#Military!Harrison

[taepomme]

So let me introduce to you the one and only…

[clove-pinks]

I'm going to need some kind of expert on Freaky Hairstyles of the 18th Century to weigh in on this one (which is why I'm turning to my tumblr pals).

I thought this portrait of a young William Henry Harrison was c. 1790s but the National Gallery of Art dates it 1800. (It may still depict a slightly younger Harrison, since he left the US military in 1798 and this look screams military).

Anywho—WHAT is happening to his hair? I have seen mullet-like late 18thc. men's styles that pair shorter fringe/top with more length in back: but not this part well behind his ears that attaches a long braided queue to the back of his head?? It looks almost like a French braid going up the back of his head, I'm not sure how it's secured (ribbons? hair pins?)

[girlpanthera]

When I'm not a beatles freak, I'm collecting military memorabilia. Just got my M1970 helmet in today tomorrow my John lennon hair pin is coming....so diverse

[wealmostaneckbeard]

I want a NATOwave style music video for Harrison Armory so bad

Sort of like this one:

I want to see a Saladin defending troops from cluster munitions.

A Genghis drowning an enemy mech in flames in close quarters

A Barbarossa emerging from a hollowed out asteroid and nailing an enemy spaceship.

That would be so fucking cool.

[faofinn]

14. ‘‘I shouldn’t be worried about you, but for some reason I am’’ 

Fao had been working flat out. Surgical training was no joke, the hours were long and the shifts gruelling. He wasn’t long back from his first tour, which had been amazing, but tiring, and now he was back to the rigours of the wards in Birmingham. 

He’d not slept much that night, struggling with the changeover from night shifts to days, and he was looking forwards to getting home and to his bed. But that was a distant prospect now, he had a shift to work, even if he was falling asleep into his handover sheet. 

He had a headache brewing, and had just rested his head on the desk for a second, just to breathe, that was all. 

“Blackwood!” 

The shout startled him, sitting up quickly. He must’ve dozed off. Shit. 

A glance at his phone told him he was ten minutes late to the morning handover. Well, that was why he was being yelled at then. 

“Sorry, Sir.” He said quickly, grabbing his stuff. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” 

He managed to get through his meeting, though it was a struggle, and then it was straight to theatres. A mix of military and civilian patients, it certainly kept him busy, and he was shattered by the time it got to his break. He slipped out for a smoke, but it didn’t really help the headache, and he swung by the emergency department on his way back in to grab some chocolate, hoping that might help, along with the energy drink he’d shoved in his locker. 

Harrison had been on shift when Fao passed through. He went to call over to him when he saw the state of him. His frown deepened, notes forgotten, he stood, padding over to Fao.

"Wolfie?"

“Mm? Hey, Tomcat.” Fao said softly. 

"You look like shit."

“Charming as ever.”

"Are you feeling alright?" He rested a hand on his arm.

“Yeah, just a headache, you know how it is.” He murmured. “Got a bollocking for nearly missing handover this morning and I’ve only just got out of theatre.”

"Come sit down with me?" Harrison couldn't shake the worry.

“I’ve not got long.”

"Yeah, I know."

“Five minutes, whilst I eat this chocolate.” He said, caving all too easily. 

"Good." He grinned, leading the way.

He followed Harrison tiredly, dragging a hand through his hair. If his head would just stop pounding, he could cope with the tiredness. But he could barely think straight. 

"I'm sure we've got a spare treatment room."

“I’m not that bad.” He grumbled. 

"I know." He lied. "Just for some peace."

“Staff room’s fine, it’s only five minutes.”

"Nah, come on. This way."

“I don’t need a treatment room.” He protested, but didn’t have the energy to argue. 

Harrison pushed open the door, hopping up onto the bed. "How's today been, then?"

“Busy.” He said with a sigh, sitting next to Harrison. He used his teeth to open his chocolate wrapper, before offering Hars a square. 

Harrison took it gratefully. "Thanks. You look like you've not slept in a week."

“I feel like it.” He murmured, breaking off a piece for himself. “I did the overnight on call all of last week and it was so busy it’s killed me off. Feel like I’ve not been able to get enough sleep in between shifts, and now I’ve changed to days and it’s just as busy.”

"Been dizzy?"

“Occasionally.” He admitted. “But sod off, I’m just dehydrated with low blood sugar, so’s half the hospital.”

Harrison hummed. "Sure, sure. And how bad is the headache?" 

“Like someone is hammering a nail into my brain.”

