#youtube afghanistan
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omgthatdress · 7 months ago
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Turkmen dresses from Afghanistan, The Zaira & Marcel Mis Collection
@sarahs_afghan_clothes on Instagram
Burqa and Trousers, 1850-1880, The Victoria & Albert Museum
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Sher Ali Khan and his company, 1865
Afghan men's clothing
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celtyradicalfem · 4 months ago
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Girlies gotta check out her channel
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busterballsblog · 5 months ago
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Tulsi Gabbard Calmly DESTROYS CNN Host Dana Bash 🔥!
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caavakushi · 1 month ago
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Sadia Badiei Helps Afghanistan 🇦🇫 - Pick Up Limes 🍋‍🟩 #veganpodcast #veg...
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6b4tgsl · 7 months ago
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How the Taliban erased 20 years of progress for Afghan women and girls:
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M£n ruin everything they touch! They only bring pain, destruction and suffering!
Nothing will get better for us women until we decide to cut them off completely from our lives! Join the 4b movement! Stop waiting for men to change! Stop waiting for your oppressor to have empathy for the oppressed!
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sincerelyamena · 3 months ago
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i’m going to need non afghan women or women who don’t have proximity to those in afghanistan to really to take a step back from the conversation and center these voices. if you don’t know anything about the divide and conquer , colonization tactics that were used in the region you should especially just take a step back. prior to destabilization women had high attainments of higher education , public facilities, freedom of dress , the right to vote in 1919 , 1964 equal rights bill etc . i am not saying this to discourage people to speak but instead center the voices and organizations that are effective and accurate. here are the organizations i recommend :
https://womenforafghanwomen.org/
afghan women in the past and present :
martyred meena :
sima samar :
soomaya javadi:
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gunsandspaceships · 4 months ago
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The Mountains
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Tony Stark - Prometheus
According to the myths about Prometheus, Zeus ordered him to be chained forever to a rock in the Caucasus Mountains ("the realm of the barbari"), where every day his center of life (liver/heart) was pecked by an eagle/vulture.
The ancients thought the Hindu Kush Mountain Range (Afghanistan) was a continuation of the Caucasus Mountains and alternatively used that name.
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"When the Greeks saw the peaks of Hindu Kush, they believed they were heading for the mountains where Zeus chained Prometheus to have an eagle peck at his liver every day for 30 years - perhaps not the end of the world, but a land where even the gods were tortured."
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"To the north from Bagram, Afghanistan, is Panjshir Valley. Halfway up in the mountains, a rock, half a mile high, became identified with Prometheus, a hero from the most remarkable Greek legends that had always been placed in the Caucasus." (Source)
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ozkar-krapo · 15 hours ago
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Mohammad NAIM, Malang NAJRABI, Abdul JABAR, Mohammad OMAR, Abdul MAJEEB & Mohammad WALI
"Afghanistan"
(LP. CBS. 1974) [AF]
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Here’s a list of resources for Afghanistan and if anyone has any more pls lmk so I can add them
List of other resources
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There are also sources to donate in the comments and description of this video
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thethirdman8 · 1 month ago
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Winter Soldier Testimonial
Mike Prysner
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This will break your heart.
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actualrealnews · 5 months ago
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Face and body coverage requirement re-instated, women's voices cannot be heard in public.
"We are like dead bodies moving around"
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cicaklah · 8 months ago
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Listening to tailenders talking about the Afghanistan mens cricket team who are doing so well in the world cup and then they mention how the women's team all had to flee to Australia and how women caught playing cricket are given the death penalty and literally burst into tears because how, how, how can the sport that took such a principled stand in the 80s over apartheid do nothing? How is it that there's this 'well if we take a stand we give the Taliban what they want and they'll ban cricket entirely' attitude when obviously they are fine with the men's team getting lauded and potentially winning a fucking world cup meanwhile women are girls are literally told they will be murdered if they play? Like the icc should be withdrawing all money, no one should be playing, by their own fucking rules you have to have a woman's team to be a full nation, but no, it doesn't matter.
Here's a short documentary about it.
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jasy356 · 3 months ago
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You may repost and share on other sites but make sure to give me credit and whatnot
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6b4tgsl · 7 months ago
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Don't forget
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talia-rumlow · 28 days ago
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Home Sweet Home (AU Brock Rumlow/OFC) Chapter Ten
WORDCOUNT: 7905
TRIGGERS: Grapic descriptions of war trauma, injuries, death, explotion, blood and PTSD
Thank you so much @ladysif8 for your amazing help with this chapter.
HAPPY READING!
CHAPTER TEN - OUR STORY
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As the sun dipped below the horizon, Calleigh pulled her car into the garage, relieved to have completed some of her work despite her fatigue. Looking forward to a rare moment of respite, she eagerly anticipated spending time with Brock, savoring whatever time they had left before Jack would return home - and they would have to conceal their clandestine activities. 
After securing the garage door, she enters the house through the connecting door. She'll need to pass through Jack's home office, but as long as she avoids disturbing anything, she should be fine. After all, Jack was far more vigilant about her presence in there when she was younger.
If this were your typical entry point, you could easily slip inside unnoticed - perfect for a spouse suspecting their partner's infidelity. Calleigh smiles, recalling childhood memories of herself, Molly, and Jess trying to sneak into the kitchen this way to grab snacks from the cabinets without Jack's knowledge. Perhaps that's why he became so obsessed with restricting their access to his office. Whatever the reason, their attempts to pilfer treats were always thwarted, as Jack consistently outsmarted them. 
