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milf-murdock · 1 year ago

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I See Red (Part 2)

Simon "Ghost" Riley x 141!Reader

Read part 1 here

Summary: A tech expert lends her expertise to the 141 for a mission. It’s not her fault that she’s tall, beautiful, and perfect. But it is her fault that she can’t keep her goddamn hands to herself. How else are you supposed to react when you walk in to find her lips on your Ghost? Warnings: allusions to cheating, manhandling (I mean, there’s just so much man to handle…oh and also he throws reader over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes), angst, fluff, fluff, fluff, illusions to smut at the end but nothing specific (womp womp I knoooow) A/N: The happy ending Simon deserves after such a frightful misunderstanding. Poor bb is having such a rough day :(

Simon finds you pacing your room, footsteps leaving a veritable trail as you strut from end to end in the confined space.

One of the benefits to being a high-ranking member on an elite task force? You get your own room. It’s not much,�� barely enough room for a simple cot and a few tactical furniture pieces for storage, but it’s private. And right now, you’re quite thankful for the privacy, not wanting all of your business to be aired out in front of the whole squad.

“How could you, Simon?” Your hurt is palpable, and Simon’s heart constricts at the sound. He never wanted to be the reason for your pain.

“Listen, it wasn’t what it looked like,” Simon starts before you interrupt him.

“No??” You scoff. “So she wasn’t kissing you? She didn’t have your mask up? She hasn’t been flirting with you nonstop over the last two fucking weeks then?” You rattled off each allegation, your volume increasing with every accusation you spit at him.

Despite your best attempts to prevent it, you feel the tell-tale prickling sensation of tears forming in your eyes. You will them to stay put. The last thing you want is to look even more pitiful and pathetic than you already feel.

Simon’s chest aches as he sees the tears glisten in your eyes, a culmination of your hurt. He pulls his mask off over his head, hoping you can see the sincerity in his face.

“It wasn’t like that,” he tries to explain. “She kissed me. I would never do that you, sweetheart.”

“So I’m supposed to believe that you don’t care about gorgeous, voluptuous women with beautiful red hair who fawn over your every move?” Your gaze hardens as you hurl the accusation at his feet.

Simon is at a loss or words. He hadn’t given Bex a second thought once she showed up. Hadn’t thought anything more than that she must be good at her job for Price to have brought her on board.

The sea of confusion threatens to overwhelm Simon as he struggles to keep his head above water. Throw him on a high stakes mission anytime—hell, throw him directly into enemy combat over this. His head is spinning. How did all of this happen? First, the kiss from hell that came out of nowhere, then this wave of jealousy from you. Simon makes the connection as soon as the thoughts flow through his mind. This has to have been the root of your foul mood over the last two weeks, the reason behind your snarky comments and bitter conversations.

Misinterpreting his stunned silence, you let out a bitter laugh. “I thought so. You know what? Fuck this. I don’t need this. Just…” you inhale sharply. “Just go back to her.”

A lead weight drops into Simon’s stomach. “No.” The word is barely more than a whisper. He feels like the floor is being yanked out from under him. His world is spinning. No. He thinks to himself. Not you. He can’t lose you.

He closes the space between you in two strides, hands curling around your wrists in desperation, eyes pleading. “Listen. To. Me.” His staccato words are accentuated with his firm, but gentle, grip. “Please.”

You avoid his eyes, knowing those deep chocolate orbs would have you folding in an instant.

“No,” you spit out. “I don’t want to hear it.”

You tug yourself free from his grasp and turn to the door, ripping it open and stepping into the cold air.

Like hell was Ghost going to let you walk away from this.

You make it all of five steps from the door in the time it takes Ghost to come to his senses and high tail it after you. Without another thought, he reaches forward and grabs both your legs right out from under you, hoisting you over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“Ghost!” You shriek, unable to hold back your shock. A laugh bubbles up from inside you at the pure absurdity of the movement. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Making you fucking listen for once in your life,” Ghost grunts as he hauls you back into the room, tossing you onto your bed.

The mattress sinks beneath his weight as he sits next to you, his face taking on a serious expression. He reaches for your hands, his own mammoth hands swallowing yours whole. The motion sobers you, all humor from the previous moments erased.

“Ya know I’m not one for speeches, but I’ve got something important to say. And you’re going to bloody listen, got it?”

He takes your silence as approval to keep going.

“I swear to you, I didn’t kiss her, alright? She pulled up my mask and kissed me before I could even register what was happening. You have to believe me—I would never do that to you. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you like that.” He swallows hard as it dawns on him just how close he came to that being his reality. He fears he almost lost you for good.

“And to answer your question from earlier, no. I’ve never thought of her like that. Not once. I haven’t thought of anyone else like that. Not since I first saw you all those years ago. You remember?”

You shake your head. “Of course not, Simon. It was like three years ago.”

“Not to me. To me, it feels like it was yesterday. When I saw you hop off that helo, I knew I was done in. Fucking hell, I said. From the moment I saw your face, I was a goner.”

His hands drop your own as he reaches up to cup your face. You say nothing, but you don’t pull away from him either. And for Ghost, that’s enough.

“You mean everything to me. Everything. I trust you with my life on the battle field. I trust you with my innermost thoughts and feelings in here, when it’s just you and me. Can’t you trust me in the same way?”

A feeling of shame washes over you and you lower your gaze. The realization dawns on you, you hadn’t even given him a chance to explain. Remorse pools in your gut.

“How could I possibly be thinking of another woman, when I spent every waking minute of my day thinking about you, thinking about us, thinking about our future together?”

At that, your eyes glance up to meet his. “A future?”

The corner of Simon’s mouth tugs upwards in a coy smile. “Well, yeah. If that’s the kind of thing you want.”

You sigh deeply, feeling every last ounce of fight drain from your body.

“I’m so sorry, Si,” you whisper in the space between your bodies. “I should have given you a chance to explain.”

Simon doesn’t have words to explain the relief that floods his body as you lean forward, allowing him to wrap his arms around you and hold you close to him.

“S’okay,” he mutters. “If I had walked in on some bloke kissing you, I’d be snapping his neck before asking a single question from you.”

At that, you chuckle against his broad chest. “Well, that makes me feel better about my reaction then.” You pull back only slightly to offer him a soft smile. “I really am sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Simon presses his lips to your temple and savors the moment before adding, “Besides, I like seeing your jealous side. It’s kinda hot.”

“Oh yeah?” You tease, sitting up and popping one leg over Simon’s lap to straddle him. “How hot?”

“Fucking hell woman,” Simon groans with a playful roll of his eyes. “You’ll be the fucking death of me.”

“S’that so?” You shamelessly plant open mouthed kisses along his chiseled jaw, down his exposed throat. With fluid, practiced movements, you slide off the bed and come to your knees in front of him. “Least you’ll die a happy man,” you smirk before unbuttoning his trousers and showing Simon just how well and truly sorry you are.

Epilogue(ish):

Bex is on the first flight out the next day. The laptop was decrypted and the short-term mission accomplished, so there’s really no reason for her to stay any longer. And, of course, there’s the lingering threat of potentially losing some beloved limbs at the hands of one furious Ghost. On top of that, Bex isn’t entirely positive that you won’t come seek your own type of revenge for touching what clearly, definitively belongs to you. And she quite likes the idea of staying alive.

Masterlist ✧ Ask Box

Requested tags for Part 2: @infpt-zylith @nobilitando @lazystorycollector @141trash @thychuvaluswife @bakugohoex@kiryoutann @persephone-kore-law @whos-fran

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley imagine #cod ghost #cod simon ghost riley #cod simon riley

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mnemosyne-nyx · 2 years ago

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✨ Bruce Wayne Headcanons that haunt me but I refuse to elaborate on even if they're utterly wrong Pt. 2✨

Going feral over this man

Hal and Bruce almost share a birthday and it fucking infuriates Bruce for no reason.

My guy was a rebellious teenager growing up, you know, trauma baby tings but also wanting to distance himself from the elite society (I mean rich Gotham really is a different cesspool of evilness lmao who can blame the poor guy.) Not to get deep but the beginning of his crusade was him wanting to seek a life and identity beyond the Wayne name right and witness Gotham from all angles. However, after realising he can both honour and build upon his legacy, Bruce destroyed any proof of this phase as he associates it with his turbulent and troubled coming of age. Little does he know there's a box filled with Polaroids within the 73288199 attics of Wayne Manor ready for his kids to find plus his detailed knowledge about the punk scene of Gotham makes them suspicious anyway.

Bruce learns a lot from his children. He may be their mentor but he's definitely learnt acrobatic tricks from Dick Grayson, combat and body language from Cass etc etc. Black Canary one day complimenting an acrobatic move of Bruce's only for him to have learnt it from one 11 year old Dick Grayson.

Bruce knows every nook and cranny of the watchtower. This guy designed, funded and helped build this fucking thing. Superman can hear him fuckin scurrying in the hundreds of boiler rooms, hidden corridors and storage rooms like a human rat. Flash doesn't understand how this man just teleports from one end of the tower to the other not knowing Bruce built trapdoors, hidden passageways, fake walls in this place. Bruce has a hiding spot in the upper levels of the watchtower where a small window gives view to Earth. J'onn is the only leaguer who can rival Batman in his watchtower knowledge.

He is the unofficial caretaker of the justice league. He makes sure all catering and quarters are fully equipped to people's needs. Overhears a leaguer saying there aren't enough vegetarian options? Bam, fully renewed menu. Barry complaining he can't sleep because his quarter is too cold? Bam, temperature risen. Small things like office supplies, medical equipment - he's always taking mental notes of. He knows what leaguer is allergic to what too. Lad keeps the watchtower STOCKED

The League never fails to wish a member a happy birthday. Somehow word always gets out and no one really knows how the date gets around. It's Bruce. He knows everyone's birthdays. Sometimes photogenic memory doesn't work in his favour. When it comes to respect, compassion and love - Bruce isn't the verbal type. He prefers to show it through action - I mean he crusades around Gotham to show his need to protect people for God's sake. Therefore, he sets like a reminder anonymously on the watchtower monitor for some random hero to find.

My guy HATES Asmr.

Bruce's hair is naturally thick and actually pretty darn curly. Superman is renowned for having the curls, but Bruce - with dirty, grown out hair - can give him a run for his money. His curls never show though as he keeps his hair very short and often has it sleeked back in public (as Thomas and Alfred always told him it was neater and more proper that way.)

He is a PERFECT mix between Thomas and Martha. Everyone who ever meets Brucie Wayne for the first time tells him he's the spitting image of both of them.

My man was a heartthrob in the 90s. Dick and Tim frequently Google "Bruce Wayne 90s" and bust a gut laughing at how their old man is like in every fuckin teenage magazine published in that decade.