"Any visual changes?"

“Stop doctoring and let me be miserable for five minutes.” He grumbled, eating another piece of chocolate. 

"I need an answer." He nudged him, reaching to steal another square. "What about feeling sick?"

“No visual changes but my dyslexia’s worse because I’m tired.” He said, resting his head on Harrison’s shoulder. “Bit of nausea, but the sugar is helping.”

Harrison wrapped an arm around him. "Any auras?"

“Mm, no.”

"Anything else you're not telling me?"

“I just can’t think straight.” He admitted. “I need a holiday, for fuck’s sake.”

"Can I do a set of obs on you?"

“No, because if they’re shit I can’t go back to work and I need to go back to work because I’ve already gotten in the shit this morning.”

"All the more reason I want to do some."

“I told my consultant five minutes for a smoke and something to eat.”

"I'm worried about you." He admitted. "I shouldn’t be worried about you, but for some reason, I am."

“I’m fine, I’ve got a drink upstairs and I’ll sit and do some notes.”

"Please?"

“I should’ve gone to the vending machines outside theatres.” He huffed. “Fine. Make it quick.”

"You know we've got the best shit down here." He grinned, hopping off the bed. "I'll be quick. Sorry, the cuff's cold."

“I know, that’s why I came down. And it was on my way back.” He’d been hoping to bump into Harrison, admittedly, but not to be fussed over and bothered. He’d fancied five minutes to rant, that was all. “You’re not getting any more of my chocolate, though.” 

"Rude. I'll live."

He had another square, letting it melt in his mouth as Harrison fussed. His bleep hadn’t gone off yet, which was a relief, because the way it had been squealing at him all morning really hadn’t been helping things. “You better.”

"Mhmm." He hummed, watching the machine. "Can you stand up a sec for me?"

“I’m comfy.” He protested. 

"Please?"

“I know what you’re trying to do.” He complained, but stood up. His back was aching - his table hadn’t been high enough for his last case, and he was paying for it.

"Okay, you can sit." He pulled out his pen torch. "Stare at my nose, just gonna shine a light in your eyes."

Fao sat gratefully, ignoring how his head span. “No, c’mon, you said a set of obs, and I even went so far as to give you the standing BP. Enough, I need to go back to work.”

"No." Harrison was firm. "You're not. Not a chance."

“I’m tired and dehydrated, it can’t be that bad.”

"You're still not going back to work. I want you admitted."

“Leave off.” He protested. “I’ll go home, if you insist, but I don’t need admitting. It’s a headache.”

"Surely you'd feel better with some pain relief? Antiemetics? Please, it's for your own benefit."

“Chuck a couple of paracetamol at me and I’ll get Alex to take me home.”

"No." 

Fao was about to argue when his bleep went off, and he winced. “Time’s up, I need to get that.” He said, frowning at the number on the screen. 

Harrison pulled out his own phone, taking the bleep from Fao. "Yeah, I'm overruling you on that one."

“Tomcat!” He protested. “Let me call them back?”

"I said no." Harrison’s voice was uncharacteristically hard. "I'm calling them, you're gonna lie back on the bed and let me do my job."

He stepped back, deliberately out of Fao's reach, and dialled the number. Fao's observations weren't terrible, but they were enough to worry him, especially with how shit his friend looked. He didn't really care if Fao hated him for it; he couldn't, in good conscience, let him continue working when he was so obviously struggling so much. 

He huffed, but his headache was much too bad to really give too much protest. He wasn’t going after Harrison, at any rate. He shuffled his bum back on the bed, swung his legs up and kicked his shoes off, feeling better for it almost instantly, though he’d never admit it. Guilt flared, knowing he was supposed to be busy, but Harrison making decisions meant it had been taken somewhat out of his hands, which he appreciated. Leaning back against the back of the bed he let his eyes close, listening to Hars on the phone. 

"Hi, it's Dr Harrison from ED? No, you paged Blackwood, not me, that's right. Yeah, he's not coming back up, I'm admitting him." He kept his voice low, aware it wouldn't be helping Fao. "Honestly? You should be ashamed of yourself that you let him keep working. Anyone could see he wasn't well, I could tell a mile off. Go ahead, it's Harrison Cunningham, I don't care. Thanks, bye now."

“Harrison!” Fao hissed, reaching to throw a pillow at him. 

"Hey, you'll need that. It's a luxury around here." He teased, passing it back. "I'll go grab you a blanket and get you booked in, too. Then I'll send someone across and we'll get some treatment sorted, yeah?"

