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allbark-no-bite · 8 months ago

Text

call it brotherhood (not love).

jake seresin x reader (wc: 6.2k)

summary: jake meets his match in a soldier rather than a sailor. you’re a bit more war torn than he expected, but it’s okay because maybe he is too

warnings: 18+ smut, * graphic descriptions of injuries and death ⚠️

* if you are uncomfortable with this, please don’t read

author’s note: spoiler alert, i know this isn’t the Jake fic that you’ve all been wanting but i swear that one is in the works. i’m about to go back to school and wanted to get this out there for y’all :) (ps i apologize for the lazy ending)

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"At ease, gentlemen —And woman," Admiral Simpson adds after a moment, shooting an uncharacteristically apprehensive look in Phoenix's direction. Payback snorts at his hasty correction, and Jake is surprised when the admiral doesn't fix him with a nasty look.

If the man's cursory show of inclusion perturbs the female pilot, she doesn't show it, and instead she takes a seat with all the rest of them. Jake turns back towards the front of the ready room, sinking down into his chair just a bit, toothpick clenched between his teeth as he waits for the admiral to address them.

However routine, this training meeting was a bit out of left field, especially for a Sunday afternoon. The Dagger squad typically had one weekly, but it was usually led by Maverick and much more informal. That wasn't to say that seeing Beau was surprising, but the man usually steered clear of the wayward captain and left him to his own devices when it came to training the Daggers.

Today the captain sits in the ready room beside the rest of the pilots. Jake watches as Bradley sends his godfather an inquisitive brow from across the room, to which the older man just shrugs. Interesting.

Cyclone clears his throat. "Good afternoon. I apologize for keeping you all, but I promise this will only take a minute of your time. As I'm sure you are all aware, the United States Department of Defense takes immense pride in maintaining one of the most well integrated military forces in the world. It's our job to work closely with other service members to ensure their safety and the safety of our nation." He pauses. "As experienced as you all are, your time here at Topgun has not reflected that."

Jake's brow furrows, his tongue worrying at the toothpick clenched between his teeth as he listens to the admiral go on. Javy shoots him a look but Jake stares ahead, waiting for Beau to continue.

"The permanent installment of your squad here at Miramar was to create a tightly knit group of elite fighter pilots who would be available at a moment's notice, and however successful that may have been, I cannot neglect the fact that comfort builds complacency. Later today, a squad of U.S. Army soldiers will be arriving to aide in your training for the next six weeks. The integration of mixed branch training units has been widely effective around the country, and it's about time we do the same here at Miramar."

With that, the screen positioned on the wall behind him lights up, displaying enlarged headshots of about eight soldiers. The first seven are males of varying ages, but none older than probably thirty. Jake quickly skims over their names and credentials, but when he gets to the last profile, his eyes stop.

The last solider is the only female projected on the screen, but even so she stands out as compared to all the other members of her squad. He can't quite put his finger on why though.

She's uncharacteristically pretty. And by that he means that to most, her appearance would be inherently off putting— even without the straight-mouthed scowl on her face. She's got a square, almost masculine like jawline that hardens her features considerably. Her hair is light, worn from spending too much time in the sun regardless of however dark it may have been naturally. The same goes for her skin, which is comparably bronze in contrast to the tan line on her forehead, he would assume from wearing a patrol cap out in the field.

Her eyes are wild.

And that's when it hits him.

She'd been all over the news just a few months ago. Something about a patrol gone wrong out in the Middle East, which ultimately turned into a high stakes rescue mission to extract the surviving soldiers. They went in hoping to bring back nine men and came out with one. Apparently they didn't even get to recover the bodies.

Jake can't imagine what that'll do to a person.

Before he can stare at her profile any longer, Cyclone quickly clicks off the projection and the image disappears. This time he appears almost nervous as he stares back at them. "These soldiers are recently returning from a deployment in the Middle East, so I trust that you all will do your best to make them feel welcome. If none of you have any questions, that is all. You're dismissed."

---

The following morning, the Jake receives word from Maverick that the Admiral wants to see him in his office. It's not a strange request but certainly raises Jake's attention as to why specifically he was needed.

Upon entering the room, Jake finds not only the Admiral but Maverick and another female that he's yet to have seen before. All heads turn towards him when he enters, as if he were interrupting something. Immediately, Jake snaps to attention, his heels clicking together and his fingers brushing his brow with a sharpness that would make the academy proud.

Cyclone nods in his direction, acknowledging Jake's customary greeting and dismissing him with the notion. "Lt. Seresin," he begins, gesturing to the female standing across the room. "This is Lt. (L/n). She's uh—a member of the squad that I briefed you on yesterday."

He hadn't noticed that she was wearing Army OCPs but he connects the dots as soon as the admiral mentions her name. He remembers reading it on the projector during the meeting.

Rather than introducing herself, the soldier stands rigidly across from him, her arms folded in front of her chest with a look on her face that Jake can only describe as fucking pissed. Unsure of what to do but aware from personal experience with Phoenix that he shouldn't try to cross any unknown boundaries, Jake settles for offering her a respectful nod. She glares back at him.

"You're two of our only service members with active combat experience," Cyclone continues, obviously ignoring the girl's crossed disposition. "I'm hoping that you and Lt. (L/n) can find some common ground. Perhaps it would do you both some good to—"

"Respectfully, sir, if I wanted to vent to someone about my feelings, I'd go see a shrink," the woman growls. "I recommend you do the same, Lt. Seresin." Her tone makes Jake's brow raise slightly in surprise. No one talks to an admiral like that, not even Pete Mitchell.

"Lt. (L/n)," Cyclone snaps. "That's quite enough."

This time, she rolls her eyes with a scoff. "You can't just—"

"Get out."

She clamps her jaw shut but doesn't budge from where her feet are planted in the ground.

"I said, Get. Out," Cyclone reiterates.

The eyes that had caught Jake's attention in the first place fix the admiral with a chilling stare. To Jake, there's something familiar in those eyes. Some sort of unmistakably justifiable rage that runs deeper than just being dismissed from the conversation. Jake watches, his breath stalled as she sets her jaw, unwilling to move, when it hits him. Identical jawlines and untwitching scowls mirror each other.

The illegitimate child of Admiral Beau Simpson stands before him.

He doesn't know how he didn't see it before, granted they don't share a last name, but Jake was aware that the Admiral was divorced, had been for a while. Allegedly he wasn't the marrying type. Jake isn't surprised by the statement. Beau Simpson is a hard man to deal with.

Jake watches in silence as the girl ultimately releases an irritated huff and storms out of the office, slamming the door behind her. He can hear the loud, petulant stomp of her boots as she retreats down the hall. Evidently her looks weren't the only thing that she got from her dad. She had a temper that rivaled even Bradshaw's.

The clearing of the Admiral's throat removes Jake's eyes from the door. "I hope you can forgive my daughter's behavior. Her return to the states has been...difficult."

"I'm sure difficult is the way she would describe you too sir," Maverick jokes.

Cyclone fixes him with a perturbed glare but decidedly ignores his comment in favor of addressing Jake. "Lt. (L/n)'s squadron was ambushed six months ago. Just about everything that could have gone wrong went wrong and she was the only survivor. As her father, I wanted her to accept the Purple Heart and retire." He gestures flippantly towards the door. "Obviously that's not what she did."

Jake speaks for the first time since he entered the room. "Respectfully, sir, I don't blame her. I'm taking this career to the grave. I'm sure both your daughter and Captain Mitchell can agree," he adds glancing over at his instructor.

Before Maverick can voice his agreement, the admiral cuts him off.

"As I'm sure Captain Mitchell can attest to, as her father, I'm just trying to look out for her."

With his preexisting connection to Rooster, the godson that he would risk his career to protect, Maverick has no room to disagree with the admiral. For once, the captain, who usually always has something to say, stands with his palms folded behind his back and keeps his mouth shut.