#batfam #bruce wayne #batman #justice league #brucie wayne #jla #dc comics #dc headcanon #WHY IS THERE LITERALLY NO ADOLESCENT BRUCE LORE WTF??#Me pondering with my pipe as I reinvent the entirety of the DC universe in my cobwebbed study #Sometimes I like giving batman human emotions so I can imagine Andrew tate fans getting angry at it just to feel something

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azapofinspiration · 9 months ago

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So I keep seeing people saying certain things regarding the events of Stormbringer, so I’ve written up a basic outline of what happened.

The timeline in SB seems to be:

Day 0/Prelude (before Chuuya knew what's going on)

- Verlaine broke into the PM, stealing back the hat

- Probably at the same time (and one day before the main plot starts) he seemed to try to go after Dazai and Mori (since Mori was apparently originally at the top of the list) but found Dazai first who bargained to buy time, promising info from the PM’s internal files (meaning files the PM has, not necessarily ones about the PM as we learn later)

- Verlaine tried to eliminate Adam who'd followed him to Japan (didn’t work)

Day 1 (Chuuya's involvement starts)

- Verlaine moves onto his next targets, the ones close to Chuuya, the Flags and attacks them

- Chuuya is not there due to Adam's arrival and despite being some of the Mafia’s elite up-and-coming members, the Flags die

- Verlaine then attacks Chuuya, revealing himself

- Verlaine pokes at the Gate and opens it for a few seconds

- Dazai, who'd probably been keeping track of Verlaine's actions while preparing contingencies and a plan to ultimately defeat him, now knows about the Gate's power that Chuuya and presumably Verlaine have and ensures that it's stopped

- Dazai drops Chuuya off at Old World to try to get some final goodbyes

Day 2 (Super busy)

- Flags' funeral

- Adam and Chuuya team up and suspect Shirase is a target (which is odd because Verlaine obviously did want to meet Shirase but he didn't try to kill him so... Was that a red herring all along?) and go to help him

- Verlaine meets Dazai at the storage container for the promised info (that was promised 2 days previous) that's the entire reason he spared Dazai (later revealed to be about N and the lab) and Dazai does so to buy more time

- Showdown at the police station; Detective Murase is killed (and seems to have been a target all along, not Shirase)

- Chuuya takes a breather after the detective dies, but N contacts them

- The lab stuff, including N, revelations, Dazai's arrival in an active plot role, etc.

- Verlaine gravity bombs his exit out, revealing he can crack his own Gate open, and kidnaps N

Day 3 (2 Days after Chuuya encountered Verlaine and had his Gate cracked open)

- Chuuya punishes Dazai for leaking info about N that resulted in Murase’s death (and his torture) while Dazai explains what will probably happen with his plan

- Verlaine has his own confrontation with N that once again shows N is a lying liar who lies

- Dazai's many staged plans and contingencies is fully revealed as action continues (tons of parts where Verlaine was almost stopped but had to move forward with the next plan - it’s very convoluted but it works, almost justifying the time he bought)

- They manage to win

- N ruins everything

- Dazai gives Chuuya two minutes to decide between his own wants and the needs of Yokohama

- Final fight: Guivre vs Corrupted Chuuya

- The day is saved thanks to Chuuya

And then of course the epilogue skips around in terms of time, place, character, and which of the book’s themes need to be wrapped up, but this is the basic gist of what happened overall.

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anteroom-of-death · 2 months ago

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Spin in the City, chapter 1

Synopsis: Malcolm Tucker is back in London and trying to gain employment. He grieves and plays himself openly.

A/N: another story from ME! I layer and add symbolism. There's many things wrong with me. Comments and thoughts appreciated...

Malcolm brushed his teeth, a task that got harder every day. Fuck, his depression and his arthritis starting to flare up every day for making it harder to operate this useless sack of cum.

He fucking understood he was sixty-two. He fucking got the message. Loud as the tinnitus he had from decades of screaming into a phone.

The taps stayed on as he paced in his old home. Sam convinced him to keep his Tottenham home when they got married and moved into their cottage in Wick. Storage and they could rent out the parking for a small fee.

His chest began that familiar widower’s ache.

Here he was back in the radioactive shithole that was England, yet alone London, their little home for a few years on the market. He couldn’t bear to keep it. A happy little thatched-roof where he saw his niece married last year. The place where they genuinely tried to live a life far removed from the cunts who framed him and used his existence to pass legislation.

The cozy little sitting room where the best fucking woman to ever exist breathed her last in May. (Possibly even the best fucking human to ever exist, but Malcolm admitted he may have heavy biases.)

He couldn’t bear it.

Fuck that.

Fuck this.

He just needed out and for something to do. Someone else to be for a bit.

He was shocked to find someone who was willing to interview him. Especially so quickly.

Maybe it was just because it was an American woman… no one from this Island or Northern Ireland would probably have him.

She sounded posh and mature, if not a tad bit full of herself.

He googled her separately from the firm she partnered with when he first saw the offer slide through his inbox from the recruitment service.

Confident, blonde and everywhere. She embodied the social elite of New York City. Dated celebrities and moguls, was friends with sex columnists and lawyers, hosted extravagant parties and had an endless string of sexy outfits. She seemed plenty intelligent and had eyes like a hawk with the posture befitting and outclassing any model.

Not particularly his type. He always liked demure brunettes with something deeply wrong behind the surface. Both of his wives were.

Not that Sam and Elaine were anything alike. No, Elaine was some hag bitch journo from hell whom he frequently thought of trying to start some political movement her for the entire goddamn world’s protection. Sam just was both a sadist and a sweetheart at once.

He shoved those thoughts down as he called an Uber and collected the folder he made of his accomplishments over the years.

He didn’t want to cry before his interview.

Or give off the impression that Malcolm F. Tucker was someone who had the capacity to cry.

The suit felt itchy and constricting against his being. Not unlike a noose, it felt so alien to wear one after years of Aran sweaters and jeans with flannels. The man who wore suits was executed for his alleged crimes in 2012. This man? In 2021? No.

This man was a new man, older, tired and more timid than he liked to admit.

He just needed to do something, be something. Anything but some begrieved widower with increasingly dead eyes.

The firm was a stone’s throw from his old stomping grounds in Number 10 and Westminster.

Nonetheless, he trudged onward into the office.

It was modern and luxurious inside. Nothing too ostentatious, but the bright lights and plush chair the receptionist led him to wait for Samantha Jones but his teeth on edge. Her desk was simple and glass, only a small stack of papers, a pen and a sleek laptop were on display.

He would have thought something vulgar, but he was trying not to. He was also on display.

The woman glided in, clad in something that seemed custom-made. He was no fashion expert, Sam always just bought him his suits and gave him the bill to forward to treasury for reimbursement. Once in a while he’d recognize a name from one of the designers on the high streets or the luxury shops in richer areas that were bespoke.

His perfect Sam. Knew him better than he did himself…

Malcolm got up and offered her his hand. She took it, her handshake firmer than any man in politics and twice as assertive. She had a bizarre smile on her face. One that was un-fucking-readable.

Probably some American blow-off look. They did love their meaningless grins and fucking pointless niceties.

It was fascinating to him how an entire country operated on the same system of etiquette as pointless cabinet members with worse agendas.

She sat down and clicked something on her file and looked at his CV. The half-second she held each in her line of vision seemed to go on for eternity.

“Cut the bullshit, Malc. Why does someone like you want to demean yourself working for me?” She leaned back and bore her eyes into his soul, (he highly debated that he had a soul, but if he did, Samantha Jones was staring straight at it…) her index finger resting just behind a broach cleverly disguised as an earring.

Now Malcolm had the luxury of choice. Did he tell the truth or did he fabricate and spin a nice little falsehood?

What did he say to that emaciated Oxbridge twat that stole his place? Rabbits and hats? That rant came barreling back and hit him clearly between the eyes.

He had to act.

“Retirement isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, isn’t it, love?”

She clearly didn’t enjoy that response. Her eyes narrowed and he felt like he was melting quicker than a cone in the hand of toddler with ADHD during a heatwave. He had to amend his statement and do a little backtracking.

“Samantha, can I call you Samantha?” He felt his hand extend and the glimmer of his old self surface.

“Miss Jones.”

“Right. Miss Jones.” He nodded along. “I don’t expect you to care, but I can’t live how I was living. A man’s got to have a purpose. Can’t sit by the sea waiting to fucking pass from Parkinzeimers, can he?” Blatant honesty covered in bravado.

He thought he saw a flash of something behind her eyes, he didn’t want to dig himself a bigger hole. So he left that statement at that.

She was judging him. He felt cornered.

He didn’t like this.

“Don’t play games with me. I know there’s more than- “She gestured broadly towards his entire being, “Being purposeless.”

He deflated and decided to tell an unvarnished truth. No spin, no anything, he even pulled himself back from swearing. “I’ve worked since I was 8. I haven’t not worked my entire life. I spent a few years living a life I didn’t know a boy from Gorbals could get. It’s dead and gone. Give me something to do.” He gave plaintive plea as a firm demand.

He could physically see the gears turning in her mind. He obviously was a risky investment.

She pursed her lips.

“Trial period, I’ll have my assistant send you a temporary contract.”

Thank fuck, he relaxed.

“Don’t pull anything like you did to Mr. Tickel or I’ll have you unable to even run the tills at Iceland.” She levied against him as she got up and offered him a hand. The interview was over and she wanted him out of her office.

“Fair fucking offer.” He took her hand, yet again noticing her grasp and the fact you could feel her obviously well-earned cockiness radiating from the cells in her hand alone.

He felt himself crumple in the lift ride down.

Maybe it was too soon to work?

No, this was the right thing to do. There wasn’t anything for him left. Might as well fucking slide back in the old skin suit and concern himself with every wanker’s business except his own. Would keep his mind torn off of his intelligent, beautiful and loving bride dying from breast cancer than neither of them knew she had. She got the diagnosis too late and the chemotherapy was too rough.

It fucking shattered her.

She took the peaceful route, die with dignity in her home, surrounded by loved ones.

That was the type of woman she was. Quiet, simple and dignified. She did the job and did it well. Even dying was a class-act from her.

He missed her more every moment.

He got home and let himself cry, first time since he watched the life slip away from her eyes. It took hours and he felt literally disemboweled after it.

The email app on his phone pinged.

It was Miss Jones’ assistant. His contract was in for him to review and sign.

He didn’t know how he’d spun this far out of control…

#personal #i wrote this #malcolm tucker #samantha jones #the thick of it #sex and the city #in the loop #and just like that #samantha jones x malcolm tucker #malcolm tucker x samantha jones #yayyyy #crossover fics #i am fueled by my own delusional behavior #yeey #peter capaldi #kim cattrall #the white devil #yeerrrt

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mariacallous · 4 months ago

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In less than a week, Israel has managed to significantly degrade Hezbollah’s military capabilities, communications systems, and chain of command. First, exploding pagers and walkie-talkies undermined the group’s ability to communicate. Then came the assassination of operations commander Ibrahim Aqil on Friday—along with 14 top Radwan Force commanders—which was a major setback for the Lebanese militant group’s top leadership and command unit, the Jihad Council. From the founding members of Hezbollah’s military structure, only Ali Karaki survives today.

