws, Between Them - Angel_Ashido - Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game) [Archive of Our Own])

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Spelldrive was a weird game. It seemed simple enough, but you could never quite grasp all of the rules. Luckily, the photographer didn’t need to know the ins and outs - they just needed to capture the best action shots.

And with a model like Leona, every shot was one hell of an action shot. He was toned, and though his magic was doing most of the work, his muscles flexed with every spell he slung.

It was difficult to focus on anybody else. The prince stole the show with his perfect balance of strategic play and raw power.

You tried to take snaps of the others, but when you tore the lens away from Leona, you always seemed to find Ruggie. Ruggie, who was quick and underhanded, always aiming at the opponents who didn’t expect to come under fire. His acrobatics made for some pretty dynamic pictures.

During their break, Ruggie and Epel ran over to you.

“Getting my good side?” Ruggie asked, water dripping from the sides of his grin. He was clutching a water bottle like his life depended on it, his breath coming to him quick and uneven.

You flicked through the photographs on the digital camera, trying to hide the fact that most of them featured Leona. Finally finding the perfect shot of Ruggie, you presented it to him. “You tell me.”

Ruggie leaned forward, scrutinising himself. “Ooh, nice. Definitely my good side.”

“Woah, that looks really cool!” Epel chimed. Despite his petite frame, he didn’t seem tired in the slightest. “What about mine? I bet I look super manly!”

A picture of Epel… There had to be at least one, right?

You pulled the camera back and set about your search.

“Hm…” Not much luck. “Sorry, I haven’t got much of you, Epel. I’ll make sure to get the perfect picture in the next half,” you promised.

“Ah, that would be appreciated, but no pressure or anything,” Epel reassured you. “I told my ma and pa about the magazine thing, and they seem pretty excited about it. It would be awesome if I could make it in!”

Once Epel had wandered back to the field, Ruggie raised his eyebrows. “Poor little frosh… I’m flattered that a lowly hyena such as myself got to share the spotlight with the Prince of Spelldrive, though. Dashing good looks, bold plays, thirty-per-cent biceps by volume… I can’t blame you for neglecting everyone else.”

“Sounds like you need to keep your eye on the disc, Ruggie,” you pointed out.

“I’m good at multitasking. I’ve been stealing looks at you this whole time, too.”

“Really?”

“Do you doubt me?” Ruggie let out a small laugh. “I’ve always got one eye on you.”

With that, Ruggie left.

Before the game started back up, you flipped through the images once again, this time paying closer attention to them. True enough, Ruggie was in the background of several of them, staring right at you.

“You ruined the shot…” you mumbled to yourself.

“Who did?”

You yelped, eyes snapping up to see Leona, leaning over the railing in front of you.

Startled, you flew into a state of pure, confused instinct and yelled: “Hello!”

Mortifying.

If only the elusive Malleus was playing, so that he could strike you down with lightning.

Leona seemed equal parts amused and perplexed by that. “Hello, yourself. What were you muttering?”

“Oh, just that…” Your heart was pounding. It was as if you were being chased, yet you were sitting completely still. “In some of the pictures, Ruggie was looking directly at the camera, so… They aren’t very good.”

Leona humphed. “Amateur mistake.”

“It’s fine, though, because there are a lot of good pictures too. So… It’s no big deal, or anything.”

You were talking far quicker than usual. Why were you acting so… Idia-ish? Leona seemed to notice the change in your disposition, as he turned a more analytical gaze upon you.

“Do you need a break?” he asked, sounding… considerate, almost.

“No, I’m fine. Just a little startled by you suddenly appearing. That’s all.”

“Alright.” 

Leona walked off, as if that was the end of the interaction. You had just begun to calm your racing pulse when he strolled back into eyeshot.

“Here,” was all he said as he handed you a water bottle. It was ice-cold and covered in condensation, yet the way his hand bumped into yours sent warmth fluttering through your entire body.

“Thanks,” you managed to choke out.

Leona smirked. “No problem. I like to take care of what’s mine.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. How could you possibly know what to say to that? Back in the cafeteria, you had mustered up so much confidence, but now the sheer audacity of your actions was coming back to haunt you.

The cafeteria felt like a dream. This, beneath the soon-to-be-setting sun, felt far too real.