"As I was saying," Cyclone continues, taking a seat behind his desk and kicking back as if to signal that he's won the conversation. "It is my hope that given your own—" the admiral hesitates for just a moment too long for Jake's liking "—personal experience, you'll be able to get through to her."

Jake swallows and hopes that he doesn't look as uneasy as the insinuation makes him feel. He has to take a moment to reassure himself that the psych unit has repeatedly cleared him for duty and that no one's threatening to take his wings away.

The nights that he wakes up, drenched in sweat, with his fingers wrapped around imaginary joysticks hard enough to make his palms bleed are few and far in between these days. And even those he's gotten good enough at faking like they don't bother him because he hasn't failed a psych evaluation in months.

It doesn't mean he likes to talk about it or that he won't hear the fear in Rooster's voice if he does.

But he's more scared of not flying than anything, so all Jake does is nod and offer a dry, "I'll do my best, sir."

———

PTSD or modern day shell-shock is what they like to call it. You call it waiting on the other shoe to drop.

Because there is always another shoe.

The slam of a beer bottle down on the bar top lights your nerves up like nothing else. It sends your heart straight to your stomach and makes your palms sweat like when you miss a step on the stairs and for a split second, you think you're going to die. You never do of course, but your body is hard wired that way to keep you alive.

There's a flaw in your system that hasn't been right since the east.

You knew that a popular naval bar on a Friday night wasn't the best place for you these days but your nerves had been yearning for an ice cold beer and fuck all if you weren't going to get one. The alcohol would soothe your nerves anyhow.

But after thirty minutes of waiting on said beer, you were beginning to lose your patience. Normally you weren't bothered by that kind of thing. The place was obviously busy and the lone woman behind the bar was doing her best to satisfy the flock of servicemen that only seemed to accumulate with every beer that she handed out.

Just when you're about to give up and leave, a large hand covers your lower back, pressing you forwards through the crowd and toward the bar top.

"Two more on me, please, Penny."

The voice belongs to the tall man standing behind you. He's removed his firm, but respectfully placed palm from your back and is now leaning over you to accept the two dripping bottles of beer. It doesn't take you long to recognize the green of his eyes from a few days prior.

"My dad didn't put you up to this did he?" you ask, somewhat reluctantly taking the bottle that he offers you. It's finger numbing cold, just how you like it.

He kind of just slowly smiles and shakes his head.

Immediately you feel like a jerk. You sigh, dropping your shoulders and smile softly back. "Sorry. That was rude."

"No, ma'am, he didn't. Just had to find out if you smiled like that all the time."

The part of you that's a little bit of a bitch makes you clench your teeth together, tightening the smile that was once spread across your lips. "I'm not looking for that kind of thing right now," is all you say.

You want to tell him that you used to not be so mean.

At the realization that his words had the exact opposite effect of what he was going for, the guy graciously extends his hand. "Look I don't mean to bother you, I just wanted to say hi."

Despite not being keen on his advances, you aren't going to be rude so you accept his outstretched hand. You're surprised by his gentleness. It's not the rough, over-masculine shake you are expecting.

"Lieutenant (Y/n) (L/n)."

"I know your name," he admits with a light, almost embarrassed laugh. "I think everybody in here knows your name."

Your skin prickles. You stare at him stoney faced, bracing yourself for what's going to come out of his mouth. "Why's that?"

The guy—Lt. Seresin—you're remembering, shrugs. "I mean, you're quite the story back here in the states. A bit of a ghost story, I must say."

Ghost story is right. Because who survives that? How the fuck does a twenty-two year old girl survive an outnumbered ambush and not eight men with years of experience? Not someone who deserves to be called a hero, that's for sure.

You're trying your best to keep your cool with him. You know that you're in a public space and he's just being friendly. You used to be so good at this kind of thing, the flirting and small talk.

The thought occurs to you that maybe this is what you need. Maybe this will make you feel normal again. You need to feel normal again.

Maybe that is why you let him lean in closer, buy you another drink when yours runs dry, and another one after that. Maybe that is why you make an effort to laugh when he does, and you close your eyes when he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You let out the breath that's been tightening your ribcage and do your best to smile. "Thank you for the beer. You didn't have to do that." You hope the words sound as genuine as they're intended to.

He smiles back like he's supposed to, all polite and inherently forgiving of your original attitude. You catch onto the way it doesn't quite reach his eyes. You're not sure why but it makes you think maybe he's just a bit sad too.

Maybe that is why he lets you wordlessly take his hand and lead him to the back of the bar. Maybe that is why he lets you sink to your knees on the cold, sticky tiles of the men's bathroom floor, his hands already fumbling to unbuckle his belt.

It smells like beer and piss, and you don't even wait for him to get fully hard before you take him in your mouth, your nose buried into his pelvis, where it smells like sweat. It's all wrong and right at the same time, and he won't ask you to stop. He just curls his fingers into a fistful of your hair, pinpricks stinging at your scalp the same way tears sting at your eyes.

He—Jake—he'd told you a while ago, has a pretty cock. At least as pretty as cocks go. Pink and ruddy at the tip, where it mushroomed beautifully. Almost dauntingly long but not grossly so with a throbbing vein on the underside. You run your tongue along it and he muffles a whimper, his fingers wrapping harder around your hair in an effort not to buck up into your mouth. At least he's a gentleman about it.

He's heavy and twitching in your mouth. You feel heavy. He is standing above you, a harsh line of a man against the buzzing bathroom light. You remind yourself to breathe through your nose and he punches himself further, the head of his cock skimming the back of your throat.

You swallow around him, trying to hold together what little is left of your remaining sense of self. It's been a while since you've been so careless as to place yourself in someone else's hands, rolled over and showed your belly to someone who could easily take advantage of you.

Your jaw aches, uncomfortable and familiar, like something you don't want to remember. Tears well up behind your eyes, the threat of an unwanted but unknown feeling looming just out of reach. Jake's hand in your hair hold your head firmly against his pelvis, hips rocking up into your mouth. He sighs like he can finally breathe.

You can't breathe.

You try to and something rasps inside of you, choking. The feeling that had been looming threateningly sparkles through you. Panic.

You know that he tries to settle you, does his best to wipe the tears leaking from your eyes with his thumbs and murmurs softly to you. "Breathe. It's okay, breathe for me."

You can't. You can't breathe.

Your head is pounding and suddenly you aren't kneeling on the bathroom floor of the bar. You're on the ground, crying, screaming like a wounded animal and no one is coming to help. You can almost feel the dirt under your knees, taste the blood in your mouth.

"Y/N, you have to breathe."

Someone's grabbing you, hauling your useless feet across the floor. Your chest hurts like you've been punched with a bowling ball.

"C'mon, let's get some air."

How you end up outside the bathroom is beside you. All you know is one minute you're dying on your knees back in the desert and the next you're being sat down on the back steps of the bar.

The cool air of the San Diego evening brings you back. That and the press of a cup of ice water to your lips, the condensation dripping from the glass and rolling down your throat. You swallow, letting the cool liquid soothe your burning throat.

You're aware of Jake sitting down beside you, close enough to touch if he wanted to but still keeping his distance. You can feel his eyes on you, watching carefully for a moment before he turns to stare out at the not so distance shoreline.

Your stomach feels odd, like you might be sick.

He probably thinks you're insane. You would think the same. But if he's dying to ask what the hell that was, he's doing a good job of hiding it.

How do you tell him that sometimes you think that you should have died, that sometimes the memories almost kill you?

"I hid."

He looks up from peeling off the label around the neck of his bottle. "What?"

You swallow, trying to collect yourself before your words fail you.

"I hid. A—After I was shot, I didn't get back up. I crawled under the humvee and... and I just laid there. I laid there and I closed my eyes and I prayed. I prayed that they wouldn't notice me lying under there or that they if they did, they would think I was already dead."

A mixture of sweat and dust burns your eyes. When you blink, you can feel the sandy grit trapped between them. You squeeze them shut while trying to swallow back the dryness of your throat in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort, but it doesn't do much. An unwarranted tear escapes and runs down the track of your nose.