This escalation comes after Israeli leaders decided to confront the continuous threat to the country’s north posed by Hezbollah. Last Monday, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s security cabinet decided to set a new war goal: the safe return of Israeli residents to the country’s north.

Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah is not conceding, however. In a speech given on Sept. 19, Nasrallah doubled down on attacking Israel’s north. Despite his acknowledgement of Israel’s technological advances, the leader of Hezbollah refused to back down and threated that “no military escalation, no killings, no assassinations, and no all-out war can return residents to the border.”

Immediately after his speech, Israel struck approximately 30 Hezbollah rocket launchers and infrastructure sites, which contained approximately 150 launcher barrels, according to a spokesperson from the Israel Defense Forces (IDF). The IDF also hit Hezbollah’s weapons storage facilities in multiple areas in southern Lebanon, followed by more intense strikes over the weekend, with Israel claiming on Saturday that it had eliminated 400 rocket launchers across southern Lebanon and the Beqaa Valley. The scale of these strikes indicates Israel’s appetite for escalation and willingness to widen the circle of targets.

Despite the calls to go all in, an Israeli decision to launch a full-scale war or land incursion has not been made yet. Such a decision would bring the country and its civilian infrastructure much damage, especially if Hezbollah unleashes its most advanced missiles. It seems that Israel is determined to push Hezbollah to change its strategy and revisit its involvement in the conflict, which the group initiated on Oct. 8, 2023, a day after the Hamas attacks on Israel.

Hezbollah now faces a choice: to preserve what is left of its military assets and leadership, or to maintain its threat over the north of Israel.

The losses that Hezbollah suffered last week were immense, but the group lost the deterrence battle months ago. Since last October—when Hezbollah decided to attack Israel in support of Hamas—Israel has been successful at degrading the group’s military capabilities with precise targeted attacks, and it has done so largely without causing many civilian casualties. In the past year, Israel has killed more than 500 people—most of them Hezbollah militants— including top and elite commanders, such as Wissam al-Tawil, Taleb Abdullah, Fuad Shukr, and others.

In addition, Hezbollah’s military infrastructure south of the Litani River has been demolished, along with a large number of its weapons depots and military infrastructure across Lebanon. The group’s responses focused mostly on the north of Israel, targeting military bases and infrastructure while mostly avoiding civilian casualties, major cities, and civilian infrastructure.

At the beginning of the war, the goal of Hezbollah and Iran—the group’s main backer—was to reap the benefits from any political or diplomatic solution that would end the Israel-Hamas war in Gaza. But along the way, they managed to achieve an unprecedented feat—to move the buffer zone from the south of Lebanon to the north of Israel. Around 60,000 Israelis remain internally displaced, and Hezbollah has communicated this to its constituency as the biggest ever achievement against Israel. It will be very difficult to walk back from this.

If Israel widens the circle of targets to hit advanced military assets, such as the facilities that store and produce precision-guided missiles, Hezbollah might revisit its threat to the north. Today, the group is walking a very thin line between its assets and its threats, and the question is how many more losses it can endure.

Israel sees this as an opportunity to push further—and raise the price for Hezbollah until it becomes unbearable. Although a full-scale war between Israel and Hezbollah is a real possibility, both parties still prefer a diplomatic solution. Israel is trying to keep its attacks targeted, and Hezbollah is trying hard not to provoke Israel or be forced to use and waste its most valuable military assets—namely, precision missiles—which Iran regards as an insurance policy.

Indeed, Israel could be escalating today to avoid war; that is, to push Hezbollah to accept the only diplomatic solution on the table—the one presented by Amos Hochstein (the U.S. envoy for international energy affairs) to delink Lebanon from Gaza and implement U.N. Security Council Resolution 1701, which ended the 2006 war between Israel and Hezbollah. This means that Hezbollah will have to accept a separate cease-fire agreement, withdraw its military presence to north of the Litani River, roughly 18 miles away from the border, and allow displaced Israelis to return safely to the north.

Until last week, Israel and Hezbollah had been walking a very thin line between a full-scale war and a calculated pattern of attacks and responses.

Hezbollah lost military infrastructure, commanders, and weapons, but most importantly, it lost security and trust among its ranks. After every assassination or strike, and specifically with the mass explosions of pagers and radios, Hezbollah now fears more in-depth infiltration in its ranks by the Israeli intelligence agencies. And its militants lost trust in their own, fearing that anyone could be an Israeli spy.

The group also lost trust in technology and has no reliable communications system that it could rely on for any military response or war. The only way left is verbal communications, which its leaders resorted to when the in-person meeting between Akil and the Radwan Forces was scheduled—and then hit by an Israeli strike. The level of infiltration is deeper than they know.

Additionally, Hezbollah has lost the trust of its own community. If it cannot protect itself, many are asking, then how can it protect its constituency and supporters? It will be very difficult to assure its community of safety and security while walking—and exploding—among them. Worse still, the group is no longer Iran’s success story in the region.

The fact that Israel could kill Shukr and Akil in the middle of their stronghold in the southern Beirut suburb of Dahiyeh is a big breach. However, what is a lot more troubling for Hezbollah’s leadership is its loss of the element of surprise, which has always been part of its military strategy. Israel knew exactly when and how Hezbollah was planning to retaliate for Shukr in August, as the IDF launched a preemptive strike against the group’s infrastructure, including the launchers it had prepared for the operation.

All these losses, in addition to the group’s incapacity thus far to conduct an effective military response against Israel, is both humiliating and embarrassing for Hezbollah. But on the military level, it is worse: Hezbollah is more deterred than ever.

The group could eventually recover from these losses, rebuild its communication network, counter Israeli intelligence, and regain trust among its community. But this is all going to take a long time, a luxury that Hezbollah might not be able to afford.

Today, any response to Israel’s escalation requires the militant group to resolve the following concerns:

First, without a proper communications system, Hezbollah cannot coordinate on targeting, responses, or logistics. It also cannot easily use verbal or written communications—similar to the system that Hamas is currently using inside Gaza’s tunnels. Lebanon is much bigger, and without an efficient and fast communication system, Hezbollah’s military capability to conduct war is largely diminished.

Second, many top Hezbollah officials have been killed or injured. The pagers that exploded hit many of the group’s senior and mid-level operatives. The shipment contained 5,000 pagers, and Hezbollah’s fighting force alone has been independently estimated to comprise at least 20,000 militants. Pagers were provided to officials and fighters with special skills and missions; that is, those who need to be protected. Families of Hezbollah members of Lebanon’s parliament and high-ranking commanders, in addition to high-level security personnel, were among the casualties—not to mention Iran’s ambassador to Lebanon, who was reportedly in close proximity to an exploding device.

Finally, Hezbollah still hasn’t figured out how deeply infiltrated by Israeli intelligence it is. Sources close to its inner circle have told Foreign Policy that the group’s leaders are looking into every single piece of electronic gear they own, and that they are worried that their cars, motorcycles, and even their advanced missile factories are booby-trapped and could go off any minute.

The group will have to conduct an in-depth investigation to make sure that other items have not been infiltrated or compromised by the Israelis, which will take weeks. And if Hezbollah fears that its missiles facilities are booby-trapped or monitored, it will be logistically very difficult to safely move these weapons in order to launch them.

The Israeli government seems to think that Hezbollah’s setbacks are a good opportunity for the IDF to launch a war to further erode the group’s capabilities. But a war similar to that of 2006 might cause Israel real damage without leading to the elimination of the Hezbollah threat. Moreover, it could lead to more international isolation and more civilian casualties on both sides, as well as risk a regional war from multiple fronts.

What the IDF and its external intelligence agency, Mossad, have achieved in the past week has been very effective. There is no need for a full-scale war that would cause civilian losses, bring back “axis of resistance” rhetoric, and unite regional and international public opinion against Israel.

Until a long-term solution is reached, the best-case scenario is for Hezbollah to accept a separate cease-fire, disconnected from the war in Gaza. Diplomatic messaging from the United States and its allies needs to focus on this objective and pressure Hezbollah to delink the two fronts. For Iran and Hezbollah, nothing is more important than their military assets—especially precision missiles.

U.S. diplomatic efforts need to take advantage of Hezbollah’s vulnerability. In addition to forcing the group to accept a separate cease-fire, negotiations should be focused on preventing a full-scale war, allowing residents from both sides to return home, and undermining Hezbollah’s and Iran’s narratives of victory and resistance.

U.N. Resolution 1701 is not sustainable because it does not include punitive measures, and Hezbollah will eventually violate it. Therefore, a long-term policy will have to be designed after a cease-fire is achieved in order to contain Hezbollah in Lebanon—a policy that will address interrupting its weapons supply routes from Tehran via Iraq and Syria as well as help the Lebanese state regain its sovereignty when it comes to decisions of war and peace.

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exdraghunt · 3 months ago

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TF One re-write

Okay so, I didn't like TF One. But I think it had a lot of potential. So how would I have altered the story to make it better? Let me dump my thoughts onto the page for 3,700 words.

The scene opens with a desolate alien landscape. Rotting buildings, shifting metal shapes, dangerous and lonely. The camera pans down below ground to a fantastical underground city, full of shining buildings and alien robots on wheels, in the sky, and on foot. We pan to a building labelled “Archives!” with a sign stating “Intellectual Class only!” Around the side, a scruffy figure is climbing in through a vent to access a dim storage room.

Taking a stack of files, Orion plugs one into a display. It malfunctions, alerting a guard drone, but he manages to get it working. A history file, it explains how Primus became the planet Cybertron and created the great 13 Primes to rule the planet while he slept. The Matrix of Leadership was held by the Primes, only able to be wielded by true leaders with the purest of sparks. As long as the Matrix is held by a Prime, energon flows freely across the surface of Cybertron, the lifeblood and fuel of its children. But then the Quintessons came to enslave the Cybertronian race, and the Primes rose up against them. 12 of them fell. Solus, Alchemist, Quintus, Alpha Trion, Vector, Micronus, Nexus, Amalgamous, Quintus, Liege Maximo, even the great Prima, were lost to the oppressors. Only Sentinel Prime, the last Prime, was able to scrape victory from defeat, driving away the Quintesson threat. But the Matrix was lost, and energon stopped flowing. In his wisdom, Sentinel had the computer Vector Sigma create the cogless Mining caste, to make sure that energon could still be provided to the people of Cybertron, and implemented a caste system to make sure that energon is distributed in a way fair to all.