As Brock unloads the dishwasher, a tired but grateful smile spreads across her face. "You didn't have to do that," she tells him, her voice slightly rougher than usual. "I could have handled it," she adds, stretching her back after sitting for hours at her desk and driving home. Exhausted, she knows she needs a hot shower to stay awake for the rest of the evening. "After I shower," she says, as Brock places some dishes in the cabinet and approaches her.
Brock couldn't believe his luck. Calleigh had never looked more beautiful than she did now. To be able to kiss her, to hold her in his arms whenever he wanted - it was almost too good to be true. For a fleeting moment, his mind wandered to that fateful day in 2008, the one he had somehow survived. Was this the reason he was spared? Was he destined to reunite with Calleigh at this precise moment in her life? What role did he have to play? He just couldn't figure it out. 
He placed a tender kiss on her forehead, then wrapped her in a comforting embrace. He could sense her exhaustion. "Princess," he murmured into her hair, "I want to take care of you." He ran soothing circles on her back. "Why don't you go take a nice hot shower? I'll make us something to eat. How does that sound?"
Longing to spend some quiet time with her in front of the TV before bed, he savored every moment. Knowing Jack could return any day, he wanted to make the most of their time together.
Calleigh felt safe and cared for in his embrace, and she almost didn't want to let go. She was almost afraid to speak, worried this was all a dream and the slightest sound would wake her. "Mmmmhmm," she murmured, secretly hoping he would suggest they shower together. She had seen it in movies and thought it looked so romantic. She wanted that, longing to experience it. She always thought it seemed so...sexy, the way they embraced under the running water. But she lacked the confidence and right words to ask him herself - she had to wait for him to suggest it. "Why are you so good to me?" she faltered, knowing the shower idea would have to wait. She was too afraid of being rejected. And deep down, she felt she didn't deserve such treatment. If Brock knew... No, she couldn't go there, not yet.
The question caught Brock off guard. He wondered if Peter had been right, if Calleigh had really changed. Maybe he should keep a closer eye on her. His heart raced at the prospect as he pulled back to look into her eyes. "Because I love you," he said, tenderly running his thumb over her bottom lip. He yearned to lean in for a kiss, but decided to wait until after her shower. If he kissed her now, he wouldn't be able to stop, and she needed to wash the day off. "Now go shower, I'll take care of everything," he informed her. He felt a bit like he was taking on a fatherly role, but somehow he sensed that that's what she needed right now.
    •─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Calleigh let the warm water cascade over her face, her mind racing as she tried to figure out where this evening might lead. The night before had awakened something in her—a more confident version of herself that was eager to explore. But even with that newfound confidence, she still wasn’t sure where to start. Would they sleep together again? Would they try something new? The questions swirled in her mind, making her heart race just a little faster.
She thought back to Jess’s advice. Her best friend always seemed so straightforward when it came to these things, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just touch it,” Jess’s voice echoed in her head. Calleigh cringed slightly at the thought. Jess could pull that off without a second thought, but Calleigh? She wasn’t so sure. After all, last night had been a blur of nervous energy. Even though they’d been together, it still felt like a huge leap to just… reach out like that.
Maybe if he undresses first, she thought, trying to rationalize her nerves. But even then, would it feel weird? What exactly was she supposed to do? She knew the basics, of course—she wasn’t clueless—but the specifics still seemed out of reach, as if there was some secret she hadn’t been let in on yet.
Her thoughts wandered to the way he’d undressed the night before. She had been too caught up in her own anxiety to notice much. What if it still hurts? she wondered, biting her lip. Should she try something different this time? Maybe a blow job? The idea made her pulse quicken, but the uncertainty of it all left her second-guessing herself. She wasn’t even sure of his full size—she hadn’t dared to take a closer look, too nervous and wrapped up in her own thoughts.
Without realizing it, Calleigh lifted her hand, trying to estimate his size in her palm. She felt ridiculous, but curiosity mixed with anxiety made it hard to stop. “God, this is stupid, Calleigh,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. Still, she couldn’t help but imagine it, her fingers flexing slightly as she tried to picture the moment.
Control. That’s what this was really about, wasn’t it? She wasn’t used to taking charge of her own life. From school to work to her move to New York, it had always been other people’s decisions that had steered her. Now, standing under the warm shower spray, she realized just how much of her life had been shaped by others. Why hadn’t I ever learned to take the reins? she wondered, feeling a pang of frustration. This was her life—shouldn’t she be the one deciding how things go?
The thought lingered as she turned off the water and wrapped herself in a towel. Maybe tonight, she’d take that first step. Maybe she’d stop overthinking and start embracing the confidence she’d discovered. Or maybe she’d still be a little nervous, and that would be okay too.
For the first time in a long time, Calleigh felt like she was on the brink of something new—something entirely hers.
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Brock was happy that Calleigh seemed to be taking her time in the shower. He meticulously set up the table for their romantic evening in front of the TV. He had ordered Chinese food, placed some candles, then decided the candles were too much and removed them, not wanting to scare Calleigh or make her feel he expected anything from the night. While he couldn't deny he wanted to repeat the previous night's events, he was determined not to push her in any way.
Placing pillows and blankets on the couch, he kept rearranging them, acting like a nervous teenager preparing for a first date. He was nervous about this thing with Calleigh - nervous to act on his feelings, yet nervous not to. He was nervous about Jack finding out, or not finding out. He was nervous about everything.