With your rifle held closely to your chest, you let it slide down and collect on the bow of your lip. It joins the puddle of sweat that has already accumulated there. Out here, the sun cooks you alive. You swear it's a constant one thousand degrees. The twenty pounds of kevlar doesn't help.

Dirt kicks up beside you and gravel showers your helmet as a round of bullets buries themselves into the ground a mere six inches from your face. You hardly flinch.

Somebody is screaming. The sound of machine gun fire is ringing in your ears. Somebody is screaming.

"(L/N), C'MON. LET'S MOVE."

It's Cain. He's grabbing the strap of your kevlar vest and yanking you to your feet. You scramble after him, desperate not to be left behind. Bullets explode at your feet the moment the two of you emerge from the concealment of the dirt mound. Fear makes you run faster.

You spot Manny crouched behind the tire of the SUV to your right. He's firing rounds into the brush. You can tell that he's bleeding from a wound to his arm and you're about to veer off to help him when his head jerks backwards, the scattered remains of his brain plastered onto the white side of the truck.

You stop running, the words caught in your throat.

"RUN," Cain screams. He'd backtracked a few paces and grabs hold of your vest once again to drag you behind a second SUV. You stumble over him, falling haphazardly onto your rear once he lets go of you. He immediately turns to fire over the hood of the truck, and the bullets hitting the truck stop momentarily.

Clawing at the gravel on the ground, you hurry to scramble to your feet. Your head is pounding, your mouth dry and gritty. Huffing, you glance between Cain, who is fumbling to reload his magazine, and the crumpled figure of Manny a few yards away. You can only hope Ronny is still out there somewhere.

Before you can even try to locate him or any other members of the squad, movement to your left springs your muscles into action. You slam your back into the side door of the SUV just as a round of bullets pelt the spot where you were standing just moments before. Automatically, you raise your gun, returning the fire. There are a few more shots fired in retaliation, but they stop a second later.

Once you're sure they're subdued, you lower your gun, breathing hard. There's so much smoke and debris in the air that you can hardly even see Cain ten feet away. He's shuffling towards you in a low crouch.

"Let's move, (L/n). They know where we are. We've got to find different cover."

You nod, your finger still pressed tightly to the trigger of your weapon. You drop into a crouch and follow behind him as he creeps towards the back of the truck. He pauses a moment, scanning the landscape before looking back at you. His blue eyes are a startling contrast to the dirt and sweat covering his tanned face. He lifts his gun in the direction of a flipped humvee about fifty yards away. His mouth moves in a silent command.

One.

Two.

Three.

The gunfire starts up as soon as the two of you spring from behind the vehicle. You can hear the whizzing of bullets as they just barely miss your head. All you can do is pray you don't trip as you struggle to keep up with Cain. Your lungs burn and your boots feel impossibly heavy.

The terrain is barren but the ground loose, and rocks threaten to upend your footing, slipping out from beneath your feet as the two of you flee towards the vehicle.

30 yards from the humvee, Cain tumbles to the ground with a broken cry. The bullet catches him in the thigh, stopping him mid stride. He hits the ground hard.

Without even thinking, you skid to a stop. Bullets spray the ground around you. Somehow you're more afraid of leaving him than being shot.

"Go!" he yells at you, already trying to shove you away. "Go, I'm coming!"

Already, there's a lake of blood beneath him. You step in it and the ground squelches under your boot. Crimson gushes from his left thigh, effectively saturating the fabric of his pants. His face is terrifyingly pale. The bullet must have hit his femoral artery.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Like hell," you snap at him, your pervious fear suddenly boiling into the purest form of anger you've ever felt. Angry for being in this situation in the first place. Angry that of all people, Cain is going to die.

It's terrifying how quickly the realization comes to you, how easily you accept it as the truth. There's already too much blood. Without a tourniquet, he'll bleed out in minutes and there's not quite time for that.

"Leaving him behind wasn't an option. It never even occurred to me that it was," you confess, as if saying it aloud will somehow explain away this title of heroism that everyone wants to pin on you. "Dead or alive, he was coming with me."

You shoulder your rifle and use both hands to grab onto the straps of his vest, hefting him backwards towards the truck.

He must clamp onto his bottom lip to stop the scream that threatens to escape because the noise that comes from his mouth is garbled.

You drag Cain about ten feet before you realize how just heavy he is. There's sweat leaking into your eyes and all you can see is the bloody lake that's left behind as you drag him through the dust. Cain's gone quiet, his head lulled to the side, eyes almost shut.

"C'mon, Cain. We're almost there."

His boot snags on a rock, and when you tug him free, he doesn't utter a word.

Something inside of you knows he's gone, was gone long before you started dragging him. You're still ten yards from the SUV.

POP. POP. POP.

You pause, your eyes fixed ahead of you. "Have you ever been shot before?"

Beside you, Jake shakes his head.

"It feels like someone has shot a bowling ball into your chest. Knocks the breath right out of you."

Pain explodes straight through your ribcage. Your vision clouds and you're vaguely aware of your knees buckling beneath you.

When you come to, all of the wind has been knocked out of you from hitting the ground so hard and your immediate reflex is to suck in a reviving breath. Instead all that comes out is a gurgle, the tell tale sign that your chest cavity is filling with blood.

You swallow, looking off at the dark shoreline of the beach, watching as the waves crash against the sand. "I knew that I wasn't dead yet—I did— I just—" Your throat constricts and when you speak again your voice is quieter. "He was already gone so maybe a part of me had already gone with him."

Jake nods slowly, as if putting together the pieces that you're laying down bit by bit. Somehow his green eyes have remained soft this entire time and maybe that's where you find the courage to continue.

Lifting your head, you crane your neck to see the damage, but the thick layer of kevlar strapped to your chest obstructs your view of the lower half of your body. Grunting in frustration, you reach blindly in the direction that the pain is radiating from. Numbly, your fingers find the gushing hole in your side. The bullet had buried itself in the exposed inch of your stomach between your belt and your vest.

There mustn't be an exit wound because there isn't a ton of blood surrounding you. If the wet cough you emit is anything to go by, it's probably pooling in your abdominal cavity instead.

You're going to die.

"I don't know how long I laid there," you admit. "I knew that the clock was ticking, had been since the moment I hit the ground. It was only a matter of time before I blacked out or bled out... I guess I was just waiting to see which one came first."

The scattered rounds hitting the ground around you become muffled background noise as the lull of unconsciousness begins to sweep over you, dulling the world as you know it. Through the haze of your fading senses, your eyes fall on Cain's motionless figure a few feet beside you.

He's lying face up, his desert tan uniform seeped a muddy crimson. You'd known he was dead a while ago. Still, you carried him. He'd have done the same for you. He was your brother, dead or alive.

Blood bubbles from your nose as you struggle to keep yourself breathing. The fact that you have to remind yourself to do that isn't a promising sign. Your body is shutting down, doing anything it can to keep your heart pumping, even if it means shutting down everything else.

Somewhere through the dullness, you hear Cain's voice. MOVE, (L/N).

You close your eyes, trying to picture his face from what had been just a few minutes ago. You remember the urgency in his blue eyes, the intensity of his fear overridden by adrenaline. How had that been only moments ago?

MOVE, (L/N).

"I—I heard his voice," you state, your tone not open for discussion. "Not the gun fire, not God, not anyone else's. I heard his voice."

So many people had tried to convince you otherwise, tried to tell you that it was because of the shock and your brain was shutting down, that you were hearing things. But you know what you heard.

"He saved my life, Jake."

You can see the gears turning in his head, the question carefully forming on his lips. "Were you two— I mean was he—"

It's the first time you have to suck back tears, your chest rattling with a longing emptiness as you fight the urge to cry. Memories of his wild blue eyes and wide smile that could only ever mean he was misbehaving flash through your mind.