Orion is frustrated. If they could only find the Matrix, all would be well again. Everyone could be equal, with plenty of fuel for all. Unfortunately, archival guards find him. A chase ensues, the camera follows Orion and his pursuers across the gilded city, past richly decorated high-class bots, through a lower class district of lower caste mecha, and finally to the entrance to the deep mines. A silver miner, D-16, covers for Orion until the guards leave, and inquires if his friend learned anything. Orion admits he didn’t discover anything new about the Matrix, but re-emphasizes that if the Matrix could just be found, and given to Sentinel Prime, everything would be well again. D-16 chastises Orion for risking his aft on a dumb chase. The Matrix is a fairy-tale, nothing will change until the lower castes can prove they are worth something. Only they will be able to change their own fates.

Deep in the mines, dimly lit, we see where the miners live. In racks, closely spaced, with no privacy or space of their own. They report to work, Orion and D-16 running to ensure they aren’t late. Their supervisor, Elite-1, chastises them for running behind, and sternly tells them she won’t take the fall for their fuckups. They head into the latest adit, marching into the darkness. Tools flash as they begin to dig into the rough metal of deep Cybertron, searching for glimmers of raw energon ore.

One miner (Wheeljack) notes an unusually strong energon signature, and the miners become excited that they might break quota for the day. Elita is especially excited. If they can exceed their quote, she might be rewarded. Even, moved up a caste if they work hard enough.

The vein is unstable, however, and the adit begins to dangerously collapse. Everyone begins to evacuate, with Elita barking orders over the comm. Jazz stumbles, and falling ore traps his leg. Orion immediately stops and begins trying to free his companion. Elita commands him to evac, but he refuses. Even if he dies, risking his life would be worth it if he can save even one more. D-16 turns back, and with his assistance, Jazz is freed and the three escape. (Barely). Elita is blamed for the collapse, and knocked down to garbage duty. Furious, she is dragged off.

Jazz lost his leg and the supervisors decide he’s not worth the extra parts to have it replaced. Orion and D-16 protest. Orion tries to appeal to their better nature, not to sentence their fellow Cybertronian to an unpleasant death for lack of function. D-16 is accusatory, that the upper classes don’t give a slag about the cogless even though replacement legs aren’t that expensive.

Orion proposes breaking into medical storage that night, to steal parts for Jazz. D-16 goes along, and the two manage to get the replacement but not without being caught due to a blunder on Orion’s part. Jazz thanks them profusely for the effort, even as the two are sentenced to half-rations and double-shifts. D-16 grumbles at Orion for messing up their plan.

The next day, a public announcement is made by Sentinel Prime. The highest castes see him in person, everyone else by vidscreen. Everyone kowtows before him, giving a ritual greeting before listening to his message. Sentinel has been to the surface, making the dangerous journey to search for Quintesson patrols and signs of other Cybertronians. He sadly claims that the other former cities of Cybertron show no signs of life with the exception of Tarn, where the planetary defenses are and thus where much of their energon goes, and the Matrix is still missing, but he did fight off a Quintesson warship and their people are free for another day. The next day will be a city-wide holiday, during which a great Primal contest will be held. All castes are invited to watch, while only racing-class, intellectual-class, and class-exempt mecha may compete.

Orion is excited for the contest, D-16 accusatory. The contest is just a way for the noble-classes to show off, why enjoy it? Orion counters that they shouldn’t watch it, they should enter it. If they compete, they can show people that the cogless are worth something. Even if they don’t win. And if they do win, they can be reclassified alt-mode exempt. Do whatever they want, perform whatever job they please, enter any building in the city.

D-16 complains that, as they don't have alt-modes, they can't become "alt mod exempt" but Orion protests that the rules apply to everyone. The nobles can't just deny them this because they're miners. Besides, then they can speak to Sentinel Prime himself to ask for better treatment and medical help for their caste. D-16 can’t help but agree, it’s a crazy idea. But just maybe, it could work.

The competition is a mixture of intellectual puzzles, fighting, sharpshooting, and racing. It is meant to show that the Cybertronian people can fight the Quintesson threat, now made into a festival. D-16 and Orion crash the starting line and starts working their way through the crazy obstacle course. They struggle, but by working together and combining their respective skills, they manage to keep going. Orion excels in problem solving, D-16 in fighting. We see flashbacks of them using those respective skills in the mines. There is a snafu at the shooting stage, as neither can transform, neither has in-built weaponry. But D-16 comes up with a mining laser and scores a smoking bullseye. They run on to the race.

Now, they can’t help but fall behind. They are on pede, with no wheels or wings. They hop across other racers, gaining their ire and making several racers change their focus from winning to killing the miners. Using this against them, D-16 and Orion manage to continue to gain ground, taking out several racers in the process. But when Orion is injured, D-16 turns to help him, and the other racers roar past to the finish. Orion and D-16 DNF.

In the medical wing, the two bicker, only to be silenced when Sentinel Prime comes to see them. Orion immediately kowtows, awed by the sight of their god. D-16 grumbles a little, but half-heartedly follows his friend’s lead. Sentinel compliments their efforts, and says they’ve inspired their fellow miners to work even harder than before. Orion attempts to make a plea to better the conditions for his caste, but is brushed off. Sentinel leaves, and the two grumble in frustration. Then, one of the racers they sabotaged earlier bursts in and grabs the pair, dumping them down the nearest garbage chute to the great smelters beneath the city.

Popping out of the chute many stories down, D-16 and Orion are greeted by a little yellow bot who introduces himself as B127, or just B. He’s been sentenced to garbage duty, sorting trash for possible valuables, due to his incessant talking pissing off his supervisors. B is excited to show off his collection to the first new mecha he’s seen in ages. He’s spent much of his time pulling interesting junk from the conveyor, and is able to point out random crap as actually being antiques of dubious usability. B127 appears to know a lot about ancient history, more than even Orion, who questions where he's learned this. B reveals that someone has been dumping archival items into the garbage chutes, some of which he saves. One item he shows is a vidmessage, which briefly shows an incredibly fuzzy clip of Alpha Trion before the image breaks. B says it’s the only person he’s been able to talk to in ages.

Fascinated by the image of one of the Great Primes, Orion takes the vidmessage and is able to coax it into showing it’s entire message. It’s an SOS, sent out to the Primesguard in the moments before the Primes fell. A set of coordinates is included. Orion gasps. The coordinates aren’t far from Iacon and, just perhaps, where the Primes fell is where the Matrix fell too.

D-16 is skeptical at going to the surface to quest for a quasi-mythical item, but as usual, Orion is persuasive and convinces D-16 with images of a better life and better Cybertron. B is happy to go along, eager to escape the underlevels.

The trio make it to a first-level train station, where trains are being loaded. One of trash, headed to underlevels, one of energon, headed to the surface for Tarn. While sneaking into the surface train, Elita, loading garbage onto the trash train, follows them with the intent of catching the interlopers and turning them in. She gets trapped in the train alongside them, however, and ends up on the surface with the trio. Once again, Orion is persuasive, explaining their quest, and Elita, with no way of returning below once they are tossed from the train, reluctantly joins.

As they dodge the shifting, seemingly malicious landscape, a Quintesson warship decends and they flee into ruins to escape it. It is quipped “Where’s Sentinel Prime when you need him?” and they also wonder why the planetary defenses aren’t doing anything about the ship. They send a brief prayer to the Primes for their deliverance before continuing on.

Locating the coordinates of the message, they discover the cave containing the bodies of the Primes. Walking through the space, they name every one of the deactivated frames. Until they find a Prime they do not recognize, with a strange mask for a face. Why are there 13 bodies in the cave? Sentinel Prime is still alive, there should only be 12 dead primes. But no, there are 13.

It is realized that Alpha Trion’s spark is still slowly spinning, and he is reactivated. He explains that Sentinel is no Prime, he was, in fact, the head of the Primesguard in charge of fighting the Quintesson threat alongside the Primes. He lured the 13 to this cavern, to a Quintesson ambush. The mystery Prime, Megatronus, threw himself into battle to try and protect his fellow Primes, but all fell. Megatronus last, cursing Sentinel with his last breath. D-16 shares a significant camera frame with the offline frame of Megatronus, as he wonders over the Prime who fought so bravely, and snarled so harshly, before Sentinel erased his name from history.

It is revealed that all Cybertronians are born with transformation cogs, thus, the “cogless” class must have had theirs removed. Orion expresses disbelief, Sentinel created their people specifically to mine and they don’t need cogs for that. Every form has a function. Every Cybertronian is a cog in the machine.

Alpha Trion scoffs. No one is born into a function or task. They are Transformers, free to choose their own path. If Sentinel called them, he had their cogs ripped from their newborn bodies. Mining isn’t a destined job, as with the Matrix, energon flows free for all. But the Matrix dissolved in Sentinel’s hands when he ripped it from Prima’s chest, unwilling to be in the hands of a false Prime.

Orion is in disbelief, shaken that they’ve been ruled by a false Prime and such an atrocity has been committed. D-16 is furious, and claims that he will kill Sentinel for this. There is protest from Elita and B, he calls them naive, just like Orion, for thinking they can just talk to Sentinel to fix all of Cybertron’s woes.

Alpha Trion gives cogs to the four. Prima, to Orion. Solus, to Elita. Micronus, to B. Liego Maximo, to D-16. He tells them the Primesguard may still be out there, they may be able to help. But then, the cave shakes. Outside, there is a Quintesson ship descending from the clouds. There’s a train on the surface, accompanied by Sentinel and his retinue. They expect to see a fight, but instead. The ship unloads Quintesson troopers, who begin to remove the supplies from the train. Energon, but also transformation cogs. Their transformation cogs. A high-caste Quint, with the rotating, changing faces, comes down to speak with Sentinel. The false Prime attempts to be haughty, but is put into his place and forced to grovel. The Quints are dissatisfied with the amount of energon provided, and the t-cogs are not enough to fuel their experiments. They demand more of both. Sentinel complains that if the Quints would just take care of the damn traitors on the surface that keep raiding the trains, they wouldn’t have this problem, but the Quints won’t hear of it.

The four main characters are furious, and as the Quintessons leave, make a noise which attracts the attention of Sentinel’s guards. A fight and chase ensues. Alpha Trion is captured. The main cast transforms for the first time, and discovers they have in-built weapons. It’s hard to tell if they manage to kill any of Sentinel’s guards, or just wound them, but B is shaken by the thought he may have killed someone. D-16 snorts. Don’t feel bad, it was kill or be killed. You or him. Orion is more sympathetic, and tells B it’ll be okay. The four think they’re homefree, before being ambushed by unseen assailants and going into darkness.

Upon Awakening, they are in a darkly lit space full of vintage flight-frames. Clearly, these are the bandits that have been raiding the energon trains. B looks around and realizes who they are. Seekers. The former Primesguard.

Starscream sits on his throne before them, two unfamiliar mecha at his side. The 13 never respected their guards, going off on their own to fight Quints while leaving their guards to pick up the pieces behind them. Sentinel coerced their help in the betrayal (though they did not know the 13 would be killed), before casting them out as well rather than listen to them. He replaced his entire guard with sparkless drones who can never voice a dissenting opinion, save for his vizier Airachnid. Starscream thinks all Primes are liars and idiots, with no faith in any. Especially not the false Prime, Sentinel.