“Unless,” he continued, “You don’t want that.”

Leona dripped confidence in that moment, but you didn’t miss the way his tail curled, to the left, and then to the right.

“I do,” you reassured him. “I like you. And I like Ruggie. A… A lot. I just don’t know where the line is.”

Leona’s tail slackened, and all felt right in the world. “That can be discussed. Don’t let it distract you from taking a half-decent set of pictures, little mouse.”

“It won’t. I’ll consider it motivation, I suppose.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Now… That sorry lot has been lazing around for long enough.” Leona turned to the rest of his team. “Alright, places, people. Make sure to give it your all - practice your curtsies and look good for the camera, boys.”

With a general roar of enthusiasm, the match continued.

You managed to get at least one suitably ‘cool’ shot of Epel, as well as a few of the other members. When the game finally came to its end, the team wandered off to the locker rooms. Everyone except for Leona and Ruggie, who made a beeline for you like you were an oasis in a desert.

“Did you get what you came here for?” Leona asked, leaning on the railing once more.

Ruggie, on the other hand, vaulted the thing and sat right beside you. He threw an arm around your shoulder, which was, admittedly, unpleasant, as he his entire being was dewy with perspiration.

“I bet you fell head over heels for me and my moves, right?”

“The only thing that was head over heels was you, when you were hanging upside down,” you retorted.

“Pretty impressive, right?” Ruggie pressed, bringing his face close to yours.

You smiled at that. “Very impressive.”

“Don’t stroke his ego too much,” Leona said.

“Well, somebody has to, it’s not like you’re dishing out the compliments…” Ruggie mumbled, loud enough for both you and Leona to hear.

“Oh, I get it,” you said, reaching an epiphany. “You have a thing for praise.”

“H-Hey, you don’t hafta be so blunt about it…” Ruggie bristled, hiding his face in your shoulder.

“Gross, you’re all sweaty!”

“Good! Suffer!” Ruggie whined, the sound muffled against you.

Leona’s eyes danced with mirth. “This is a truly pathetic sight, Ruggie.”

“Leonaaaaaa…”

Another epiphany struck you. “Ruggie, do you also have a thing for humiliation?”

“You two are the worst.”

“I think it’s easier to put it as a thing for attention. Attention of any kind,” Leona added.

“So… If I were to call you a pitiful, adorable mess..?”

Ruggie said nothing. He let the wagging of his tail do the talking.

“Got it… I’ll keep that in mind,” you said. “But seriously, get off of me, you reek.”

The hyena backed off, face covered in pink. “You’ll pay for all of that,” he grumbled.

“Looking forward to it.”

“You seem to be back to your usual self,” Leona observed in his usual drawl. “Good. It suits you more than being uncertain.”

“Yeah, I feel a lot better now.” You reached out to put a hand on each boy, one on Leona’s hand, and the other on Ruggie’s head. “I would feel a lot better if you two would go and shower, though.”

“Hm… I guess if my kitten is asking…” Ruggie stretched before springing up from his seat. “Alright, I’ll go. C’mon, Leona, before you fall asleep on the field.”

“Don’t boss me around, Ruggie.” In spite of that, he took a step back, signalling that he was going to go. His green eyes fell to you, holding the last of the sun’s warmth. “See you tomorrow, herbivore?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you both tomorrow. I can pick out the best pictures and run them by you.”

Leona’s teeth flashed as he let out a single, low chuckle. “Looking forward to it.”

All three of you knew that Leona didn’t care in the slightest about the pictures.

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I've just opened asks for this blog, so by all means, feel free to get involved. Request pairings, ask questions, scream into the void... It's all very welcome (I don't have any TWST friends, can you tell, is it obvious?)

Next chapter is available: here.

[bethanythebogwitch]

Wet Beast Wednesday: remoras

Sometimes you just want to go with the flow and let someone else do the work. That's the mindset of a remora, this week's topic. Remoras are eight species of the family Echeneidae, divided into three genera. These fish are famous for suctioning onto a larger animal and going for a ride.