You met Sergeant Anthony Cain not long after you commissioned as a Lieutenant. You were still a green officer when you were charged with your first platoon and given orders to deploy out East. You were scared as hell and Cain was your saving grace. He came in as if he'd always known you needed him and the rest was history.

There was never any question about intentions or commitment to each other. Cain was as honest as they came and you left it at that. You never imagined that's where your story would begin and end.

"I don't know, Jake. We didn't get that far."

Forcing your eyes open, you access the area around you. The sound of enemy fire has slowed but that doesn't mean movement won't trigger a return of bullets your way. Still, you know they'll be looking for survivors once the dust settles, and you don't want to be around when they do.

The humvee is only a little over ten yards away. You might would say it was crawling distance if it weren't for the fact that you were actively bleeding out. Even so, you don't really have any other option.

You take as deep of a breath as you can, your chest rasping as you do so, before lifting your right leg and using the weight of it to swing yourself over onto your stomach. Immediately, searing hot pain radiates through your chest and legs. You cry out, curling in on yourself, writhing on the ground like a wounded animal.

Sputtering, trying to breathe through the pain long enough so that you can move, you feel hot tears track down your face. They're tears of insurmountable pain and hopeless desperation.

"All I kept thinking was 'how does anyone survive this?' It was unimaginable, the pain. Looking back now, I don't know how I did it. I don't think I could do it again if I had to," you admit.

Softly, as not to scare you, you feel the gentle weight of Jake's palm on your knee. "You won't have to," he promises. "But you did it. You survived."

You stare down at his hand on your knee.

With a trembling, blood stained hand, you reach out in front of you and dig your fingers into the ground. Heaving, you draw yourself forward, your legs dragging limply through the dust. It takes an unimaginable amount of strength to pull yourself even six inches.

Sniffling back tears and out of breath, you curl your fingers into the ground and drag yourself forward again. This time, you probably only move half as far. You have to fight the urge to just lay your cheek against the ground and cry.

You do this again and again, keeping one hand pressed into the gushing wound at your side while the other drags you forward. Your lower half has become increasingly heavier with each passing minute, your legs nothing but dead weight to pull along. You don't think you could move them if you tried.

It takes you forty minutes to drag yourself to the humvee. By the time you get yourself fully under the abandoned vehicle, your fingers are torn and bleeding, the tips ripped open and embedded with bits of gravel.

Your muscles collapse the very second you give them the chance. Your forehead drops down to rest against the ground, and you finally have a moment to shudder out a sob. Your throat is dry and cracked, and dust coats the inside of your mouth. You're dimly aware that your breaths are dangerously shallow. You just know that you're miserably nauseous and each passing moment is more unbearable than the next.

You turn your own palm over, staring at the scars of your ruined finger tips, scars that tell a story of how you survived. They're ugly, and you wish you didn't have to look at the all of the time. At least your torso is mostly hidden. You've moved to a beach town and will never be able to put on a swimsuit.

Jake’s eyes follow yours and after a moment he flips his palm over, his fingers spread and inviting. His hands are large and calloused from years of flying. There are fingernail divots in his palm.

Almost shyly, his green eyes meet yours. You see a bit of that sadness you saw earlier. “I know it’s not my job to be your shrink or whatever,” he adds with a laugh and you can’t help but laugh with him. “But you’re not alone. We’re all a bit fucked up if you haven’t noticed.” He shrugs. “It comes with the job.”

You can’t help yourself. You trace a finger over the scarred palm of his hand. “My dad would disagree.”

Jake is fighting the urge to close his palm around yours, not wanting to overstep, and so he’s pleased when you intertwine your fingers with his.

“Family dinner must be interesting.”

Jake came from a military family himself and so he knows how deep the ties run. His old man was a sailor and so he knew better than to come home sporting anything other than his dress whites.

You laugh out loud because he’s not wrong at all. Jake squeezes your fingers in response. His hand feels good in yours. Safe and heavy in the way a padlock feels. Like he’s not going anywhere.

“It’s not all ‘Go Army, Beat Navy’ believe it or not. Don’t get me wrong, I was raised a Navy brat and I have a hell of a lot of respect for my old man, but at the end of the day, I had to choose myself. I couldn’t do that with him watching over my shoulder. The Army’s been both the greatest and the worst thing that could have happened to me,” you confess.

Jake hums, dare you say almost disbelievingly.

“What?”

“A few weeks here and you’ll change your mind. No one does it like the Navy does.”

It’s your turn to make a noise of disbelief.

“I guess you’ll just have to impress me, Flyboy.”

Jake squeezes your hand again. “Oh I plan to.”

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joonieskinks · 11 months ago

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johnny!soulmate au where you see grey your whole lives, right up until you first make eye contact with your soulmate - then suddenly the floodgates of colours finally begin to appear.

Johnny was still a Private in the military when you joined up to aid those injured, you eventually earned quite a name for yourself as a nurse on bases. You even got to pick after a couple years and settled on Captain Price’s base after helping him a few years back. He was always kind to you and so you figured, maybe his men would be too.

Johnny then became a Sergeant with the 141, Graves was still in full swing when Johnny received a nasty shot to the shoulder. Upon his return to base, he was quickly transported over to your station for aid. He was laid down in a bed, given injections for the pain, his shirt cut off, leaving his chest bare. You opened the curtain to see your patient squeezing his eyes shut in pain as the injection punctured his skin.

“Hi, Sergeant. I’m nurse y/n, I’ll be taking care of you. Gonna get that bullet out and get you all sewed up, okay?” You introduced, eyes glancing over his vitals.

“Aye, got it lass.” He murmured, finally relaxing in the bed as the painkillers started to kick in. Your eyes finally landed on him, his wound but also his figure. Sure, you see a lot of guys like this but you couldn’t help but look just a little bit longer than usual. Even like this, you think he looks rather good. It makes your insides flip inside you at the thought.

“Right-“ you start and settle down on a stool next to his shoulder. “Those painkillers should be working overtime now, but let me know if it gets to be too much.”

For the first time Johnny looks to the side, eyeing who is actually aiding him. And he’s met with the prettiest woman he’s ever seen in his life. The way your hair frames your face, your kind eyes and beautifully shaped lips- ones he’d very much like to kiss for all your help. You’re stunning and definitely his type, it makes his heart rate rise.

“Easy there, Sergeant. You’re in good hands, I promise.” You pause from tending to his bullet wound to lay your hands on his chest. Your eyes glance over his blushing face, and you smile a little. He’s definitely handsome, your type too.

Johnny’s eyes glance up to meet your own, desperate to recover and say something smooth- but he’s at a complete loss for words as your eyes stand out in the most peculiar way. They look different, they are vivid, clear and coloured.

“Bonnie…” he mutters out, rising up out of bed to look at you closer, and you’re unmoving. In shock, unable to look away from the man in front of you, as his eyes turn blue, as his hair turns brown, as your whole world springs to life.

“Are you…?” You trail off, taking your gloves off to touch his face. Johnny brings his hand up to yours to cup your cheek, tears starting to swell in his eyes.

“I finally found ye.” He chuckles, swiping his thumb lovingly over your cheek over and over. His eyes running all over your features, taking you in, smiling like crazy. “And yer gorgeous too! I’ll be damned.”

You laugh at the flattery, tears starting to leave your own eyes. You can’t wait any longer and bring your lips to meet his. Johnny wastes no time wrapping his arms around you, a hand on your waist and another on the back of your neck. God, you feel good, how he couldn’t wait to explore all of you.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Sergeant.” You murmur against his lips.

“As much as I like that, lass, the names’ Johnny.” He smiles, bringing his lips back to yours.

Honestly if he had it his way, he’d already have you naked in this station, moaning his name. But alas, you’ll have to reign him in so it seems- and finish sewing his wound shut for crying out loud.

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saywhat-politics · 2 months ago

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The U.S. decision to suspend the flow of military intelligence to Ukraine this week has aided the Russian advance along a critical part of the front, weakening the negotiating position of President Volodymyr Zelensky and killing many Ukrainian soldiers in recent days, according to five senior Western and Ukrainian officials and military officers familiar with the situation.