It is questioned who the other two mecha are. Shockwave, a scientist who realized that the energon supplies were not going to another settlement on Cybertron. Empurata’d and cast out for speaking out against Sentinel. Soundwave, an outlier cast out for protesting Functionism. There are others in the crowd, in the dark. Other Empuratas, other seekers, other outliers. The caste-less, the banished. The furious, and ready to burn down all of Cybertron.

D-16 is clearly enamored with this idea, even as Orion, B, and Elita are disturbed with the idea of violent revolution. D-16 stands, and claims that he will join them. No, he will lead them, because D-16 will follow another’s orders no more.

Starscream scoffs, that some young punk can think to order him, Starscream, around. A fight ensues, vicious and cruel. Insults are thrown. Orion begs D-16 to stop, but is shoved out of the way. D-16 has something to prove. Starscream realizes that this mech might just be the revolutionary they need, and encourages D-16 to be more violent, more vicious. He must shed any semblance of mercy to lead this rag-tag band of outlaws and former military.

An uneasy night is spent in the outlaw camp. D-16 is up late into the night, speaking with Starscream, Soundwave, and Shockwave, making plans. Orion attempts to stay, but can’t handle what they’re talking about, and sneaks up to the surface to see the stars for the first time in his life. B and Elita follow. Orion admits he feels like he’s failed as a friend, failed D-16. Failed his best friend. What can he do now? His every attempt to fix things has just ruined them further.

B protests quietly that Orion is not a bad friend. He is, in fact, the first friend that B has had in his life. Him not being able to save D-16 from his character arc does not make him a failure.

The emotional moment ends when there are lights in the sky. Prime drones descend, having picked up the trio’s spark signatures. Another fight, with D-16 accusing them of exposing their position by leaving the safety of the underground base. But then, he is captured, along with B and many of the outlaws.

Orion escapes along with Elita, but is crushed. Two of their friends are gone, they’re wanted criminals, and they have no proof of anything they’ve seen. How will they ever get the Cybertronian people to see the truth?

D-16 and the others captured are in Sentinel’s palace. He mocks them. D-16 refuses to kneel, and talks back to Sentinel. The false Prime is surprised, and comments that it’s been a long time since anyone dared stand up to him. D-16 brings up Megatronus Prime, and what Sentinel did to him. Sentinel laughs, and reveals that he took Megatronus’ cog for his own, just as a last fuck you. D-16 snarls and threatens revenge, Sentinel is like “If you love Megatronus so much, let me give you something to remember him for” and carves the Prime’s sigil into D-16’s chest.

Orion goes back into the mines, to tell the miners what he’s discovered and convince his former caste-mates to join him in rising against the Prime. They’re skeptical, but Jazz vouches for him. Remembering Orion risking his life to save him, and then again to have him repaired. Orion has done more for the miners than the Prime ever has. They agree to be his army.

Elita has gotten the remainder of the outlaws on her side, and they crash Sentinel’s party. More fighting, with the people of Iacon watching in horror at the ‘traitors’ attacking their Prime.

Soundwave manages to get a video recording of Sentinel’s bragging, and is able to hijack the Iaconian broadcasting system. The people of Iacon reel in confusion, unsure if they’re seeing the truth or lies.

As the miners and the outlaws fight off the seemingly endless army of Primedrones, the main fight spills onto a central plaza. In front of a statue of the 13 Primes holding up the Matrix. As D-16 seeks to murder Sentinel as painfully as possible, Orion is pleading with him to stop the violence and killing. Sentinel killed the 13, how does killing him make D-16 any better? He should live, so that he can be jailed, but D-16 disagrees. The false god needs death.

D-16’s death shot is blocked by Orion, devastating his body and sending him over the edge of a deep pit. D-16 lunges, and attempts to catch Orion’s hand. But his friend slips from his grasp, falling into the bottomless chasm. D-16 stands and mourns for a moment, before his fury reasserts himself. He shifts the blame for Orion’s death onto Sentinel. Sentinel is why his friend is dead, is why Cybertron is a pithole, why the Quintessons have not been chased off, as claimed, but are actually ruling the planet with Sentinel as their puppet. Taking their energon, and stealing their T-cogs. Soundwave is still broadcasting, sending these words across Iacon. Sentinel does not deny any of this.

Turning, D-16 sees the statue of the Primes and is now able to see how Megatronus was crudely reshaped into Sentinel. He demands to know why Sentinel killed him, killed all of them. Sentinel snarls that the 13 were idiots, Megatronus a dumb brute, and the entire planet would’ve become slaves if they were allowed to lead the war. D-16 thinks “dumb brute” is amusing, and decides to claim the name Megatron, to bring the forgotten Prime back into public view and finally allow him to seek his revenge on Sentinel. The false Prime is ripped in half, his t-cog removed, and Megatron rises. The outlaws, with Starscream at the head, cheer for their near leader. Megatron announces that there will be no more Primes, no more castes. The Revolution is Now.

Meanwhile, Orion’s battered frame falls through Cybertron, parts visibly transforming out of the way to draw him deeper and deeper to Primus’ very spark. The matrix appears, and Optimus Prime rises.

When Optimus Prime appears on the surface, glowing with the power of Primus and the Matrix on display, an audible hush falls over Iacon. The miners are clearly in awe for their former friend, the former Primesguard nervous and snarling at the sight of a new Prime.

Megatron questions whether his friend will renounce the Primacy and join him in the revolution. Optimus denies. Cybertron needs its Prime, its true Prime. The revolution will be peaceful, they will work with the upper castes to change things for the better. Megatron is tired of waiting. Of talking. Of hoping and debating about a better life while doing nothing to make it happen.

They fight, a fight as brutal and terrible as anything. Especially because it’s two former friends, now on the opposite sides of the conflict. Megatron begins to lose, and demands that Optimus kill him. But again, Optimus can’t. He can’t resort to murder. He instead exiles Megatron, and all his allies, to the surface.

Energon flows again, new cogs are presented to the cogless, and Optimus promises to end the caste system. But first, they must drive off the Quintesson oppressors. He’s sorry, but they must take their freedom and take their own destiny. While Megatron lurks, ready with his Decepticons, and goes searching for any other survivors which may still be hiding across the planet.

#ed rants #movie reviews #my fanfic #sort of

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heaven-s-black-box · 1 year ago

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Stress Relief- Wash x fem!Ex-Freelancer!Reader

Return to File

Recovery date: December 18th, 2023

Description: Wash and Y/n make time for each other in the chaos following their crash landing.

Includes- slight plot, cumming in clothes

Notes: Thank you to my friend who beta read this, even though they've never seen rvb.

Word count: 777

Back to directory

Wash was completely on edge– practically bursting at the seams. He’d thought being stuck with the reds and blues in Valhalla was bad, but this was worse. Not only did he not know what was going on with dwindling supplies and surrounded by idiots, but their bases on chorus were completely open air. They were exposed to the elements constantly, every little sound was constantly echoing all around the canyon, and there was zero privacy.

So Agent Washington, one of the few remaining elite freelancers, was incredibly on edge; in more ways than one.

“Really?” He asked, as Tucker lay panting on the ground in front of him.

“Dude, I’ve been running laps all morning, give me a break!”

“I gave you a break an hour ago! Now get up, we’re ru-”

“Lunch!” Y/n’s voice suddenly crackled through their helmets.

Tucker’s helmet clicked as he pulled it off, taking deep breaths as the fresh hair washed over him. He could practically feel the glare Wash was sending him as he looked up at him.

“Have I ever told you how much I love your girlfriend-”

“Get moving.”

Wash didn’t wait for him to scrape himself off the ground, storming off towards blue base where he could see everyone gathering.

He needed a minute to cool off, he knew that. Tucker may be difficult but even he had to admit he was being a little hard on the man. Everytime Tucker ran a lap Wash was right there with him, which meant every slip of pace and shortcut got caught. When Tucker didn’t know Wash caught him taking a shortcut, he’d let it slide on occasion, but he couldn’t let the teal soldier expect that treatment.

The only reason Wash was running those laps though was because he was trying to relieve some of his stress; it was a habit from the project.

“Wash?”

He stopped just slightly inside the base, and turned to find Y/n standing by one of the halls further into the ship's remains. Tucker slipped past him, snickering as he went to join the others.

Y/n motioned for him to follow her, and he practically tripped over his feet as he chased after her into the storage.

“I say we have maaaybe ten minutes here,” Y/n laughed as she jumped up on a crate.

Wash stood between her legs, letting her wrap her arms around his shoulders as he rested his hands on her waist.

“At this point I’ll be done in two,” he grumbled before kissing her.

He wrapped his arms around Y/n’s waist so he could remove his wrist braces and the gloved part of his under suit. Once he’d removed them, he unlatched her codpiece and set it aside before rubbing at her clit through the fabric. Y/n moaned, tangling her hands in his hair and biting at his lower lip.

“Da-ah- David.”

“Hey.”

They pulled away for air, and Y/n slid her hands down to his chest to push him back a bit. His fingers stilled as his brows furrowed in confusion until he realized she was trying to remove his codpiece. She quickly unlatched it, letting it clatter to the floor and making them both wince as it echoed around.

Not that it stopped them. Instead, Wash lifted her off the crate and backed her against it so he could grind against her.

Their heavy breathing and soft sounds echoed through the space as they pressed against each other frantically. But Wash was right when he said it wouldn’t take long as all of their tension quickly boiled over and they came, moaning into each other's mouths to muffle the sounds.

When they finally parted, panting, Wash let out a frustrated groan.

“What?”

His head dropped to her shoulder as she unwrapped her legs from his waist and stood on shaky legs.

“We just came in our suits…” he mumbled.

Y/n laughed.

“Not like it’s the first time.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Well, look at it this way, while they dry we could… take our time and go another round?”

“And leave the idiots alone?”

“Don’t worry about them.”

---

Across the canyon, in red base, the rest of the reds and blues were in the middle of a competition to see who could organize their half of the inventory faster.

“Isn’t this Wash’s job?” Griff whined.

“He’s been really stressed recently, Y/n was right, this is the least we can do to help him.”

“I wonder what they are doing,” Caboose said, while helping Simmons color code items.

“Trust me, you do not want to know.”

“Bow Chika Bow Wow.”

“Tucker!”

#locked entries #red vs blue #agent washington #rvb wash #rvb wash x reader #x reader #female reader #red vs blue smut #smutshot #smut

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minorisato · 11 months ago

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losing my destination in my present location

transformers / dratchet / wc: 761 / warnings: NA / notes: drift in tfa except i did NOT base him on the allspark almanac bc they did him dirtyyyyyyy

Hiding in a storage closet was not ideal, but it was almost better than dealing with the Elite Guard.