Opening the fridge, debating wine or a soft drink. Reaching for the wine, he hesitated, worried that might be an invitation or put pressure on Calleigh, since she was only 20 (even if she'd be 21 in six months). He decided on a soft drink, though a glass of wine might have calmed his nerves.
After setting the drinks on the table, he grabbed Calleigh's bag from the couch to put it on a kitchen stool for her. In his nervous state, he failed to notice the bag was open, and the contents spilled out onto the floor. "Shit," he muttered, leaning down to gather the papers, hoping he hadn't messed anything up for her.
Among the papers, he spotted Jess' sketch. Furrowing his brow, he took a closer look, his heart racing as memories and horror flooded his mind. The image came to life - bushy brown brows, deep blue eyes, shorter hair and rugged facial hair. "Duke?" He breathed, overcome with surprise and dread.
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IRAQ NOVEMBER 2003
The barracks were stifling, even with the sun dipping below the horizon. Dust clung to everything: gear, boots, and the soldiers themselves, who’d long since grown used to the ever-present grit of the Iraqi desert. The air hung thick with the mingling smells of sweat, dirt, and the lingering scent of gun oil. Jack lounged back on his cot, idly flipping through a worn deck of cards, while Brock, methodically cleaned his rifle with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times before.
Nearby, Jonas Barnes, new to their unit but already proving his mettle, was focused on packing his gear for the next day’s mission. His movements were careful and precise, the kind that came from a mix of habit and the need to control what little he could in a place like this. Jack’s eyes wandered to the uniform shirt in Jonas’s hands, the one with “J.B.B.” stitched neatly above the pocket. A smirk tugged at his lips as he decided to break the comfortable silence.
“Barnes, what’s your middle name?” Jack asked, leaning forward just enough to catch Jonas’s reaction.
Jonas glanced up, momentarily caught off guard by the question. “Buchanan,” he replied, his tone laced with curiosity. “Why?”
Brock, pausing mid-clean, raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief. “The fuck kinda middle name is Buchanan? Sounds like he belongs at your country club, Rollins.”
Jack rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face. “First off, fuck you, Rumlow—”
“It’s a family name, you fuck face,” Jonas interjected, zipping up his pack with a hint of annoyance, though there was a playful edge to his voice.
Brock tossed his cleaning rag aside, leaning back on his cot as a smirk crept across his face. “From where, England?”
Jack seized the moment, straightening up with exaggerated pomp. “Duke Jonas Buchanan Barnes,” he announced with mock formality, as if introducing royalty.
Jonas paused, his hands hovering over his gear as he let out a groan, already knowing this nickname was going to stick. “…That’s not going away anytime soon, is it?”
“Ha! Duke,” Brock exclaimed, slapping his knee with delight, clearly pleased with the new moniker.
“Yeah, you better get used to it, Duke,” Jack added with a chuckle, setting his cards aside to fully enjoy the moment.
Jonas shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Great. Just what I needed. A fancy-ass nickname in the middle of a sandbox.”
Brock adopted a mock posh accent, raising an imaginary glass of champagne. “Careful, Duke, don’t get your monocle dirty in the sand.”
Jack laughed, shuffling the deck again. “You know we’re never letting this go, right?”
Jonas sighed, the weight of the nickname settling in, but the lightness in his tone betrayed his amusement. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Just don’t expect me to start sipping tea with my pinky up.”
“Nah,” Brock grinned, “but maybe we’ll get you a nice little crown to wear under your helmet.”
Jonas snorted, trying—and failing—to hide his amusement. “You two are assholes, you know that?”
Jack winked, leaning back against the wall. “We know, Duke. We know.”
The banter continued, bouncing back and forth between the three of them, the tension of their surroundings momentarily forgotten. In the dim light of the barracks, with the distant hum of a generator and the occasional thump of helicopters overhead, they found solace in the easy rhythm of jokes and insults. It was the kind of camaraderie that only soldiers in a war zone could truly understand—where a nickname like “Duke” became more than just a joke; it became a bond, a reminder that they had each other’s backs when it mattered most.
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After finishing their meal, Brock sank into the couch, feeling his heartbeat slow. He hoped the recent flashback would be the only one tonight, and that no further surprises would arise. He wasn't ready to confide his PTSD to Calleigh just yet, fearing that more memories could trigger a nightmare - an experience he didn't want her to witness so early in their relationship.
The deep couch easily accommodated them both. She nestled beside him, resting her head on his chest, to his pleasant surprise. Her delicate hand lay on his stomach, her warmth seeping through his shirt and igniting something within him, though he couldn't quite identify the feeling. 
Looking down at the top of Calleigh's head, Brock noticed her fresh, blonde hair still damp from the shower and smelling faintly of roses. She was a perfect blend of her parents - her mother's figure and blonde hair, her father's stature and eye color. Her personality, however, seemed to be a unique combination of both of them, with a calmness that he hadn't seen in either of her parents. The only time he'd witnessed her flustered or angry was in the aftermath of what had happened between them, and he was prepared to take full responsibility for that.
Calleigh, he thinks, as a faint smile tugs at his lips. Named after a character in C.S.I. Miami, the name was decided by Genevieve over Jack's objections, about a week and a half before their daughter was born. The moment he allows that thought to enter his mind, he realizes what a stupid idea that was. He can sense the impending flashback even before it unfolds in vivid detail in his head. Fuck, he thinks, desperately trying to keep his body relaxed and simply let the memory play out.