“As a result of this pause, there are hundreds of dead Ukrainians,” one of the officers told TIME in an interview on Friday in Kyiv, asking not to be named when discussing sensitive military operations. “The biggest problem is morale,” he added, as the armed forces of Ukraine are being left to fight without some of their best weapons systems, not as a result of Russian attacks but American pull backs. “It’s really causing an advantage for the enemy on the front line.”

The U.S. stopped providing intelligence to Ukraine shortly after the Presidents of both counties, Volodymyr Zelensky and Donald Trump, clashed in the Oval Office on Feb. 28. During the meeting, Zelensky questioned whether the Russians could be trusted to abide by any ceasefire. President Trump and Vice President J.D. Vance responded by berating the Ukrainian leader on camera. “You don’t have the cards," Trump said. "You’re gambling with World War III.”

In the days that followed, the U.S. suspended military aid to Ukraine, including intelligence sharing. Questioned about that decision on Thursday, President Trump’s special envoy to Ukraine, General Keith Kellogg, said the Ukrainians had “brought it on themselves.” The U.S. response to Zelensky’s position was “sort of like hitting a mule with a two-by-four across the nose," Kellogg said. "Got their attention."

The impact for the Ukrainians has been most acute in the Russian region of Kursk, where the Ukrainian armed forces are struggling to hold a swath of territory that they seized in a shock offensive last August. That assault marked the first foreign invasion of Russian land since World War II, humiliating the Kremlin and drawing thousands of North Korean troops into the war to help Russia regain control of the area.

#united states #russia #ukraine

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berryispunk · 2 months ago

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Insomniacs

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: friends to lovers, insomnia, mental health struggles (ptsd, depression), soft! Frankie, kissing, yearning, swearing, nicknames (hermosa), fluff, idiots in love, no smut, no physical description of reader apart from having hair

summary: What if you can’t sleep and you call for your best friend to come over and suddenly everything changes ?

word count: 3,1 k

It’s nothing new that you can’t sleep. Dealing with various mental health stuff over the years and chronic pain on top, you should know better.

You tried every sleeping aid under the sun; meditation, counting sheep, lavender on your pillow and melatonin. Nothing worked, so you started to build your life around it. Midnights became your afternoons to quote Taylor Swift.

But you were creative, somehow still holding up the hope that it magically gets better or you’ll just get used to it. But it never happened.

So tonight as the red numbers of your digital alarm clock illuminate your face, mocking you once again, you groan in frustration. You stare at the ceiling, watching the various colored lights of the cityscape dancing around and if you weren’t so damn defeated you would be able to find beauty in this, but you can’t. Not today. You reach for your phone charging on your nightstand and scroll mindlessly through social media. Minutes turn into an hour and you finally sit up in your bed, opening your messages app. It’s 2:30 a.m., who could possibly be awake at this hour? Your international friends? Yeah, for sure. But as you go through your various contacts you stop at one name, smiling to yourself as you press the call button.

It takes three rings until a familiar deep voice fills your ears.

“Hello?” the voice murmurs and you immediately feel guilty because you didn’t expect him to have been asleep. His voice sounds exhausted.

“Oh my god. Sorry Frankie, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” you apologize and he chuckles softly at the other end.

“‘s alright, wasn’t really sleeping just… dozing off. What’s up, hermosa? It’s….” he pauses shortly. “It's, fuck, 2:32 at night. What is going on? Are you alright?” The worry in his voice is palpable and it’s one of the things you admire about him.

“Yeah, it’s the same old insomnia again and I figured why not call the one person that gets my pain?” you say apologetically and you can practically hear his smirk.

“Us good old insomniacs, huh? Is it your brain or the pain this time?” he asks and you sigh heavily in response.

“Probably a mix of both…” you sink deeper into your cushion.

Frankie might be the only person you ever met who understands the struggles that come with lack of sleep. His military background and the resulting nightmares made him an ally in the cruel game that called itself life. The two of you spent countless nights like this, on the phone or texting, watching nonsense over whatever TV channel was on but you’ve never done one thing: late-night meetings.

You weren’t sure if it was a secret agreement the both of you made that late night meetings were off-limits in all the time you’ve known each other, but tonight something felt different.

“Hey Frankie?”

“Hm?”

“Why have we never met? At night, when we weren’t able to sleep… I mean, you only live on the other side of the city, not the world.”

The other end stays silent and you think you may have overstepped an up-to-now invisible line by asking.

Then he clears his throat. “Would you want me to come over? You never asked and I never did, because no way in hell I let you wander alone through the night…” he clarifies and you can’t help but roll your eyes. Of course, ever the gentleman Frankie Morales did not want to risk your safety.

“Well, what if I’d ask you to come over now?” You hear him swallowing heavily at the other end of line.

You don’t even know why you’re wanting this all of a sudden, maybe you’ve finally lost your mind. It’s not like there isn’t some underlying tension between the two of you anyway. Mindless flirting and playful teasing is all part of your friendship.

Frankie is way too trusting for his own good, getting screwed up by his lack of judgement concerning other people and his soft heart, even if he would never let the boys know. They would give him hell about it. But around you he’s let his guard down and you have deep conversations with him about all things going wrong and the few that haven't. He’s one of the few people who know about your troubled youth and strained relationship with your mother. You in turn are one of the few people that know the severity of his PTSD.

He makes you feel heard like no guy has ever managed to do. He really looks at you when you’re talking and it always makes you feel giddy when he remembers little things you told him a while back.

You like his attentive nature, but somehow you have never found yourself thinking of him as a potential partner, even if he’s awfully attractive with his broad shoulders and unruly dark curls. His million-watt smile that, if it’s honest, creates little wrinkles around his eyes and makes your own smile widen every damn time in return.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice strained and uncertain.

“I am,” you say boldly even if you feel anything but.

Fuckin hell, why does your heart beat so fast?

“Give me 20 minutes,” is the last thing you hear before the line goes dead.

You immediately jump up from your bed and panic takes over. What were you thinking? What do you even expect to happen when he’s here? Or worse, what if he expects something to happen? No, he would never. It’s Frankie after all, he would’ve had plenty of chances to make approaches but he never has, always keeping a respectful distance. And now you wonder if he only kept it because you made it seem like you weren’t interested in more than a friendship?

When you first met him, you actually had a little crush on him but held yourself back because you told yourself he was out of your league and he was in a relationship. Then they broke up, but he was in a new one only a few weeks later. It went on like that for a long time until you were taken. Your ex never liked the boys so you kept your distance and the estrangement grew until you broke up with the guy and picked up your friendships where you left off.

It’s always been so easy to be with Frankie. You could be yourself around him, no need to pretend to be someone you’re not. He saw you in every state: drunk, crying, bed head and pajamas or all dolled-up for another unfulfilling date. He still looked at you the same and it gave you some sort of confidence you’re usually unable to muster. So right now you don’t even think about changing. You stay in your sleep shirt and shorts, no underwear whatsoever, because it doesn’t matter anyway. The only thing you do is brush your teeth and open the messy bun your hair has been in, making it fall loosely over your shoulders.

For a moment you wonder whether he wants anything specific to drink, but as you check your fridge you see that you have plenty of soda and beer - both beverages you know he enjoys. So you sit down on the sofa, only the soft dim light of the standing lamp in the corner illuminating the room and you grow nervous again. Why, you can’t tell. This isn’t different from all the other times you’ve met him, the only difference being it’s late at night. But then you remember the saying ‘nothing good happens after 2 am’ and you get restless all over again until a soft knock on the door announces his arrival.

With a few quick steps you open the door, but only a crack and Frankie looks at you, tired brown eyes mustering you. He’s smiling as per usual and holds up a plastic bag. “I brought the pretzels you like so much.”