“I know they’re annoying,” Ratchet huffed, “just play nice for now, okay? The more you play nice the sooner you can get out of here.”

Drift leaned back against the medical berth, tsk-ing. “I can play nice. I know how to play nice. I just very seriously hate all of them and would like to never ever speak to or associate with any of them ever again.”

“Open,” Ratchet commanded, tapping a panel on the swordsmech’s side, and a second later it snapped back. “I thought you got all light of the allspark, but you’re still throwing around the word hate. Ain’t that a bit of a strong word for a mech like you?”

“Shut up,” Drift groans, and twitches as he feels his internals moving, feeling the sparks from the welder jump out between him and Ratchet. “Recognizing The Allspark as powerful and as the source of Cybertronian life doesn’t mean I’m incapable of hating people.”

“No, just means that you’re full of scrap.” Ratchet tugged at one of Drift’s wires gently, causing the speedster to jump.

“Will you stop?”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Stop doing your job.”

“Gladly.” He said that, but continued poking and prodding with his tools. “Anyway. Who knows, maybe the allspark will spontaneously offline Sentinel one day, wouldn’t that be nice.”

“I don’t think it can do that.”

“Seems like it can do whatever it wants,” the medic replied gruffly, backing away from Drift. “Close that side, open the other one.”

Drift did as instructed, and Ratchet made his way to the other side of the medical berth. “I don’t necessarily want Sentinel– or any of the guard, really– to offline. I don’t care if they do, but I’m not praying for it.” He grit his dentae as the poking and prodding resumed. “I don’t even really care that he’s so high-up in the Autobots. Your entire command structure was doomed the minute you put Ultra Magnus in charge.”

Ratchet barked a laugh. “Kid, Ultra Magnus has been in charge since before either of us were constructed.”

“My point still stands!” Drift gesticulated with one servo as he spoke. “Maybe if someone more competent was in charge, the war could’ve been avoided in the first place.”

“Someone like Megatron?” Ratchet asked, a look of bafflement on his faceplates.

“Not necessarily!” Drift continued, still gesticulating. “Clearly I don’t really believe in his cause anymore, or I wouldn’t be here right now. Just– someone more competent than Magnus. It’s not a high bar. The bar is in the pits.”

“Close that one. Open your chest plating.”

Drift did so, and Ratchet leaned over him, closer. “The war could’ve been completely avoided. You have to see that. You have to see that the acting Magnus is a moron.” Drift tilted his helm slightly, looking at the medic. “Wouldn’t you have wanted something different? Wouldn’t you have rathered if it didn’t happen?” He paused. “Things could have been different for both of us.”

Ratchet stared down at his internals, careful around his spark casing. “I’m not sure where I’d be if I wasn’t fixing wounds all day, to be honest.”

Drift leaned his helm back, staring up at the ceiling. “Doing something more worth your time, that doesn’t make you wanna rip your own plating off. Maybe even having fun for once.”

Ratchet glared at him, and pinched two wires together.

“Ow! Careful!”

“Did you just tell a medic to be careful?” Another pinch.

“Ratchet!”

“You deserve that.”

Drift huffed. “My point is that I hate the entire Elite Guard and I think they’re all idiots and I would like to no longer work with them ever again please.”

Ratchet chuckled, lifting up and away from the swordsmech. “Hopefully they’ll get off your case soon enough. You can close up, you’re all good to go.” The panel snapped shut, and Drift sat up in the berth. Ratchet moved to put away the tools he’d been using. “I’m sure you’re desperate to get off this planet. Get back to your vigilantism.”

“I don’t hate everything here,” Drift elaborated, resetting his vocalizer. “I like talking to you.”

Ratchet paused for a moment before returning to his action. “Maybe you should lay back down, actually, I should check your optics. And your processor.”

Drift exvented the smallest laugh. “Really, I mean it.” He paused. “Not everything is bad here.”

“Just the Elite Guard.”

“They’re bad everywhere.”

Ratchet smiled the smallest bit. “Of course.”

#🧃 i wrote something!#;; transformers #;; tfa drift au #;; dratchet #;; drift / deadlock #;; ratchet

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prodigymoving · 1 month ago

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jukebox-arts · 1 month ago

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Escape: Ch 1: Oblivion

So it's been a hot minute since I've posted anything in the yautja/predator fandom, and for personal reasons I've decided to return to my fics and pick up where I left off. Robots have eaten my brain for weeks and while I still love my doofus husbands, I deserve a treat. A little slice of my Hear Me Out cake, if you will, and so I've come to share my backlog.

My yautja fic consists of 4 story arcs that were planned, with the first one being completed with about 10 chapters. It was short and sweet and serves as a prequel more than anything, as part 2 is much longer and more character-focused.

So, because this is my blog and I do what I want, I'm going to subject you all to my old brain rot :) (Please note, "Escape" and the first chapters of the sequel are about 2 years old and I didn't beta it)

*****************************

The first sensation came as a burning fatigue, not unlike his body after a long training day or sparring bender his clan brothers and he often had after too much drink; every muscle ached dully like the morning after, stiff and hard to command at first. Taking a few deep, controlled breaths, Lar’dha focused on his extremities, then worked inward to wake up, willing his body to shake off the weight of sleep while trying to recall the events of the night.

Then, he realized exactly how uncomfortable he was, his neck and collar strained, knees burning from improper posture—had he fallen asleep upright? Clicking in annoyance, he wondered if Nrachade had thought it would be funny to lock his drunken body in a storage closet while unable to fight back.

No. This was something else.

Despite his efforts to wake up, there was a heaviness that wouldn’t leave—his eyelids felt weighted and his limbs held a numbness that would not lift no matter his efforts. A yawn pushed through his sluggish body, his mandibles splaying with the motion—

—his mouth failed to open fully. Something restricted his tusks, kept them bound to his face.

A jolt of panic shot through his body then, granting enough push for him to open his eyes as realize this was not a closet—this wasn’t even his clanship! Feral preservation instincts pulsed through his mind and body now, the weight shedding at last as he lifted his arms to move—

—A metallic grinding sound pulled him back down. Growling deeply, Lar’dha looked around more closely, finding his neck and head restrained by whatever device was keeping his mandibles closed; giving his head a shake, he found it bound in the back to the wall, allowing only the faintest of movements while keeping him fully upright. Wiggling some more now that he could feel his body in full, the male Yautja found his ankles also clamped and spread to either side of his holding unit, still close enough to stand upright but far apart enough to be uncomfortable and lacking in leverage.

The vessel that held him was small, barely wide enough for his shoulders, with only about half a nok between himself and the panel of orange-tinted glass ahead of him. Whatever this was wanted to limit his motion as much as possible, it seemed.

Had he been on the other side of this box, he might have found it a clever way of entrapping live prey—but instead he was the one on display, his hands and wrists fully encompassed in shackles that were drawn by a chain cable into the floor through a small opening. He couldn’t grasp anything and had limited motion, but he could lift his hands at the elbow—only to hear a faint whir and more pressure dragging his arms back down with force. Unable to brace his legs or back, he lost the fight of force, his arms dragged back down into their waiting position.

A deep rumble vibrated in his body. Someone thought the Elite Hunter would make a fun display? They’d have to do so over his dead body!

His hearing canals caught a faint beeping from overhead, then a sharp prick in his right thigh—trying to glance down, Lar’dha saw a large needle surgically taped to his skin and a bright teal liquid slowly making its way to his skin.

Pauk! Sedatives!

The more he struggled, the faster the liquid seemed to move, and he had no chance to escape it, a defiant roar of frustration muffled by the muzzle he’d been fitted with.

He blacked out in moments.

***

Consciousness came at the sound of voices, distant and muffled like they were in a different room, but the warrior focused on his breathing, trying to shed the weight on his body again rather than attempt to chase down the voices. Lar’dha was never good about surprises—he preferred to be the one laying traps and catching others unaware—but this time he had the chance to walk through his thoughts as he woke up, take stock of the situation a bit better before flying into a justified rage.

What did he know?

Groaning as the ache of being held upright finally caught up sounded odd to him, masked as it was behind the humiliating cage on his face, but he was alive at least. He was caged, rather effectively for his consideration, and hooked up to some truly impressive sedatives that seemed to react to his anger. Clearly, anyone that had managed to catch him had enough technology at their disposal to read his vitals and counter any chances of rage or stress that would make his imprisonment an ordeal.

Again, he would be impressed if he wasn’t the one dealing with the set up and the subsequent humiliation it presented. Someone had managed to outthink him—a feat, surely, as Lar’dha was often cited for his cleverness and ability to discern behaviors and ideas through observation in order to counter his prey with clever ruses and traps, rather than rely on outright power. Hunting smartly was his key skill and why he became an Elite.

Yet somehow he was here, the reasoning for his capture eluding him, try as he might to recall what led up to this situation in the first place. If he had to reason a guess, whatever chemical concoction they used to sedate him might be affecting his memory as well—if that were true, he couldn’t risk another dose if he wanted to find a way out. He needed to stay calm and focused. Testing his theory about the chemical substance was a risk not worth taking for the moment if he expected to keep his awareness sharp.

Lar’dha checked his breathing, finding it sharp and shallow but slow, a very deliberate breath that made him realize the air in his chamber was not ideally balanced for him and that he may have been stuck longer than he’d liked to admit, running out of the leeway time his kind had in certain environments without their bio masks to counter the effects. Even more reason, then, to remain calm and not overtax himself.

Not yet at least.

There was little else to study in the box, so the Yautja turned his attention to the exterior area, warped by the layer of protective screening that separated him from the rest of the room. Or a corridor, more like, as it seemed to stretch quite a ways in either direction, though how far was anyone’s guess with his limited mobility. Vaguely, in the very periphery of his vision if he craned his neck to the left, he thought he saw a door frame, but it was flush to the wall and could just as well be simple wall paneling; until someone entered the room, he wouldn’t be able to confirm it.

In the other direction there wasn’t much of anything except a light fixture that failed to light, giving that side of the room a bit of a dimmer look—however he did see that the far wall was lined with more viewing boxes, all empty, from one end to the other—

—No, not all empty. Now that he was really looking, Lar’dha realized there was another trapped behind glass, bound in a similar pose to himself and muzzled, though this creature did not seem to have their head bound to the backplate of their display case, allowing it to bow forward in what he could only see as a pose of submission. Or death.

Chittering uneasily to himself, he glanced up to the top panel of the wall of cases and found a series of rhythmic lights that moved in a steady pattern. Vital signs. While he couldn’t be certain what exactly they were, he at least felt some assurance that he wasn’t trapped alone in a room with a corpse.