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IRAQ DECEMBER 1ST 2003
Jacks voice held a note of confusion, tinged with irritation. "Calleigh? You're going to name her Calleigh?"
Brock knew this could easily turn into another fight, like the ones that had become all too common in Jack and Genevieves Skype calls. Their relationship, if it could even be called that, had taken a hit after Jack decided to go to Iraq despite the fact that they were expecting.
A tense silence hung in the air as Brock waited to see how this would play out.
Genevieve took a deep breath and questioned Jack in a firm, pregnant tone, "What, you don't like it?" She knew this maternal attitude usually made Jack give in. "Brock, what do you think?" she continued.
Desperate to figure out what to do, Jack glanced up at Brock, who stood behind the screen. Brock's presence was meant to calm Jack, but he had neither the desire nor the competence to act as a therapist for the two of them. "What... err, what makes you think Brock is here?" Jack asked, but the look on Genevieve's face told him he had already lost the argument.
Exasperated, she huffed, "Oh, come on. We all know he's there." Raising her voice, she commanded, "Brock, show yourself!" Her demand prompted Brock to move, allowing her to see him. 
He raised his hand in a tentative greeting as he addressed the screen. "Hi, Gen," he muttered. Aware that he would need to draw upon all his political expertise to make this work, he asked, "How are you?" in a futile attempt to defuse the tension. 
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Calleigh's gentle touch on his bare skin snapped him out of the traumatic memories clouding his mind. He let out a relieved sigh, encouraging her to continue the intimate moment and expressing his gratitude. But the intrusive flashbacks wouldn't subside. Why now, when this was supposed to be their private, peaceful evening - not one marred by the resurfacing of his PTSD? 
Tracing the edge of his boxers with her fingertips, she felt tempted to explore further. Despite her longing to feel him fully, something held her back. Brock's distracted, tense demeanor made her uneasy, and she realized she actually knew very little about this man, which struck her as strange given their lifelong acquaintance. 
Brock swallowed hard, trying to focus on the scent of roses coming from Calleighs hair, as a new wave of memories washed over him.
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IRAQ DECEMBER 12TH 2003
The dust filled the air around their boots and camouflage pants as yelling and laughter filled the makeshift soccer field the soldiers had set up for recreation. This rare moment of pure happiness provided a much-needed respite from the grim realities they faced daily. Here, they could momentarily forget the ever-present threat of injury or death and focus solely on the game. But Brock found it increasingly difficult to get used to losing friends, a common occurrence in this war-torn place. He desperately longed for good news, for something - anything - that could help him escape this reality, if only for a brief moment. 
The sight of an ecstatic Jack filled Brock with a newfound sense of happiness. "She's here!" Jack exclaimed, excitedly pointing at his phone. "She's finally here!" he continued, barely able to contain his excitement as he nearly jumped up and down. The joyous smile on his face said it all - Jack had become a father, and Brock couldn't wait to be a part of this momentous occasion. 
Jack beams with joy as he shows Brock a picture of his newborn daughter, Calleigh Lewis Rollins, sleeping peacefully in her mother's arms. "4.42 this morning, Texas time," he says, rattling off the vital statistics - "Ten fingers, ten toes. 5 pounds 11 ounces and 19 inches." Genevieve looks tired but absolutely radiant with happiness. Brock can scarcely believe that his 20-year-old friend has just become a father, the smile on Jack's face so wide it seems his lips might tear. 
Brock addressed the group playing soccer. "Jack just became a father!" he announced, feeling this was a special, friendly moment that could make even the hardest soldier feel homesick. Today, Jack was simply Jack, not ‘Private Rollins.’
Jack showed Brock yet another picture, instructing, "Look at her." His voice brimmed with joy and pride as he declared, "She's perfect." Gripped by the image on his phone, Jack vowed, "I swear, I'll spend the rest of my life making sure she's safe."
Brock studied the photo, then met his friend's gaze. "You stay alive for her, you hear!" His calm tone belied the gravity of his message - they now had another life to live for, another reason to return home.
Tearing his eyes from the screen, Jack acknowledged Brock's words. "You too," he said firmly, the unspoken implication clear: if he didn't make it, Brock would need to.
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Brock swallowed, dragging his hand over his face. He'd forgotten that day. How he had felt. How he was on the verge of breaking down, giving up. In a way Calleigh had save him too, when she decided that she wanted to be born on that exact day. He never thought about that before. He chuckles a bit at himself for forgetting that beautiful moment, but remembering all the horrific ones. 
Calleigh startled slightly at his chuckle, her hand instinctively moving higher up his chest, tugging his shirt and exposing his toned abdomen. Unable to resist, she admired his chiseled six-pack - the kind seen on the silver screen. Her gaze drifted lower, lingering on the waistband of his boxers peeking out over his belt. Emboldened, she trailed her fingers down his abs, feeling the defined muscles. Impulsively, she placed a delicate kiss on his lower stomach, surprising even herself with this newfound confidence. Slowly, she slipped her fingertips beneath the edge of his boxers, conveying her desire for him.
Her warm breath caressed his abdomen as her soft lips and delicate fingertips traced his skin, sending shivers down his spine. He pulled her closer, pressing his hand firmly against her back. "Upstairs?" he breathed, hoping that a more intimate connection would help dispel the intrusive memories. 
A smile spread across her lips as warmth blossomed within her, elicited by his question. "I thought you'd never ask," she purred, her fingertips tracing delicate patterns across his lower abdomen. 