“You’re an ass.” 

"I know." There was a hint of pride behind his tone. 

Fao rolled his eyes, but tucked his pillow back under his head. “I should call them.”

Harrison laughed. "You sound like every drunk girl on a Saturday night. Get some rest."

“Get me a cup of tea?”

"Sir, yes, sir." He teased. "I'll be right back."

“If you’re gonna admit me you could at least get me a cup of tea. Might as well milk it.”

"Might as well make the most of it. Want me to call Alex? Sheila?"

“Don’t bother Sheila, but call Alex? You can doctor at her.”

"Alright, I'll do that while I'm getting your tea, yeah?" He said softly. "I'll send a nurse through."

“Thanks.” He said, rolling onto his front to bury his face in the pillow. 

Harrison hummed, shutting the door quietly behind him. He grabbed one of the nurses, smiling sweetly and apologising for the extra work. He then had the fun job of calling Alex, so scrolled through before pressing dial, heading to the staff room for the good tea.

Alex had been enjoying her day off, having taken the dog for a long walk that morning. Now he was napping, and she’d been watching some TV when her phone rang. She should’ve been studying, but of course she wasn’t, and she reached for her phone. 

“Harrison?” 

"I'm at work, you can't yell at me. But, I may have just admitted Fao?"

“I can definitely still yell at you. What’s happened? Is he okay?”

"He's got a migraine, don't think he's been sleeping. His obs aren't terrible, but honestly? He looks like shit. Got yelled at this morning, apparently, for falling asleep before handover. That's not like him."

“He didn’t sleep last night.” Alex agreed. “How bad is ‘not terrible’?”

"Fluids worthy but not resus?"

She sighed. “He’s such an ass. He’s been struggling for days with his sleep.”

"I'd say maybe he'd learn from this, but I know better."

“He definitely won’t. He needs to sort his mental health out again, keep an eye on him?”

"Don't we all?" He sighed. "You know I will. I'm just making him a cuppa, he's had some chocolate, but I'll get him something proper to eat."

“Thank you. Are you expecting to get him discharged in a couple of hours?”

"Depends how he behaves."

She laughed at that. “Yeah, true.”

"Are you wanting to come in?"

“If I can, yeah. I’ll kick his ass.”

"Cool, I'll let him know."

“Look after him, yeah? He’s trying to be a hard ass but he’s been really struggling.”

Harrison softened. "Of course I'll look after him. He's got me worried about him."

“Glad you’re looking out for him. I won’t be long, let him know I’m on my way.”

"I will. Drive safe."

“Always.” She murmured, and said her goodbyes before she hung up, grabbing some stuff for Fao.

When she arrived, he was on his side in the bed, though sipping the tea Harrison had brought him. He looked worse than he had done when he’d left the house that morning, but the smile he offered her as she appeared had her anger and worry evaporating like mist in the morning sun. 

“You daft shite.” She said, settling next to him and running a hand through his hair. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I know.” He murmured. “Sit wit’ me properly?”

She was always a soft touch for him, and so she settled on the bed properly. Fao sat up as she did so, putting his tea down, and then laid back down again, his head in her lap. They’d already given him antiemetics, and he had fluids running, which were making him feel better, but Alex there was certainly doing the hard work. Her fingers carding through his hair, he was asleep in minutes, warm and safe.

[moonwatchuniverse]

100 years ago... LtCmdr Rupert Gould best selling book 100 years ago, Royal Navy LtCmdr Rupert Gould (1890-1948) published his famous book " The Marine Chronometer " (preface December 1922 - 1923) but we didn't have to wait a century for a worthy reprint as in 2013 the ACC Antique Collectors' Club brought out their 365 pages version... and again in 2016. A truly amazing book with extra chapter full of great color photographs as both reprints almost sold out immediately. October 5th, 2023 will be the 75th anniversary of the passing of LtCmdr Rupert Gould, a Royal Navy officer who safed, cleaned and repaired John Harrison's Marine clocks, naming H1 to H5. More recommended reading: Time Restored: The Harrison Timekeepers and RT Gould, the man who knew (almost) everything (2006 Oxford Univ Press). (Photos: MWU & Nat Maritime Museum)

[airasilver]

I actually forgot I had these...until I found them in my shed, covered to keep safe.

[anclibrary]

Another day, another confusingly charming inscription from a Club member. This time, from a Marine Colonel via March to Saratoga, by Harrison Bird.