You open the door all the way to let him in. He’s wearing grey sweatpants, the standard oil cap which has to be glued to his head at this point, and one of his worn-down band shirts. Sometimes you “borrow” one of them when he doesn’t notice. You’re actually wearing one right now.

“Hi,” you grin as he places the plastic bag on the coffee table.

“Hi yourself,” he grins back and his eyes wander over your figure for a moment as his smirk widens. “Is that my shirt?” he asks, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

“Maybe,” you tease back, mirroring his smirk. “You want it back?”

He shakes his head, lifting his signature cap to run a hand through his curls before he puts it back on. “Nah, looks better on you anyway,” he says and somehow it makes your cheeks turn a bit warmer.

“You want something to drink?” you ask, clearing your throat.

“Yeah, a beer maybe? But please tell me you’ve got more than the muck from the gas station? Because that tastes like piss,” he complains and you laugh as you walk over to your kitchen, opening the fridge.

“Well, good for you I have actual beer, some Corona even if you’re feeling fancy.”

“Oh, I feel very fancy, hermosa,” he laughs and leans over the kitchen countertop as you reach for the beer. You feel his gaze on your backside, but decide to say nothing.

You place the beer on the counter, a soda in your hand, and the noise of it opening echoes loudly through the apartment. He opens his beer with a lighter before he takes the first sip.

It’s quiet for a moment before you ask, “How’s that girl you were talking about last week? Cindy or what’s her name?”

He shrugs, a lopsided smile on his face. “You’re asking me about my dating life?”

You frown, tilting the soda can in your hand before answering “Guess so.”

“Didn’t see her again,” he simply states and something blooms inside of you. Is it relief?

“Ah, okay…” you say, trying not to let your emotions show too much.

“And… you? How’s that guy you told me about? Jack?”

“Jacob,” you correct, not that it would matter. You met him once and it’s clear that he’s still very much in love with his ex-girlfriend.

“Yeah, Jacob, sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “How is he?”

“Guess he’s fine…I wouldn’t know, as I only went on a date with him once.”

“Oh.” “Oh?” you scoff and he chimes in with a chuckle.

“Yeah, what else should I say? He didn’t seem like a good match for you.”

“You know, you never said that about any of the guys I dated.”

“They were all losers.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“Shit, I‘m sorry…” he babbles but your eyebrows are furrowed.

“So tell me who’s a good match for me then?” You glare at him. It’s infuriating that he even thinks he’s allowed to judge you when he clearly isn’t better with all the girls he’s dated in the past.

“Someone who really cares for you and sees you for who you are. Someone who treats you right and would do anything to make you happy, you know…” He’s fiddling with the label on the beer bottle. You just watch him, too stunned to speak as his words strike a chord. You know he’s right and that makes it hurt even more.

“Maybe I’m just not made for a relationship,” you sigh as you take another sip of your soda, mimicking his stance by leaning across from him against the counter.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“So what? You’re gonna tell me that there’s someone for me whom I just haven't met yet? That I didn’t search long or hard enough? I am 28, Frankie. I am tired of being in the dating pool. I just want… “ you exhale defeatedly. “I just want someone to come home to and who’s as happy to see me as I am to see him.”

“I am happy to see you,” he says quietly and it makes your heart miss a beat.

“Yeah, but that’s not the same and you know it.”

“Why not?” he asks back, your eyebrows shooting up as he finally looks up from the bottle in his hand and places it onto the next available surface. “You’re a smart girl, hermosa. Don’t tell me you don’t know?” There’s indignation in his voice.

“Don’t know what?”

With one big step he closes the distance between you, standing so close to you you can clearly smell the last bit of his perfume he’s probably worn during the day and most of all you can smell him. The earthiness, musk and warmth are weirdly comforting as he looks down at you.

“Do I have to spell it out for you or can you feel it as well?” he murmurs when you finally have the courage to meet his gaze, his eyes dark and searching.

“Frankie, I–”

Suddenly he’s so close, so all-consuming it makes it hard to think.

“Tell me you don’t feel it and I stop,” he whispers. You feel his breath on your face and the warm feeling inside your chest spreads further.

Of course you’ve felt that way before, but you didn’t think too much about it, not wanting to risk this friendship that's so important to you.

“I won’t,” you croak out and he smirks in response, the cocky smile he always has when he is certain about something.

“Figured,” he continues before adding, “So tell me, how many of these dickheads do you want to date until you give the one guy a chance that really cares about you?”

“But.. We are…”

“Friends? Yeah, and I want to be so much more than that to you. Do you really think I would drive through the city at this ungodly hour for just anyone?”

You search for his eyes again, slightly blushing and shaking your head.

He starts playing with a lock of hair, curling it around his thick fingers which makes you incredibly nervous.

“I woke you up, didn’t I? And now you stand here at 3 in the morning… I feel horrible.”

“Well, I don’t. I’m glad you invited me over. Who needs sleep if I can be with you instead?”

You smile at that.

“I’m still sorry.”

“No need,” he assures you. “There’s no place I’d rather be right now…”

And his voice drips with honesty as his eyes lock with yours and the intensity of his gaze paired with his words make your breath hitch. Your eyes flick onto his plush lips which look so much more kissable up close and you bite your own lips. He mirrors the movement and suddenly his big hand rests on your cheek, his thumb caressing your cheek bone as he pulls you a tiny bit closer. You reach for his cheek in return, his patchy stubble tickling your hand and you part your lips as he takes the cue, dips his head and his lips are only a hair's breadth away from yours.

“Can I kiss you now?” he whispers hoarsely against your lips and you just nod in agreement.

His lips capture yours in a soft, tentative kiss and your stomach does somersaults. You’ve wondered in the past what kissing him would feel like, but nothing could’ve prepared you for this. He knows exactly what he’s doing, his lips moving with purpose without being overbearing. The softness of his lips is a stark contrast to the slight scratch of his stubble against your skin. You practically melt into the kiss and you’re certain that no one has ever kissed you like this, so soft but purposefully determined it makes your head spin.

You tangle your hands in the soft locks on the ape of his neck as you deepen the kiss. He’s parting his lips voluntarily so you can invade his mouth with your tongue as his hand wanders from your cheek into your hair, cradling the back of your head. He presses you against the counter with his body weight as his other hand wanders to your hip, his fingers digging into the tender flesh under his shirt. As your tongues dance feverishly his breathing gets uneven, panting into the kiss and you can’t help but smile softly that he gets so worked up over a kiss.

“You okay?” you whisper as you part to breathe, your foreheads touching.

“Yeah,” he breathes “It’s just.. Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long so I wanna get this right.”

You take his head between your hands, your thumbs stroking his cheeks now.

“You’re doing everything right, Frankie,” you smile softly and his face lights up.

“Can I maybe take you out on a date first before I ravish you right here in your kitchen?”

You can’t help but laugh at that, an honest laugh not many people are able to elicit from you.

“I’d love that,” you say softly and nuzzle your nose against his while his thumb draws small circles over your hip where your shirt rode up.

Suddenly the tiredness comes back to you as you yawn heavily and he creates some distance to be able to look at you.

“Do I bore you, hermosa?” “No!” you quickly protest. “But I’m tired all of a sudden…”

“No shit, it’s late. Let’s get you into bed, yeah?”

He takes your hand and leads you to your bedroom where you fall headfirst into the pillow with a groan.

“Frankie?” you call for him, lifting your head up slightly, his name suddenly sounding so big in the quietness of the night.

“Yeah?” you hear faint footsteps as if he’s about to leave and the thought makes you sad.

“Would you mind staying?”

It’s deadly quiet for a moment before you hear the rustling of sheets and his weight next to you on the mattress. “Not at all,” he murmurs softly and you scoot closer to him, cuddling into his side as he puts his arm around your shoulders, his chin resting against your head. It feels so natural. It feels like coming home. You yawn and close your eyes again.

“Thank you,” you murmur softly as your hand rests on his chest.

“Anytime,” he says and then adds, “And just for the record, her name was Clara.”