  •─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
AFGHANISTAN OCTOBER 2008
Jack's voice cut through the thick tension in the military van as it rumbled through the Afghan roads. "I swear, Brock, this is my last tour," he said. Things had gone from bad to worse lately, and now they were out in the open, vulnerable for attack.
Brock glanced over at his best friend. "You've said that for the last two tours, Jack," he replied, then shifted his eyes to Miles Parker, the new addition to their team. The 18-year-old blonde from Massachusetts shared a similar background to Brock's, and they were both there to make some extra money and see the world. As Miles had said, this was probably his only chance to ever travel overseas.
"Don't worry, Parker," Brock said, sending Miles a reassuring smile, trying to calm him down. "It's not as bad as he says.” 
Jack let out a heavy sigh, his hand resting on the left pocket of his jacket. Jonas mirrored the gesture, then asked, "How old is she now, Rollins?" as his gaze shifted from his own pocket to Jack.
With a heavy sigh, Jack lamented, "She'll be five in December. Five years old, and she hardly knows me." His voice dripped with disappointment and a sadness that Brock couldn't quite place. Was Jack simply missing his young daughter, or was there something deeper troubling him? Perhaps it was time for Jack to reconsider his military career and focus on reconnecting with his family. 
Jonas continued the conversation, his voice firm. "Want to talk about not knowing your kid? Bucky just turned thirteen - a teenager - and I wasn't even there for his birthday." He paused, then continued, "But I survived tours before he was born, and I've survived tours after he was born. We always come home to them, Rollins." His tone shifted to a more friendly cadence as he gave Jack a friendly bump on the knee. "They are what keeps us alive out here.” 
Brock felt the knot of nervousness tightening in his stomach. This exposed area offered little cover - they were vulnerable to attack at any moment. "Focus on the mission," he commanded his comrades, his voice tense. "Don't let us all get killed out here." Scanning their surroundings warily, Brock prayed this harrowing day would soon end, so they could depart this war-ravaged place within two months' time. Privately, he wondered if he would ever have the heart to leave home again. 
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Lips locked in a desperate, needy kiss, they stumbled toward Calleigh's room, too impatient to make it to the guest room. Her hands glided up his sides, pulling his shirt off as he quickly returned the favor. Crashing together again, she moaned against his lips, "The bed.” 
Her suggestion elicited a needy, almost desperate response within him. Had she taken control? He was caught off guard by her newfound confidence, and part of him questioned whether this was truly what she desired or if she was simply trying to please him. Regardless, he obeyed her command and sat down on the bed. He would do anything she asked, even if that meant stripping naked and dancing the Macarena - he would comply, all for her. 
Oh God, why did she say that? Yes, she wanted him on the bed, in bed with her. But she had no idea how to follow up on what she just said. What would Jess do? She thought. Desperately trying to channel her inner Jess. What. Would. Jess. Do? She felt her inner voice scream inside her head. Unsure she took a step towards him, then another, and another. Suddenly, and without her even thinking about it, she straddled him. Their gazes met intently as her hands glided up his toned abdomen to caress his pecs. With a subtle pressure, she signaled for him to lie back. This newfound confidence surprised her, but she was determined to embrace it fully. 
Transfixed, he never broke eye contact as he slowly lowered himself onto his back, surrendering control to her with a quiet resolve. He tried to anchor himself in the present, to let her touch pull him away from the dark places his mind kept slipping into. But every time he shut his eyes, the image of that sketch of Jonas Barnes flashed behind his eyelids—lines and shadows that brought back a rush of memories he’d tried so hard to bury. Memories of laughter, of trust, of promises made in a desert far from here, and of a friendship cut short.
He willed himself to focus on her, to feel the warmth of her hands against his skin, but his mind kept drifting. The past was a powerful tide, pulling him back to a time and place that felt all too real. Was Jonas smiling in that sketch? Or was it the haunted look Brock knew so well? He couldn’t quite remember, but the details clawed at him, demanding attention he wasn’t ready to give. The fear, the guilt, and the what-ifs pressed against his chest, threatening to drown out the moment. Brock’s breath hitched; his gaze flickered, his thoughts slipping further away.
She noticed his tense posture the instant she stepped out of the shower, steam still curling off her damp skin. A flicker of concern crossed her mind. Was he nervous? The thought seemed absurd; surely, he had been here countless times before, with other women, under different circumstances. She could sense him pulling away, his mind somewhere else. Was he lost in his own head, or was it just her insecurities whispering that she wasn’t enough to keep him here, now?
Deciding his tension was likely about Jack or something else beyond her control, she leaned in and pressed her lips softly against his collarbone, her breath warm against his skin. She moved lower, letting her lips ghost across his chest, each kiss slow and deliberate, a silent promise that she was there, fully present with him. “Relax,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing. “I’m not going to…” Her words trailed off as her eyes fell on a scar marring his abdomen, a faded line that told a story she hadn’t been privy to.
The sight of it hit her harder than she expected, a wave of protectiveness swelling within her. Gently, she traced the scar with her fingertips, feeling the uneven texture beneath her touch. His breath hitched, her touch pulling him back from the brink of dissociation. “Hurt you,” she whispered, grounding him with each word, each touch.
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AFGHANISTAN OCTOBER 2008
Brock blinked, and suddenly, he was back in Afghanistan. The sounds of the present faded as the vivid memory yanked him under, transporting him to that narrow valley where bullets tore through the air, striking dirt and concrete around him. Plumes of dust and debris flew in all directions, and the relentless sound of gunfire echoed, mingling with the frantic shouts of soldiers trying to find cover. Brock’s heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins, drowning out the fear clawing at the edges of his mind. All he could think about was keeping his men alive.