The title page reads:

“For “Maggie” Schaet

A souvenir of her visit to Bluff Head

From

Johnny

pen

Harrison Bird”

And the lining page reads:

“March 28, 1983

Note:

“Maggie” was “Maggie Cannoneers Lady”, a full bred English Bull Dog and faithful pet of my family from 1964 until 1976, when she died at Camp Lejeune. We loved her and she us; it was a tearful day for all of us when she died.

Johnny was “Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne,” a full bred English Bull Dog and sturdy pet of Harrison Bird at Halett’s Landing (Bluff Head) on Lake George, N.Y.

Maggie and Johnny met in the summer of 1968, while we were vacationing at Haletts between assignments in New York and Quantico. They had a great time.

Donald E. Schaet

Colonel USMC (Ret)”

[shotmrmiller]

ik i've heard of penpals with cod but like getting simon as your dedicated pal for say, college or something would be terrible.

at first he's reluctant. why would he talk to some civvie that hasn't a clue about what goes on in the world he lives in? probably thinks him a recruiter or something, not a man who has removed the skin off of another just for a name of an enemy.

john tells him to suck it up, it's not like it can kill him.

simon gets the letter and it's... entertaining. you write, almost illegibly, that you really don't want to do this, that if it wasn't such a hefty percent of your grade you wouldn't even have bothered.

nothing but a poor man fighting a rich man's war. like some puppet, manipulated by a more powerful force-- not a single decision nor thought your own.

interesting. he hasn't been talked down to like this since his days as a private. granted, if you knew what he looked like you would've probably swallowed your own tongue but that's neither here nor there.

he chuckles under his breath, and picks up the envelope.

the stamp has a waterfall on it and it says harrison wright falls.

american.

he writes that you're right. he's nothing but a muppet with a hand up his arse. but what's got you so upset over the military? not like you suffer the consequences sitting pretty in your cozy home. the hardest battle you've ever fought is a school project.

the letter you send back has him rumbling with laughter. you're furious. he can see one too many holes from where the pen tore through the paper in your rage, and some words you crossed out with a singular line.

listen, asshole, you falling for the UK military propaganda is not my fault. no one made you sign up, idiot.

you continue on about him being a murderer which he gives a small hum to because you've no idea how right you are. simon vaguely wonders if you'd still write him if you knew just how many necks he's snapped with his bare hands.

you're quite abrasive, a little spitfire that holds nothing back, and it makes him achingly curious to know just who you are.

he pulls up your info on his personal laptop, and can feel his cock stirring just from your driver's license photo alone.

cute. very cute. you look soft, kind. a gentle ㅤsmile graces your lips. he almost doubts that the person on his screen is you, but the signature on your license and the letters you've sent is the exact same.

so very interesting. steel concealed beneath velvet.

he taps his fingers on the surface of his desk as he gazes at your charming, lovely countenance. pretty as a peach.

his chair creaks under him as he reaches for a pen.

simon's kept all your letters, the paper worn and almost in tatters from the amount of times he's read them-- ink smudged from him running his bare fingertips over each hateful word.

he can't wait for next leave; simon's heard that ricketts glen state park is beautiful during the fall.

[sayruq]

Just days after US Army Major Harrison Mann resigned, the Biden administration has been hit with another major resignation, this time Lily Greenberg Call, special assistant to the Chief of Staff

An interior department staffer on Wednesday became the first Jewish political appointee to publicly resign in protest of US support for Israel’s war in Gaza.Lily Greenberg Call, a special assistant to the chief of staff in the interior department, accused Joe Biden of using Jews to justify US policy in the conflict. Call had worked for the presidential campaigns of both Biden and Kamala Harris, and was a longtime activist and advocate for Israel in Washington and elsewhere before joining the government. She is at least the fifth mid- or senior-level administration staffer to make public their resignation in protest of the Biden administration’s military and diplomatic support of the now seven-month Israeli war against Hamas. She is the second political appointee to do so, after an education department official of Palestinian heritage resigned in January.Her resignation letter described her excitement at joining an administration that she believed shared much of her vision for the country. “However, I can no longer in good conscience continue to represent this administration,” she wrote. In an interview with the Associated Press, Call pointed to comments by Biden, including at a White House Hanukkah event where he said “Were there no Israel, there wouldn’t be a Jew in the world who was safe” and at an event at Washington’s Holocaust Memorial last week in which he said the 7 October Hamas-led attacks that triggered the war were driven by an “ancient desire to wipe out the Jewish people”. “He is making Jews the face of the American war machine. And that is so deeply wrong,” she said, noting that ancestors of hers were killed by “state-sponsored violence”.