“What?”

“The girl I was on a date with, her name was Clara not Cindy. Not that it’d matter anyway because the only person I go on dates with from now on will be you,” he chuckles softly and you grin widely, even if he can’t see it.

“Good to know,” you say sleepily and for the first time in weeks you drift off into a deep, restful sleep.

my masterlist - in case you're hungry for more :)

most recent work

#frankie morales #francisco morales #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier #fanfiction writer #berryfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #fluff #soft! Frankie #kissing #friends to lovers #yearning #my fic writing

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thosemotivationalquotes · 3 months ago

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Trump pauses program for HIV treatment and Prevention - 1/28/2025

In news that will shock no one, Trump has ordered that all programs that supply aid to countries outside the U.S. be paused for 90 days while the administration reviews them.

One of these programs that is paused is PEPFAR, which is a program that supplies HIV medications and education to people in countries facing high rates of HIV/AIDs.

PEPFAR “provides HIV/AIDS medications for over 20.6 million people, keeping patients alive and preventing them from transmitting the virus. It also offers testing and education on HIV/AIDS. According to a State Department fact sheet, PEPFAR has saved the lives of an estimated 26 million people since its inception.”

The cutting of this program, which is supposedly going to be 90 days and possibly permanent, will be catastrophic to countries who have high rates of HIV/AIDs.

This is not the only program that Trump has paused. There is also a pause on global TB and malaria treatment, as well as many other critical global aid programs. The only programs that are currently unaffected are emergency humanitarian funds, and military assistance (for Israel and Egypt).

It is important to be aware of things like this that Trump is doing. He is not only interested in harming Americans, but also putting the health and lives of people in other countries at risk. He is not only a threat to U.S. Americans, but the world.

Further reading: X X

#us politics #us government #united states #politics #uspol #donald trump #global news #current events #hiv awareness #trump administration #american politics

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evilwickedme · 1 year ago

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I keep seeing news that Israel has rejected a ceasefire deal from Hamas and/or that Hamas has rejected a ceasefire deal from Israel, and I'm having a very hard time keeping up with what's true, what terms have been rejected by who, and how ceasefire negotiations have been going in general. Do you have any information you could share or sources you could direct me to that would give this kind of news in an unbiased way? I think that saying that either side rejected a deal without explaining what parts of the terms were not agreed with is dishonest and I hate that I keep seeing it.

Thanks and I hope you're well and safe.

I'm not going to source this with anything specific cause my job is in the news so I'm just doing this off the cuff while literally on the bus there lmao

Both sides are in fact constantly rejecting ceasefire deals, for their own reasons. Some scattered thoughts from the last several months of coverage

One of the biggest points is ending the war. Hamas keeps going back and forth on this but is mostly insisting that even for the first, humanitarian stage of the hostage/ceasefire deal Israel must agree to take out all of its troops and essentially leave Hamas to remain the ruling party in the Gaza strip

This is essentially the only hard no on Israel's side. Netanyahu especially refuses to end the war without a military victory that essentially is impossible to get without entering Rafah (and in my opinion is currently impossible to achieve at all). There is a willingness to pause the war in exchange for the hostages up to a certain degree, but there simply isn't a chance that Israel is going to give up on defeating the remaining Hamas military divisions in Rafah and hopefully killing Sinwar

A lot of the problem is that Hamas will present a deal that Israel finds unacceptable, Israel will take time to deliberate, come up with a middle ground, and then Hamas will actually make a worse offer in return. A lot of things that Israel is currently putting on the table were things Hamas originally requested and was willing to be on those terms, but now they want things that are even further from Israel's interests.

For example, at first Hamas was asking for women and children to be allowed to go back to northern Gaza. Now they are asking for the entire civilian population to return to northern Gaza... And for Israel to not even check that no Hamas agents are going back up north, where there are still many rocket launchers that were never found. Personally I would like that not to happen, as I would like rockets to not be launched at me. Maybe that's a lot to ask, idk

Another example is the fact that at first Hamas asked for a certain number of terrorists to be freed, but that about a third of them (iirc) would be picked by Hamas, with no veto power given to Israel. The offer currently on the table gives Israel no veto power at all, and unlike the deal from November where Israel only freed terrorists who failed to kill anyone, this time Israel will be required to pretty much exclusively free murderers.

The truth is Hamas has very little interest in a hostage deal. They don't want the terrorists in Israeli prisons as much as we want the hostages that are, according to current intelligence, being used as human shields, many of them surrounding Sinwar at all times. The first hostage deal led to humanitarian aid being brought into Gaza, which due to Israeli negligence has been taken over by Hamas; aid is being increased (although not enough) with no "return on investment" so to speak for Israel.

(sidenote: yes, there is not enough aid entering Gaza. Also, a lot of the aid is being taken by Hamas officials, with the remains being sold at outrageous prices to the refugees. Shit is bad from all directions here)

Meanwhile, the IDF has essentially pulled all its soldiers out of Gaza. There are currently only two military divisions in Gaza iirc, and they're mostly just staying there with not much happening. The current attack on Rafah is "small scale", and comes as a direct result of rockets being shot at south Israel on Sunday, resulting in several people being grievously injured. Overall, not much military action is happening, meaning that, for example, agreeing to cease military activities in Gaza is relatively unimportant to Hamas rn (emphasis on to Hamas).

And another truth is netanyahu ALSO doesn't want a ceasefire. The moment this war ends the public will demand an election (hell, a THIRD of the public is demanding an election NOW, before the end of the war), and he has lost many of his more casual voters. He will be forced out of the government either by his party or by the voters, and netanyahu wants power over all else, fuck the hostages.

He doesn't WANT to answer for his actions in front of his citizens. It's no coincidence that he is willing to be interviewed by the foreign press but no Israeli papers or channels; it's no coincidence that he refuses to allow the Israeli negotiators to come up creative solutions, instead giving them extreme restrictions. And his absolute refusal to even acknowledging the possible existence of a future Palestinian state is going to fuck Israel over in unimaginable ways

In short, fuck Hamas, fuck Netanyahu and the current extreme right wing government, #bringthemhome #freegazafromhamas and #ceasefirenow

As usual, I recommend a mix of Haaretz, the NYT, and the wall street journal as my favorite although never unbiased journalism on i/p. It is so important that we all understand that nobody is unbiased about any political issue, including me, and especially not about Israel and Palestine. It is an extremely charged subject that is best parsed out by reading from a variety of sources, and always noting that if something is only quoted or referenced by sources from one "side", it's frankly probably not true.

I hope for the best, and may this nightmare end as soon as possible

#i/p #jew tag #gail speaks #ask #3rdsday

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fairuzfan · 1 year ago

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June was working at the Goldie restaurant in Philadelphia on Sunday night when protesters started assembling outside the Israeli-American-owned eatery waving Palestinian flags.

"Goldie, Goldie, you can't hide, we charge you with genocide," they chanted.

The 24-year-old June, who asked to be identified by his first name only, told Middle East Eye that they watched the rally through the window of the restaurant which sells falafel, hummus and other Middle Eastern cuisine. June was shift-leading at the time.

"I remember thinking it was a big crowd, given it had been raining," June said.

"No one inside was bothered. I didn't feel unsafe. There were orthodox Jews taking part in the protest. We even had a customer come into the business," June, who is also Jewish, added.

After a few minutes, the protesters left.

When June went home after the shift, they found social media alight with accusations that the crowd had targeted the restaurant because it was a Jewish establishment.

But June says they knew that this wasn't a case of antisemitism.

"The protesters had assembled outside Goldie because the restaurant owner had sent money to an aid organisation that supported the Israeli military. They had come because two employees at Goldie were fired for expressing support for Palestine," June told MEE.

Outraged by the feverish pace with which the false narrative of a marauding mob intimidating a business on account of their Jewishness was being amplified on the internet and the news media, June posted on social media in support of the protesters.