Explosions boomed nearby, shaking the ground beneath his feet as he ducked behind a crumbling wall. Dirt stung his face, and the acrid smell of gunpowder burned his nose. Brock squinted through the haze, trying to identify where the enemy fire was coming from, but all he could see were shadows darting between the rocks and flashes of light from muzzles. He aimed blindly, squeezing off rounds just to keep the enemy at bay.
Duke’s face, streaked with sweat and dirt, scanned the chaotic scene, making sure his team was in position. “Stay low and keep firing!” he barked, his voice hoarse but commanding, cutting through the chaos. He fired off another burst from his rifle, barely flinching as bullets zipped past his head. Every instinct told him to keep moving, to keep his men engaged, to keep them alive.
“RPG!” someone screamed, the warning tearing through the noise. Brock’s head snapped up just in time to see a trail of smoke streaking through the air, heading straight for their position. The distinctive whooshing sound grew louder, and panic surged through his chest.
“Take cov—” Duke began to shout, but his voice was swallowed by the deafening explosion. The world around Brock erupted into blinding light and shrapnel. Brock was knocked back, his breath ripped from his lungs as he hit the ground. The last thing he saw was Duke’s wide-eyed expression, a mix of determination and fear, before everything went dark.
   •─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
When Brock’s eyes refocused, he was back in the present, heart racing, chest tight as if he were still struggling to catch his breath. The memory lingered, raw and unyielding, the image of Duke and the moment of their last stand haunting him, refusing to let go. 
Calleigh's lips trailed across his lower abdomen, her soft kisses igniting his senses. "Princess," he breathed, desperate for her touch to keep him grounded in the moment.
The three words she longed to say remained trapped in the back of her throat, refusing to surface. She couldn't fathom why words had suddenly become so difficult to express. Dismissing that puzzlement, she placed another gentle kiss along the waistline of his jeans, then methodically began to undo his belt. Her hands moved softly, carefully, yet decisively.
Fixated on her every move, he was terrified of slipping back into the dark recesses of his mind - those haunting memories he longed to forget. Yet the lingering thoughts persisted, rising relentlessly to the surface no matter how hard he tried to suppress them. They always found a way through the cracks in his consciousness. 
She felt a growing sense of nervousness. He seemed detached, and the lingering fear that it was because of her threatened to overwhelm her. Still, she pressed on, unbuttoning his jeans as her heart raced. This was it - she was about to see his most intimate parts. Anticipation built as she slowly pulled down his jeans, almost holding her breath. 
   •─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
AFGHANISTAN, OCTOBER 2008
Muffled sounds reached Brock’s ears as he slowly regained consciousness, the world around him blurred and distorted. Screams of pain, screams of fear, and the crackle of fire filled the air, but everything sounded distant, as if coming from underwater. He couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead, his mind foggy and disoriented. The relentless ringing in his ears drowned out everything else, leaving him in a muffled void. Brock forced his aching body to move, each motion slow and excruciating as he tried to make sense of the chaos around him.
Brock’s vision swam as he lifted his head, blinking against the smoke and dust that choked the air. The scene before him was a nightmare—body parts, blood, and the twisted remains of their vehicle scattered in a gruesome pattern across the dirt. Flames licked at the wreckage, casting eerie shadows that danced in the haze. A wave of dread washed over him, icy and suffocating. Was he the only one left? The thought clawed at his chest, and panic threatened to take hold as he scanned the carnage, desperate for any sign of life.
His eyes landed on a familiar sight—Miles’ blonde hair, matted with blood and dirt, the bright strands stark against the darkening ground. Brock’s stomach twisted. He pushed himself forward, his own injuries forgotten, driven by sheer instinct. He stumbled over debris, his boots crunching against shards of metal and glass, until he reached Miles. Brock dropped to his knees, his breath hitching as he took in the full horror of what the explosion had done. Miles’ lower body was nearly gone, torn apart by the blast. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the dust, painting the earth in dark, wet stains.
A choked gasp escaped Miles’ lips, his eyes wild with terror. “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die,” he pleaded, his voice weak and trembling, barely a whisper above the crackle of flames. “Mom…” The word came out broken, filled with the raw, desperate fear of someone too young to face what was happening.
Brock’s mind raced, every training instinct screaming at him to do something, anything, but he was paralyzed by the sheer helplessness of it all. He forced himself to stay composed, to speak in the calmest tone he could muster, even though his heart was breaking. “You’re going to be fine, Parker,” he lied, his voice thick with the effort of keeping it steady. “It’s not that bad, buddy. You’re going to go home to Massachusetts, and you’re going to propose to that beautiful girl of yours, remember? Just hold on.”
But even as he spoke, Brock knew the truth, could feel it deep in his bones. Miles was already gone; his eyes were glassy, his breaths shallow and ragged, each one more labored than the last. Brock’s words were a futile comfort, a thin thread of hope that Miles would never get to grasp. The young soldier’s mind just hadn’t caught up to his body, not yet, and all Brock could do was be there in these final moments, helpless to stop the inevitable.
    •─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Calleigh ran her palm over the bulge in his boxer briefs, her breath catching at his size. Though she had no basis for comparison, she could tell he was well-endowed. She wavered between finding it intoxicating and intimidating - perhaps a bit of both. Should she remove his underwear? She felt foolish, yet he made no move to stop her. Did he want her to continue? It was hard to know, as he remained silent and still.