The resignation letter:

[vexwerewolf]

I’m suddenly getting swathes of Lancer hate across my feed… Has something happened in the fandom? “Union is ______ how could they paint them as even remotely good. They allow _____, and I hate the devs they are ______. The whole thing is just 40k with communist veneer”.

Like am I taking crazy pills…? I thought that all of the problems were literally like right there on the tin “we are a utopia in progress! We will obtain it by any means possible even if it means being everything we say we are not/fighting against. As the player you decide what is right. How much will you ignore for someone else’s idea of utopia?” Like doesn’t it mean all the tools to actually change are there and that is the HOPE aspect of all of this?

(Sorry if this in incoherent grammar is a weak point and I pulled something in my back simply standing up. Now I am sad and crook backed in spasmodic pain)

This isn't an argument I feel super enthusiastic about stepping into, because it gets the most annoying sort of people in your mentions eager to maliciously misrepresent what you say.

However, yeah, there are some pretty terrible readings of Union floating around. I'd invoke "media literacy" because think that a lot of this comes from people not really holistically engaging with the fictional future history of Lancer, but also from a sort of dogmatic purism that requires future societies to be flawless, else they're irredeemable.

It is important to note that ThirdComm is the direct descendant of two highly imperfect societies. FirstComm was formed as a response to the Three Great Traumas of discovering the Massif Vaults (and thus that they were the inheritors of a fallen world), the wars over the Massif Vaults, and the discovery of the lost colonies, all of which collectively showed humanity how close it had come to total extinction.

FirstComm decided that it had a responsibility to ensure that humanity never risked extinction again. It manifested this by trying to colonize every habitable planet it could find, pumping out ship after ship to seed the cosmos with as much human life as it possibly could. This led to problems when it encountered civilizations like the Karrakin Federation and the Aun, who had been carrying humanity's torch just fine by themselves, thank you very much.

SecComm was an Anthrochauvinist fascist state. The book defines it thusly:

We can see a lot of Anthrochauvinist historical romanticism in the mech naming schemes of Harrison Armory, SSC and IPS-N - the fact that Harrison Armory names its mechs after great military leaders of pre-Fall Earth history, IPS-N does the same with naval figures, and SSC uses the names of Earth animals. Even the GMS Everest is named for a mountain on Earth. It's very Cradle-centric.

Anthrochauvinism was, to be clear, largely just an excuse for colonialism and hegemony. Atrocities could easily be justified under by stating that whoever they're being committed against were a threat to the Continuance of Humanity - a term that SecComm got to define.

It's also at this point that we have to zoom in from broad sociopolitical points to address one very specific piece of history: the New Prosperity Agreement. This was signed to prevent the outbreak of a Second Union-Karrakin War, and mandated that the Karrakin Houses would maintain privileged levels of autonomy within Union, and that they would be granted colonial rights to the entire Dawnline Shore. This agreement, struck in 3007u, basically defines much of the current political situation today.

ThirdComm was a final and inevitable reaction to the atrocities, abuses and excesses of SecComm. The unspeakable horrors of Hercynia were the spark, but I need to stress how little Hercynia actually mattered in the larger Revolution - at the start of NRfaW, it's explicitly stated that almost nobody in the galaxy even knows where it is, let alone what happened there. The Revolution was a generalized response to SecComm's tyranny, with no single rallying cry.

The Revolution might also have failed entirely, but for a critical error by Harrison Armory: pissing off the Karrakin Trade Baronies. After getting kicked off Cradle, the Anthrochauvinist Party organised a fleet at Ras Shamra to try and retake Cradle. Simultaneously, however, they were attempting to secure protectorate agreements to steal worlds in the Dawnline Shore out from under the KTB. Putting these two together and making five, the KTB assumed that the fleet was pointed at Karrakis, and started the First Interest War.

The First Interest War initially favoured the KTB. They smashed the fleet above Ras Shamra and simultaneously conquered the moon of Creighton in the Dawnline Shore. However, they underestimated just how ruthless Harrison I was - he "retook" Creighton by relativistic bombardment, and then conquered four of the 12 worlds of the Dawnline Shore with mechanised chassis, a technology the KTB had not adopted and had no counter for.