"If you don't want to be directly funding genocide, stay away from Goldie, Kfar, Federal Donuts, Laser Wolf or Zahav. Goldie's parent company CookNSolo held a fundraiser where sales from all their restaurants went to an org [sic] that gives supplies to the IDF [Israeli military]," June wrote.

On the way to work the next morning, June received a call from the restaurant. They were told that they were no longer needed and they was fired with immediate effect.

That made June the third person at Goldie to be fired on account of their pro-Palestinian advocacy since 7 October when Israel's war on Palestine began.

Since late Sunday, the US media, prominent Jewish Americans, Philadelphia's mayor, several lawmakers, and even the White House have issued statements condemning the protests outside the restaurant.

"This is idiotic and dangerous. Protest outside the Israeli consulate or the offices of your member of Congress, not Jewish or Israeli-owned restaurants," prominent Jewish-American writer Peter Beinart wrote.

Likewise, Andrew Bates, a White House spokesperson, described the incident as "antisemitic and completely unjustifiable to target restaurants that serve Israeli food over disagreements with Israeli policy".

On Tuesday, US Vice President Kamala Harris' husband, Doug Emhoff, called Michael Solomonov, the owner of the restaurant group, to express support for his business.

But former employees at Goldie as well as pro-Palestine advocates who either organised or participated in the protest say the outrage was manufactured to distract from both the crimes of the Israeli state and those who have chosen to support it.

"While Goldie was not the goal of our protest, we briefly paused and led chants [outside the restaurant] because the owner, Michael Solomonov, has used proceeds from the restaurant to fund an organisation that works directly with the Israeli Occupational forces," Natalie Abulhawa, a spokesperson from the Philly Palestine Coalition, said.

Abulhalwa said that the group spent only a few minutes outside the restaurant and moved on to other stops before continuing the rally.

"We also stopped at Starbucks for the same reason and then continued to march. Our march was roughly three hours long and we stopped at Goldie's for four minutes, at most," Abulhalwa added.

June, who was at the business at the time, confirmed to MEE that the protesters were only around for a few minutes.

Sophie Hamilton, who worked at Goldie for more than two years, including as a store manager, confirmed to MEE that Solomonov had held a fundraiser in mid-October, where $100,000 was raised for United Hatzalah, an Israeli emergency aid organisation based in Jerusalem.

She said Goldie, part of the CooknSolo company, was not some small-time "mom-and-pop" business, but a sprawling company whose owner was appointed by the Israeli tourism ministry as its culinary ambassador for Israel in 2017. Solomonov is an Israeli chef who owns four restaurants in the Philadelphia area under the CookNSolo banner.

According to a statement released by the Israeli authorities at the time, the role was designed "to champion Israel’s extraordinarily diverse and vibrant culinary landscape".

Hamilton said the company had mischaracterised United Hatzalah to staff as "non-partisan, non-military aligned, like the Red Cross", when a cursory internet search showed that not only did the charity openly collaborate with the Israeli military, they also spoke like an arm of the Israeli state.

"The influx of terrorists infiltrating Israeli territory and the resulting high number of injured individuals also prompted United Hatzalah to provide additional medical supplies and protective equipment to IDF teams on the ground," a statement issued in late October by United Hatzalah, reads.

"Since the beginning of the war, United Hatzalah medical teams have treated over 3,000 soldiers and civilians and provided more than 900 soldiers, civilians, and volunteers with psychological first aid. The organization also delivered over 30 tons of medical supplies and humanitarian aid to the IDF and residents of southern Israel," the statement added.

Hamilton said when she had discovered the information, she refused to take part in the fundraiser because she didn't want to be complicit in the genocide of Palestinians.

However, when she returned to work after the fundraiser, she said she still wanted to show solidarity with Palestinians and decided to wear a pin bearing the Palestinian flag on her shirt.

A few days later, the company came out with a new policy that banned any pin or patch unrelated to the store on their uniforms.

"I wore the pin anyway in defiance of the policy and I was sent home that day," Hamilton says.

When she returned to work, she decided she needed the job and abided by the policy. But when one of her colleagues, Noah Wood, refused to take off his pin, and she wouldn't discipline him as his manager, she was fired. And so was he.

"I would never, as a manager censor someone I work with for showing their heartfelt belief in human rights," Hamilton said.

Wood, who had already resigned from his job on account of the suppression of Palestinian advocacy at the restaurant, was serving his notice period at the time when he was told to stay home.

He told MEE that it appears a customer complaint may have led to his dismissal.

"We've had LGBTQ flags up in the store. They might still be up. And one of the other locations had Black Lives Matter signage, so it wasn't as if it was an entirely politically neutral work environment," Wood said.

"You must remember Sophie and I didn't say anything. We didn't argue with customers. We weren't posting online. We were just wearing Palestine patches and pins and this seemed to make a customer uncomfortable, and this was enough for termination," he added.

Goldie and its parent company, CookNSolo, did not immediately reply to MEE's request for comment.

Activists say they remain appalled by the smear campaigns pitted against Palestinians on a daily basis. The rush to defend a business working with the Israeli army under the mask of an antisemitic attack was in line with the higher echelons of the American state to equate criticism of Israel with antisemitism, they say.

With the devastation in Gaza spiralling and the death toll ever increasing - now upwards of 16,000 Palestinians - organisers say the rapid resort to smear those who dare to raise the plight of Palestinians was the surest sign that officials had run out of excuses to justify the support of Israel.

Activists say the flurry of support for the Israeli-owned business also showed the close ties between the US political establishment and Israel-aligned businesses.

"The hypocrisy of our elected officials is despicable. Within a couple hours of our protest, Pennsylvania's Governor Josh Shapiro and others ran to Twitter to accuse us of antisemitism with absolutely no context and no facts," Abulhalwa, with the Philly Palestine Coalition, said.

"No one from their offices reached out to us to 'investigate'," Abulhalwa added.

Organisers said US politicians were constantly attempting to portray pro-Palestinian protesters as unhinged or violent when it was the US state that was supporting genocide in Gaza and it was Palestinians in the US who have either been killed or physically attacked.

In its report about the call made by Emhoff, the US vice president's husband, to Solomonov, the owner of Goldie, NBC News reported that the duo spoke about "how food was actually supposed to bring people together rather than be a source of division"

Likewise, Pennsylvania's Governor Shapiro, who was among the first to condemn the protests outside Goldie, baked bread with its owner, Solomonov, as recently as September.

"Being an Israeli ambassador is a big part of Solomonov's brand," Leila, a Jewish-American who took part in the protest outside Goldie on Sunday, said.

Leila, who offered only her first name to MEE, said the suggestion that any part of the action outside the restaurant may have been construed as antisemitic was simply absurd.

June, the former employee at Goldie, who had watched the protest from inside the store itself, said the charge of antisemitism was divorced from reality.

"They didn't come to the restaurant simply because it was Jewish-owned. If that was the case, they would've gone to hundreds of restaurants across the city," June said.

Likewise, Abuhalwa said the smears against Palestinians were once more exposing a double standard toward Palestinian life.

"Palestinian protesters being held at gunpoint by a racist, Islamophobe is a hate crime. Palestinians being shot for wearing keffiyehs is a hate crime. A grown man stabbing a little boy for being Muslim is a hate crime. Using your First Amendment rights and peacefully protesting is not a hate crime.

"They accused us of targeting Goldie because it's Jewish-owned, which is far from the truth. Solomonov is not being targeted due to his religious beliefs, but rather his ties to a violent apartheid state that is currently enacting a genocide," Abuhalwa added.

Meanwhile, June, the 24-year-old who lost his job at Goldie for supporting the protesters, says he has no regrets.

"If I could educate more people on how this company feels about Palestinians being killed, I'd gladly do it in a heartbeat," June said.

"I will always advocate and support anyone who advocates for a ceasefire and an end to the occupation of Palestine," they added.

#palestine #bds #lmao #the way people are fully defending corporations #but anyways im sharing this so you know who else to add to your bds list if you need

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