Brock, she pleaded silently. Give me a sign. Do something. Say something.
His lover's gentle touch snapped him back to reality, igniting a primal desire he'd never experienced. A soft moan escaped as he slipped his thumbs under the waistband, then hesitated. What if she wasn't ready? He shouldn't push; he'd let her take the lead. He was desperate to feel her, to stay grounded in the moment.
To Calleigh's relief, his thumbs' movement signaled her to proceed. She followed suit, slowly removing the last of his clothes and revealing his impressive manhood. A thick, neatly-trimmed base, his shaft resting slightly to the left on his lower abdomen. She'd seen photos before, but nothing prepared her for the sight of an actual penis in the flesh. This was something else entirely. 
Her hand trembled as she reached for him, closing her fingers around his shaft. She felt the warmth and weight of his flesh, and began stroking him slowly, cautiously. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recalled reading that the testicles were often overlooked during foreplay. Without hesitation, she moved her other hand to gently caress them, savoring the soft texture under her palm.
The sensation of her touch sent electric jolts through his body. "Ahh," he moaned, and then, unable to resist, he closed his eyes.
   •─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
AFGHANISTAN OCTOBER 2008
Fear gripped him as Miles went limp in his lap, the young soldier’s life slipping away like sand through his fingers. Brock’s chest tightened, panic threatening to paralyze him. But he knew he couldn’t afford to stop moving—not yet. Even if he was the only one left, he had to check on the others. He had to get out of here. A memory flashed in his mind, of home, of a time when things were simpler. He remembered a line from a TV show he used to watch with his sister: “For five seconds, I let the panic take over, but only for five seconds.”
He closed his eyes, inhaling shakily as he forced himself to count.
1…. 2…. 3…. 4…. 5.
When he opened his eyes again, the horror hadn’t faded—it was just more focused, sharper, cutting deeper. The sight before him was gut-wrenching. Bodies and pieces of men who had been his comrades, his brothers, were strewn across the battlefield in a grotesque tableau. Lives, hopes, futures—shattered and scattered like debris. He could barely recognize any of them. Why was he the one left intact? He couldn’t be the only one. He refused to believe it.
Nausea churned in his stomach as his eyes landed on Duke, motionless just a few steps away. Brock’s breath hitched in his throat. *Please, God. Let him be alive.* Clenching his jaw against the pain that shot through his own body, Brock gently laid Miles down, whispering a shaky apology before closing his eyes. He couldn’t let himself break now. Not yet.
He crawled toward Duke, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through his battered limbs, but he pushed it aside. The physical hurt was nothing compared to the ache tightening in his chest. “Sarge?” he croaked, his voice cracking as he reached Duke’s side, placing trembling hands on the sergeant’s body. He frantically searched for a pulse, any sign of life.
Nothing.
“Sarge!” Brock’s voice rose in desperation, shaking as he grabbed Duke’s uniform, his hands curling into the fabric like it could somehow bring him back. Jonas “Duke” Barnes was gone. The reality hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. His vision blurred as tears stung his eyes. “No… no, no, no, Duke, please. You can’t be gone,” he whispered, his voice raw, filled with a hopeless plea. He blinked, trying to clear his sight, but the tears only came faster.
Thirteen-year-old Bucky—Duke’s son. The thought hit Brock with brutal force, and his heart shattered. That kid—just a boy—would never see his father come home. Would never hear his laugh or feel his rough hand ruffle his hair. He would never get to say goodbye. Bucky was going to have to grow up without a father, and the guilt that settled in Brock’s chest was suffocating. *Why him? Why Duke?*
“I’m so sorry, Duke,” Brock whispered, his voice breaking as he gently laid him back down. His throat tightened, choking on the grief that was too much to bear. How many more lives would he have to leave behind?
Brock slumped beside Duke, his whole body wracked with grief and pain. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going. But he knew he had to—for Duke, for Miles, for all of them. If he didn’t make it out, their deaths would be for nothing. He had to live. Even though the weight of their loss was crushing, he had to keep moving.
   •─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Her gentle touch brought him back to the present moment. Had she noticed his troubled demeanor? Did she feel scared? Everything was so tangled and messy. His flashbacks threatened to pull him into an abyss of grief, loss, and pain. And then there was Calleigh - Jack's daughter, the forbidden fruit he had tasted and now craved. How had he ended up in this situation? He should have stopped this before it went too far. Yet he couldn't - it felt so illicit to be with her, to have these primal feelings. He knew he was in too deep, that there was no easy way out. He had to see this through, even if it meant sacrificing his friendship with Jack. 
Leaning in, her heart pounded against her ribs as she slowly closed her lips over his cock. Unsure of what to do, she decided to do her best, figuring there couldn't be that many ways to go about it. Wrapping one hand around his shaft, she began to bob her head, carefully pressing her lips together around him. 
Brock was surprised by the intensity of his body's reaction to her touch. He'd had sex before and knew that primal hunger, but this was different - a want and need unlike anything he'd experienced. "Ahhh, fuck," he moaned, lifting his head to look at her. What was he doing? She was Jack's daughter, for fuck's sake. This was so wrong, yet somehow it felt so right. 
    •─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
AFGHANISTAN OCTOBER 2008
A fresh wave of nausea, pain, and dread washed over Brock as his eyes landed on Jack, lying flat on his back, half-hidden by a jagged rock just a few steps away. Please, please Jack, you gotta be alive. Every ounce of strength Brock had left was channeled into moving toward his best friend. “Jack?” His voice cracked, barely holding together as he called out. Panic surged through him. What would he tell Jack’s parents? How could he possibly explain to Gen, or to five-year-old Calleigh, that her father wasn’t coming home?