It did not explain what it was, however. In all his years of hunting, Lar’dha had encountered creatures both meek and ferocious, intelligent and violently dumb, personable and outright dishonorable, both in his own species and among the many, many things he’d studied and collected, but on occasion he would find things he was not familiar with. This was such a thing, tall and humanoid in a vague sense—it possessed defined arms and had an upright posture at least—with a small head and thick, short neck, it’s facial features obscured by the muzzle they sported. From what he could make out, their skin was smooth, with no definable marks or alterations to their body, and they had only thin drapings to call clothing that barely covered what it needed to and seemed ill fitted for protection of any sort.

With a start, he realized he was also barely wearing anything either, his awake mind finally taking in that he was exposed as well, wearing only a loincloth. Not even his own, at that!

They’d taken his dignity and his armor!

Above him came the beep-beeping that heralded an injection, the vibrant liquid sliding down the tube warningly; even if he had not lashed out, Lar’dha noticed his triple-beat-heart was thrumming harder, betraying the anger he felt inside and triggering the narcotics to come. He needed to calm himself, to focus on his breathing to prolong his lucid time without straining whatever time he had left in the less-than-optimal atmosphere of the box before his body started to fail to keep up with the environment.

Slow. Steady. The chemical stopped creeping when his heart rate slowed, however it did not retreat either. A warning, if anything, about behaving himself.

All good things in time, he told himself, words from his sire that he recalled often from the times when he was young and very eager to prove himself. It was his sire’s observant behaviors and teachings of patience that made him the warrior he is—consequently, the only one of his group to survive their chiva. He would not be able to face anyone of his clan again unless he had the trophy to prove his victory over such shameful circumstances, and that thought alone was almost more unbearable than being tied down like a spit roast waiting to be tressed up for the fire.

A sound, to the left.

He tried to crane his neck for a better view, just barely making out the section of wall he’d noticed before had opened and figures were entering. It was a door after all! Perfect.

It was abundantly clear to him that the two figures that entered were not the same species, and they were dressed as neither security nor doctors, but carried themselves with a focus stating they had purpose for being here. A short one with rough, red skin and yellow ridges approached his chamber, making unwavering eye contact with him as they did—he did not seem to be a threat to them, by their perspective. A mistake to be rectified as soon as he was able to. The companion, a dark teal-green and lanky thing, all sharp edges and twitchy but direct movements, went to the cell containing his fellow hostage and punched in something on a panel just past the edge of the viewing window; he could not see what, as the figure’s body blocked his line of sight.

Little Red had taken to studying the overhead feed while his gaze was distracted, reaching up to the right side of the box, just out of view, and doing… something to it. It was impossible to guess what, but it certainly did not grant him any more freedom than before. They met gazes again for a moment, and Lar’dha felt a discomfort at realizing just how dead they seemed—like the will and fight within Little Red had all but died long ago. Not even traces of sympathy or curiosity seemed to exist in their amber irises as they backed away and turned toward the exit.

Inner deadness did not seem to plague the lanky one whose mouth was flashing a vibrant, hungry grin as they led the other prisoner from their cell and toward the door. At least now, the displeased Yautja had a better view of his prison mate, however brief it was: tall, as he’d assumed, almost as tall as himself even, and a thin tail that drooped toward the floor like a limp piece of rope. They had legs after all, which had to be the most striking part of their figure that he could determine, as their hips and thigh were wide and round, leading to thick legs overall with a digitigrade stance and erred closer to human than animal—this contrasted with their otherwise thin and long frame, giving them a distinctly odd shape that he could only describe as “soft and round”, as no other words came to him.

For a breath, the round, smooth being lifted their head, seemingly glancing at him as they passed, and the elite found a similarly dead gaze as Little Red had. Had that creature once been in a cell as well? Was that his fate if he did not manage to leave this place??

I need to get out.

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sometimesanalice · 2 years ago

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Bradley’s Room from Give Me Your Hand {Here Is My Heart}: updated with headcanons

This is the before, and here’s the after!

Bradley is practical. If it’s in good condition then he isn’t going to throw it out, not if it serves the purpose he needs it to. He knows he’s not the best at decorating, but he does his best.

More headcanons below!

Bed: His bed and the wall print are his newest additions to his room. This was his first time picking out his own bed. (his dorm came with one, his semi-furnished apartment had one, and the the Navy always provided him with one) was a bit overwhelmed by the options when he first settled on getting a new one. So he went to IKEA and picked one out in the show room and called it a day. Then the print caught his eye on the way to the check out. All the people and all the choices had stressed him out, so when he got home the first thing he did was got to his fridge for a beer. Which turned into a few, and then putting the bed together seemed like a piece of cake, so he definitely half-assed a couple steps. He’s a fairly light sleeper, so sometimes that squeak does wake him up when he rolls over.

Other furniture: Some of the things he has, like his bookcase and desk lamp, are things from his college years that he took care of. His taste has always been pretty classic (except for his affinity for Hawaiian print shirts), so when his graduating friends would offer him things they were trying to offload, he would only take what he thought he’d get good use out of. Things that could sit in storage for a long while, but he would still like years later.

He doesn’t care much for the aesthetics, but he does try to match woods or get things that are complimentary. (Like he was excited about finding his nightstand because it tied in well with the desk he had.)

Other things like his tall standing lamp and desk were handed off to him by Navy friends who had their own places and were upgrading to nicer things (usually at their partner’s insistence). He’s never thought much of it, but realizing that his stuff is really just other people’s cast offs that he’s accumulated really hits him when she’s in his bedroom for the first time. And probably because it wasn’t an intentional choice to source things secondhand, but a byproduct of necessity and being survival mode for so long.

Bookcase: His book case is mostly NATOP manuals. But he has his childhood collection of the Hardy Boy series, the copy of ‘Why Men Love Bitches’ that Phoenix gave him as a “congrats-on-your-break-up” gift, ‘A Promised Land’ by Barack Obama and some other political biographies. He also definitely has a copy of 'Infinite Jest’, that he touted as his favorite book in college until someone called him out for having the taste of an “elite fuckboy”. While he does enjoy a good mystery novel, he doesn’t have the time to read them. He’ll try and start them to decompress from the, but usually ends up falling asleep because he’s drained. So some of those novels have some noticeable creases from accidentally rolling over on them in his sleep.

Model Fighter Jet: Displayed on his bookcase, there is a model F-14 Tomcat that was his favorite toy when he was a kid. His mom had it mounted on a stand and gave it to him as a gift for his 16th birthday. (the same birthday that Mav gave him the blue Montero and spent the summer helping him fix it up) So he didn’t have an appreciation for it back then, but it’s come to be one of his most prized possessions.

After he redecorates his room (with that canopy bed and expensive dresser), SG moves the model downstairs to a place of honor on his fireplace mantle, so that he can enjoy it more. And in the winter on the rare occasion that they turn on the fireplace, she moves it to his side table with the framed picture of his parents. Just as a precaution, since she doesn’t want the heat to do anything to it.

Framed Sheet Music: The framed sheet music is from a book of music that SG gave him for his 12th birthday. She was so excited when her mom agreed to take her to the music shop and she found one that had “Great Balls of Fire” in it after she had heard him saying it was his favorite song. She spent a long time doing her fireball art on it because she thought it would make it more fun to learn if there was something to look at. (her mom thought it was a *choice* but didn’t say anything about it) But at his birthday party when she gave it to him, he laughed along with the other tween boys who thought playing the piano was for nerds. So she faked a stomach ache and had her mom take her home early. It’s kind of bittersweet, because it really was Bradley’s favorite song, but he wasn’t the nicest about receiving it. (he definitely still feels guilty about it sometimes) This was before they had really formed their own friendship outside of their moms, but for his next birthday he asked that they go to the retro diner that had giant milkshakes. So he keeps it with him because it reminds him of her, but also of home.

And when they move into their perfectly charming 1930′s tutor house, they hang it on the wall by the entry, so it’s the first thing you see when you walk in.

#the babe before the payment plan #'it's always been just a place to sleep'#bless him he's trying #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun imagine #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster x female reader

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pilalaguna · 8 months ago

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Life in the Corazon Rivera Ancestral House

From Cora Relova of the Pila Historical Society Foundation and granddaughter of Corazon Rivera:

Lola’s house (Corazon Rivera Ancestral House) is considered ancestral because it is more than 50 years old and still belongs to the fourth generation of the family. It is a heritage house because the architecture belongs to a certain period and it is inside the declared (Philippine National) heritage zone. It is “taga-gitna” (people with houses in the center of the town surrounding the main plaza are elite).

It was built around 1929-1930. Lola Loring said she was 12 years old when they - Lola Azon (Corazon Rivera), Lolo Ato (Renato Del Mundo, son of Corazon Rivera) and Lola Loring (Loreto Del Mundo, daughter of Corazon Rivera) started living there. The old municipal hall (municipio) used to be located in the property. Lola Azon’s property was where the main municipal hall is located now. Lola Loring said that Lola Azon did not want to build the house directly in front of the church because she felt that the sins being confessed will "boomerang" back to the house or something like that. Can you imagine if she did not exchange her property….we will be in the center of the town plaza.

Anyway, there was no architect hired and Lola Azon was assisted by her nephew Felimon Rebong ("Lolo Imon") who was an engineer, or still an engineering student at that time. The house was built during the American period so it is called a chalet. It had plumbing and electricity. For better air flow the windows were big and surrounded the house. The lower portion of the windows had “ventanillas” (little windows) covered with wooden sliding doors which can be opened too. The upper portion of the walls had open wood carvings.

On the landing of the main stairs is the “balcon” (balcony) where one can sit to view the plaza. Aside from the main door there is also a door that leads to the first room. There were three rooms before with small doors leading to each room (the word “privacy” did not exist). The first one that opens to the balcon was occupied by Tita Jovit (Jovita, Cora's sister) and myself. The second one that opens to the sala/living area was occupied by Lola Azon and Tio Ato and family when they visited and the third one which opens to the comedor/dining area was occupied by Lolo Judge (Ramiro Relova, Loreto's husband) and Lola Loring. The 3rd room has a door that connects to the toilet/bath. (I recently had a division made to make the toilet separate from the bath during the renovation of the house).

There is no partition between the sala and comedor. When we were young a cabinet was used as partition. The front of the cabinet faced the dining room. The back of the cabinet faced the living room and the old piano was placed there. Actually the furniture pieces were moved around. The location of the living room set now is the best placement.

There was a sliding door that was the partition between the dining room and the kitchen. The kitchen was smaller until Lola had it renovated. We had no gas or electric stove. We had a “Kalan” (clay stove) that was made of ash. Charcoal, firewood and “bunot” (coconut husk) were used as fire. I remember that there were three parts so three dishes can be cooked at the same time. Can you imagine how hard it was then? Often there was a lot of smoke but there was a continuous flow of air then so it was not so bad. It is said that the food taste better with this method of cooking.There was also a storage room in the kitchen for (rice) “bigas”, salt etc. and I think a motor to pump water up the house. The pipes of the house was connected to free flow water fountain in the plaza. There was a stair in front of the toilet/bath used to go down to the first floor “silong” (basement).