(Image id: a remora attached to the shell of a sea turtle. It is a long, slender fish with a black stripe going down its sides. Its lower jaw is pointed and facing upwards. End id)

Remoras differ in size depending on species, with the largest reaching 110 cm (43 in) in length. Their most famous feature is the disc on their backs. This disc is a heavily modified dorsal fin that consists of flexible membranes. When pressing the disc up against a surface, the membranes can be flexed to create a vacuum and provide suction in a similar manner to a suction cup. The Remora can then scoot backwards to increase suction or swim forward to release the suction and detach from its host. Remoras also lack a swim bladder, forcing them to actively swim to maintain their position on the water column. Fortunately, remoras don't really need swim bladders where they're going. While they can swim and survive on their own, remoras prefer to attach to a larger animal like a bigger fish, shark, ray, or cetacean. When there is a close interaction between two organisms it's called symbiosis. There are three types of symbiosis: mutualism (both benefit), commensalism (one benefits, the other is not positively or negatively affected), and parasitism (one benefits, the other suffers). The relationship between a remora and its host is likely either mutualistic or commensal as the host appears to suffer no downsides.

(Image id: a remora seen from above to emphasize its disc. The disc is oval and takes up about 30% of the upper body, starting just behind the mouth. The disc has many rows of darker stripes where the folds are visible)

A remora gets several benefits from being attached to a host. Being in close proximity to a larger animal protects it from predators closer to its own size and gets it a free ride. The ride also helps force air over its gills, keeping the remora well-oxygenated. There are two main methods fish use to keep water flowing over their gills. Ram ventilation occurs when a fish is swimming and their motion through the water forced the water over the gills. Active ventilation requires the fish to actively move water over its gills, often by repeatedly opening and closing its mouth. Both methods require the fish to expend energy, but tests on remoras determined that active ventilation is more energy intensive than ram ventilation. A remora on a fast-moving host can get the best option, using ram ventilation while letting someone else expend the energy of moving forward. Multiple remoras can live on a large enough host and it is speculated that sometimes mated pairs will share a host. It was previously believed that remoras would feed on scraps of food from the hosts meals, but it is now known that they derive most of their nutrition by eating the hosts feces. They also consume bits of dead skin and parasites from the host, which is a lot less gross. This cleaning of skin and parasites is why remora relationships with their hosts are considered mutualistic rather than commensal. There have been reports of hosts attempting to dislodge their remoras through methods such as breaching, so its possible there are situations where the relationship is unfavorable to the host, such as too many remoras attaching. While remoras are very streamlines, too many of them would produce drag, which would be a bad thing for the host.

(Image id: a manta ray or similar species seen from above , with two remoras attached to it just behind the cephalic fins. End id)

While remoras are most famous for attaching to a host, they are capable of living on their own. Juveniles are known to live in shallow coastal or reef areas, sometimes acting as cleaner fish. As adults, they move out into the deeper waters, in search of hosts. Most knowledge of remoras come from their behavior when attached to a host, so there isn't a lot we know about how they behave on their own. They are believed to have different diets, being more active hunters who feed on small crustaceans, squid, and fish. We don't know a lot about non-attached remoras, but we know even less about their reproduction. While remoras attached to the same host might become mated pairs, their mating season, mating habits, and what happens to their offspring is not known. All we know is that eventually juvenile remoras will turn up in coastal areas, but what happens between then and spawning is a mystery.

(Image id: a manta ray seen from below with many remoras attached to it. End id)

Remoras popped up in roman folklore as the echeneis, a small fish that could attach to boats and slow them down. Pliny the Elder blamed the echeneis for Mark Antony's loss in the battle of Actium, where poor maneuverability was one factor in his loss. A use for remoras has been in fishing, where a remora is caught, has a line tied to it, and then released. When the remora attaches to a host, the angler can pull in the line, pulling the larger animal in with the remora. The IUCN classifies all species of remora as least concern, except for one, which is data deficient. The largest threat to remoras seems to be threats to their hosts, so conservation of hosts like sharks, whales, and sea turtles will help conserve remoras by default.

(Image id: a remora that attached itself to a diver's leg. End id)

This was a shorter and less intensive WBW than most of my posts. What can I say, I felt lazy and decided to put in little effort, instead coasting on larger, more successful posts. If only there was an animal I could use as a metaphor for this situation. Can't think of anything, though.