A million worst-case scenarios flashed before him as he crawled closer.
Jack was breathing, but barely. His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored movements, and blood poured from a shrapnel wound that stretched from his right cheek, across his face, to his lip. The skin looked like it had been ripped apart, exposing raw flesh. But he was alive. His eyes—wide with panic—darted around, unfocused but open. Thank God.
“Jack!” Brock exhaled the words, relief washing over him. He wasn’t the only one left. His friend was still breathing. “Medic!” he screamed, though in the pit of his stomach, he knew the chances of one being nearby were slim. But in that moment, he made a promise. No matter what happened, he was going to get them both out of there. He’d carry Jack on his back if he had to, but Jack was going home. “Medic!” Brock yelled again, the desperation tearing through him. *Please God, just this once…*
A low grunt escaped Jack’s torn lips. Brock’s eyes snapped down to his friend, and he saw Jack’s eyelids fluttering, heavy with exhaustion. “No! Jack, don’t close your eyes! Don’t you dare close your eyes, you hear me?” Brock’s voice was raw, his throat aching with the effort to keep shouting. He couldn’t let Jack slip away. “You have a daughter waiting for you at home,” he pleaded, desperation thick in his voice. He needed to keep Jack conscious, keep him holding on.
But Jack’s eyelids kept fluttering, each blink slower than the last, his body surrendering to the immense blood loss and shock. Brock’s heart pounded harder as fear took hold. “No, no, no! JACK! JACK! WHERE’S MY FUCKING MEDIC?!”
*Please, God, I swear I’ll never ask you for anything ever again if you just help me now…*
“What do you need?” A voice broke through the chaos, sharp and urgent.
Brock didn’t register it at first, the panic fogging his mind. “Rumlow, what do you need?” the voice repeated, louder this time, cutting through the noise.
    •─────────•°•❀•°•─────────•
Brock swallowed hard as the memories of Afghanistan and his journey home flashed before his eyes, like an end-credits sequence offering a strange form of redemption - a 'happy ending' to an otherwise traumatic experience. He had fulfilled his promise, never once asking God for anything since that fateful day, not even in his darkest moments with Taylor. But now, Brock felt he was betraying Jack's memory, undoing the very life he had saved. 
Calleigh looked up at him, her lashes fluttering nervously. She was scared that she was doing this wrong, and that he wasn't enjoying it. Scared that he had finally admitted to himself that they would never work. Scared that he had decided they could work after all. Her thoughts were jumbled, and she couldn't distinguish right from wrong or good from bad. What was the right course of action here? The advice from movies was always to follow your heart, but which path should she follow? The one that told her to be with Brock? Or the one that warned her not to betray her father? 
Brock took a deep breath as memories flooded his mind - memories of how nervous Jack had been to return home with that nasty scar on his face, and how worried he was that Calleigh would be scared of him. Brock recalled how Jack had then lifted the 5-year-old Calleigh into his arms, and how her small hand had carefully touched his scar before she wrapped her little arms around him in a tight hug.
But Brock couldn't reconcile those tender memories with the reality now before him - the fact that Calleigh's lips were wrapped around his own cock. It felt horribly wrong.
"Come here," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "I want to hold you." He needed her scent to ground him, to keep the nightmares at bay as they fell asleep.
Calleigh wasn't surprised that he'd stopped her. He'd been on edge all evening, and she obviously wasn't the best distraction from whatever was troubling him. Her first-ever attempt at a blowjob had gone disastrously wrong. As she nestled next to him, she tried to take comfort in the fact that at least he wanted to hold her now, as his strong arm gently enveloped her.
"Was I doing it wrong?" She whispered, the words leaving her mouth before she could stop them. A low sniff, barely audible yet loud enough for him to hear, followed. This was just stupid. She was a grown woman, or at least she wanted to be, and yet here she was, crying over a stupid blow job. What was wrong with her?
Brock shifted slightly behind her. "Princess," he breathed into her shoulder blade, before placing a soft kiss there. "You did everything right," he continued, hoping to convince her without having to tell her everything.
Calleigh took a deep breath. "You sure?" she questioned, having already started this conversation, so she might as well finish it.
Another soft kiss, this time closer to her neck. "I would never lie to you," he murmured. "I'm just tired," he continued, his voice soft and sleepy. "And I... I need to hold you tonight," he finished, placing another gentle kiss on her neck. 
She murmured an indistinct agreement as she moved closer to him. It wasn't that she doubted his words; rather, her own inexperience with intimacy left her feeling uncertain and self-conscious. No, she didn't want to dwell on that now - not tonight. 
Brock breathed in deeply, intoxicated by the floral fragrance of Calleigh's hair. Comforted by her presence, he knew he would sleep soundly through the night. Calleigh's companionship shielded him from any disturbances.
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shinyasahalo · 4 months ago
Video
youtube
Greater Israel Explained: The Israeli Plan to Conquer the Arab World.
The video also debunks the idea that the Middle East is naturally sectarian, or “tribalistic,” which is given as an explanation by liberal academic authors like Mark S. Weiner about why democracy can’t thrive outside of Israel.  
That explanation would also allow neoconservatives and liberals to say that any communism in the Middle East is from Russia, because people in the Middle East can’t think for themselves.  
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