The “silong” was where the "katulong" (household help) stayed, where the “sampayan” (clothes line when it rains) was, and the “bodega” - storage for the newly harvested and unmilled rice” palay”. Large blocks of ice were also stored there, covered by palay husks (and they never melted!) Lola Loring also had pens for hens that laid eggs and chickens for our food. I hardly went down because the flooring was not yet cemented and it was a bit dark.

Lola Azon planted a number of fruit trees. We had macopa (java apple), suha (grapefruit), lanzones (similar to lychee), balimbing (star fruit), duhat (java plum), santol (cotton fruit) and yambo (plum apple). Only the macopa (as old as the house) and the balimbing survives. The duhat in front of the house (by the gate) is only around 20 years old.

There was a “labahan” wash area for clothes at the back of the house. There was a continuous flow of water because of the pipe that was connected to the free flow fountain. There was a huge “kawa” or cauldron where the water fell and we (Tita Jovit and Tito Vic - Vic Del Mundo, Cora's first cousin and son of Renato Del Mundo) used to pretend “swim” or just fooled around and bothered the lavandera (washer woman) . Sadly, I do not know what happened to the “kawa”.

General cleaning of the house was done twice a year, certainly before the Flores de Mayo and I think after the New Year. Wives of tenants would come (around 4 ladies) and would work for free but they are fed very well and given travel fare and rice to bring home. It is called “panunulungan”. The ladies used “is-is” (ficus leaves) to scour the “pasamano” (window sill) and the floor before waxing. They used “walis na tingting” (broomstick) for the ceiling, walls, iron works followed by “basahan” (rag) soaked in water with soap in “palangana” (basin). I think it took them 2 days to clean everything. Then a male "katulong" (hired help) would wax the floor manually (very labor-intensive), then used “bunot” (coconut husk) to make it shine “lampaso”. I loved the smell of floor wax and the super clean house. One of the ladies was Aling Dulay who loved to bring Michael (Cora's son) fresh eggs.

I also remember that there was a carpet for the sala set. For cleaning the help would hang it on two chairs on the sidewalk in front of the house and beat it with a walis na tingting (broomstick). The lavandera (washerwoman) would also use the sidewalk to sun-dry clothes before rinsing.

Lola Azon would sweep the leaves on the ground with “walis tingting” everyday at around 4pm and I loved helping her. The leaves were piled up and burned because it drove the mosquitoes away. Every household did it. But in modern times, due to global warming and fumes, the municipal government forbade the burning of anything.

The wood used for the building of the house was mainly narra. Lola Loring (Loreto Del Mundo, daughter of Corazon Rivera) said that the panels with carvings that divides the rooms from the sala and comedor were made in Paete, Laguna. The windows in the rooms are made of wood with capiz shells. The flooring is also made of narra planks and the ceiling is made of wide solid narra. I remember that the materials used for the lower portion were not sturdy so it was cemented to better support the house.

After lunchtime and cleaning the kitchen was done, the help would iron clothes in the kitchen area with a plantsadora (iron). I remember that before the electric iron a heavy metal contraption with wood handle filled with burning charcoal was used (now considered an antique). The help would also listen to telenovelas on the radio. We were required to have an afternoon nap “siesta”, and we laid on banigs (woven mast) spread out in the living room.

Capiz Shell Window

Plantsadora (Iron), image from Cora Relova

Image of a Kawa, uncredited photo

#pilalaguna #pila laguna #pila laguna history #philippine history #pila laguna town #pila laguna museum #pila laguna church #pila laguna philippines #pila laguna ancestral houses #pila laguna heritage houses #Corazon Rivera Ancestral House

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pandora-dark-shorts · 6 months ago

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Apeshit

Log Entry 237: Cara Costabile, Team Leader Spartan Fireteam Switchback

Lost another one today. Its been a pretty shitty week rounding up the last of the real resistance of the covantant. Down 1 Spartan 3, one 4, 4 Marines and an ODST. This last one hurt more though. Terry. Guy was an idiot, but he was our idiot. Everything was a joke to him. But he would turn serious so quick it could almost make your head spin. And he was a hell of a shot. Better than most Spartans I'll admit. The guy could knock an apple off a tree a click away and you could catch it and eat it. Trust me I know from experience. There was no one I'd rather have watching my back than that Helljumper. The amount of times hes pulled through for us...

He was even the first one to talk to Krel'tarus, our resident Brute, and his clan. Covenant defectors that believed the Arbiter's message. We weren't too happy about being stuck with these guys. But he didnt seem to mind. Hes always the bigger person, no matter what. They really didnt want much to do with him until the day he went over and said "fight me you big ape" in their language. They almost died of laughter. They were instantly friends after that. They started socializing a little more. Mostly with the Helljumpers. I guess they saw themselves more on par with the rank of the odst before the Elite deranking. More in common.

They accompanied us on some of our missions, and we on theres. They would give us hot spots like ammo depots and food storage planets. Eventually we started looking at each other as allies. There was some rough stuff but it all smoothed out eventually. But not like with Terry. He was basically one of them. They did all kinds of shit with each other from Brute games to target practice.

Until yesterday. We were watching a Covy shield and grenade production factory from 3 clicks out on a mountaintop. Ships were in and out all day. Every once in a while a grunt would come out and toss a couple dozen grenades of different types one at a time into a hole and wait for the explosions. Quality control, I guessed.

I gave the orders to move down the backside of the mountain and we trecked to the factory perimeter via jungle. Nothing happened the whole way there. No roaming patrols. No hidden traps on the perimeter. I comm'd Krel and said we were moving in. 2 other Snipers in the group had designated spots up high and Terry was to come in with us and get up on a high overhang the Brutes said would be near the entrance. The mission was to clear the place and wait for another team of Marines to come take over watch for the defected Elites and Grunts to run it. No prisoners.

Everything was shit. There were WAY more than we had anticipated in there. But it was going as planned until the 3 biggest damn Elites I had ever seen jumped down onto the floor. One biggest one went down as soon as he hit it, courtesy of Terry. The other 2 looked directly at him. They sent a flurry of needles at him and he jumped down. But i saw one of them hit him in the stomach. I watched him hit the ground on his side with an audible thump. Then his body jumped to the left a bit. The Brutes all stopped fighting to look at him. A few seconds later the Elites noticed the action and fired another volley. The entire rest of the needler's capacity.

A Brute, I believe his name was Ba'ras, lept further than i had ever seen one go. He basically flew to Terry's body and arched himself over him on his hands and knees facing away from the Elites. He took the whole barrage to his back. The needles pulsed as one and exploded, tearing out his whole back, he slumped forward, making almost a tent for Terry.

Then, the Brutes lost it. They went absolutely apeshit for lack of a better term. Every one of them let out an ear piercing roar, my sound dampening kicked in like a bomb went off. They took off as one. I saw Krel get to the first Elite. He dodged a plasma bolt and grabbed him by the arm. He pushed him down to the ground like he was a little kid. Then he tore his left arm and third mandible off and proceeded to beat him to death with it. He picked him up by his legs and tore him down the middle. The strength that must have took. He used half of that elite like it was a grav hammer. Crushing Grunts and slamming it into other Elites.

The other Brutes where no less a spectacle. Ripping arms, legs, and heads off. Slamming machinery down on everyone they could find. 2 of them picked up a spectre and tossed it. 1 of them struggled and thrashed at a grunt that was hiding behind a very large machine entering another room. He saw the giant metal door and took off back toward us. He shoulder charged it with everything he had. It barely budged. The Grunt taunted him. 2 more Brutes noticed and ran at it with him. 2 trys and the door caved in. I watched as they all beat it into a pile of mush. It was all over the room.

Not to let them have all the action, we join in while our medic went to Terry. Bullets flew, bodies broken. One Brute almost turned on me before he saw who I was. He gave me a giant blood smeared smile as he banged his chest once in salute and ran off with a leg to be someone elses bad day. They were all covered in blood and bodily fluids. There wasnt a single part of the place that didnt have some part of something somewhere.

Then it was done. The Brutes had a hell of a time coming down from the berserk. Marines checks corridors and rooms. Krel remembered Terry and rushed over to him. He jumped damn near a third of the floor. Terry lay on the floor with a large hole in his stomach. He was still alive. Barely. The medic handed Krel his pistol, rifle and ODST patch. "He said to make sure you get these".

Terry coughed several times and managed to sputter out a, "hey you big ape", before coughing again. "You probably couldnt get your big ass fingers into the trigger guard, but you could probably use it as a club. And you could find something to do with the pistol. Maybe make it into a knife".

Krel spoke in a tone of voice that I could only describe as the deepest kind of respect. Peaceful. "You died well, Brother. I can only hope to do the same. My inheritance will find great use". Terry smiled, closed his eyes, and stopped breathing.

"I surrender", a voice yelled to our left. "I surrender to you". It was an Elite. The hide and seek champion of the day. Krel looked at Terry's rifle. He carefully bent the barrel all the way back and held the stock as he hefted it.

He walked toward the Elite and it got on its knees. Krel leaned down and asked, "do you see that human", and pointed to Terry's body.

The Elite looked over to us, and then at Terry. He acknowledged with a click of his mandibles. "The Imp. Yes."

"There was more honor in that human than there was in the entire Covenant fleet." Krel arced and swung the rifle, connecting with the Elites head and liberating it from his body. He walked away as the body dropped to the floor.

A pelican few in overhead and landed outside the factory. Marines came out and walked over to us. They looked on in horror at the scene before them. "I like the decor", a familiar voice said. I turned to see Master

Sergeant Wallace Escobar admiring the mess we made.

"I know what you like", I replied with a hint of malice. "Plant is clear. 1 casualty. It was mostly the Jiralhanae that did the decorating".

He took another look around and said, "Got damn they fucked this place up. Something must have struck a nerve cause this is some next level shit. Is that... is that a grunt over there?"

"It was a grunt", i explained, "It is now the embodiment of navy food. Kinda looks like someone mashed meatloaf with Jello huh? The casualty was the reason this place looks like a ravehouse. We lost Terry."

"Dammit", he said. "Finest sniper I'd ever met. Better than most spartans. And a great man in general. Had many late nights with him and a good bottle of whiskey. Hope he went down swinging."

"He single handedly took down the biggest Sangheilli I had ever seen", Krel said with pride as he walked by with his new club. "They were personal guards of the Prophets at one time. No other human can claim that feat. Not even your Demon. Those were not your general Sangheilli. You should be proud to have had such a warrior among your group."

Escobar stood up taller. An interaction like this wasn't a common occurrence. I honestly dont know if it was an occurrence at all. Let alone a high ranking Brute commending a human soldier like this. Krel walked up into the Pelican with the rest of the Brutes and it took off. Another taking its place.

The marines in it disembarked and we climbed in. Terry's bag was placed in the center and strapped down. It was going to be a long ride home.

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