To prevent further loss of life, Union was eventually forced to broker a peace agreement that saw Harrison I handing himself over to Union justice in return for Harrison Armory's continued sovereignty, and the KTB joining Union as a full member state.

So, with that historical context out of the way, let me get to the second part of this absurd essay I'm writing.

Third Committee Union isn't a civilization that arose from whole cloth. It's shaped by five thousand years of Union history, six thousand years of post-Fall history, and six thousand years of pre-Fall history before that. It is, ultimately, an extremely well-thought-out and well-worldbuilt fictional polity, in that all of its imperfections come from traceable root causes in its history.

Why does ThirdComm permit the abuses of the KTB? Because to stop them, it would likely have to go to war, and such a war would butcher billions. Worse, to do so, it would probably have to ally with Harrison Armory and make horrific concessions.

Why does ThirdComm permit the expansionism and cryptochauvinism of the Armory? Because to stop them, it would likely have to go to war, and such a war would butcher billions. Worse, to do so, it would probably have to ally with the KTB and make horrific concessions.

Nobody in CentComm likes that Harrison Armory are empire-building expansionists. Nobody in CentComm likes that the KTB has a hereditary nobility and enforces blockades against planets that rebel against it. The problem is that ThirdComm is, in historical terms, still relatively new. They've been around five hundred years, and compared to the 1600 years that SecComm was around and the 2800 years FirstComm existed for, that's not very much.

ThirdComm is attempting to decouple itself from the Cradle-first politics of its predecessor, and to amend the many, many atrocities committed in the name of Humanity. It is not easy to do any of these things. SecComm was defined almost entirely by the fact that if it didn't like what you were doing, it would send in the military as a first response. Every time ThirdComm chooses to do the same, its legitimacy erodes, because the mission of ThirdComm is to prove that diverse, vibrant and compassionate human civilization can exist without devolving into war and bloodshed. ThirdComm always tries diplomacy as a first response because if it doesn't, millions of people could die.

[occamstfs]

Coast Guard Compensation

Here's another military TF, delinquent disrespects the Coast Guard and finds definitely sub-standard civilian processing -Occam

Marcus was being issued a simple ticket for drinking while driving a boat. That would’ve been the end of it if he had just shut his mouth. Unfortunately his brother was not quick enough to prevent him from tearing into the officer. Before he even begins to return to his boat Marcus is shouting at the officer swearing that he shouldn’t even have the authority to issue tickets. That he knows better than some doofus elinstee. He tosses the ticket into the sea as he continues to shout, “this is just bullshit dude! You’re just taking it out on us to feel like a man huh? Couldn’t even do well enough in boot camp to make the Army so you’ll make it all our problem!”

Ensign Harrison’s eyes followed the litter as it blew into the ocean before returning to the still shouting man. Harrison’ smirks as he approaches Marcus who despite being at least a foot shorter continues on his tirade. Jacob has seen his brother get this fired up before but nothing like this. He could only gawk as brother continued to shout vitriol as the officer approached to tower over him, Jacob could not even think to move or intervene. 

Harrison lifts Marcus by the collar and simply states, “on top of driving while intoxicated you have also littered into the fine blue sea, and verbally assaulted an officer. Under the authority invested in me by the US Coast Guard I am going to take you back to the station.” Marcus rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to retort but is tossed like a sandbag into the USCG boat. The Ensign briefly scowls at Jacob, who despite being sure this is not appropriate, can not bring himself to take any action against the man who is by all intents kidnapping his brother. 

Having established his dominance he returns to his boat to accost the problem at hand. He speeds away in his boat hearing nothing but the boat cutting through the wind and crashing through the waves. The toss seems to have knocked Marcus unconscious, to the sick pleasure of the man driving the boat. Though as they near shore, he comes to and begins anew the derision of his captor. He groans out a “you fuckin’ glorified beach cop…” To which Harrison just smirks in retort, grabbing the only barely conscious Marcus into his patrol car and starts driving back to the station.

He stares at Marcus in the rearview mirror and once he sees the glimmer of conscious return he finally offers a reply, “you don’t know what yer talkin’ about kid.” Marcus squints his eyes at the officer driving his car, knowing something weird was occurring. Something so far out of his hands was happening to him and he needed to use everything in his power to have some curve on the ball. The dick in front of him was arresting him against his will and he was not going to go down without a fight. He is going to use the only weapon afforded to him and use his mouth.

“Really, you must’ve done pretty bad to flunk out of the naval academy right? Their best guys are absolute dullards and you didn’t even make it to step one I bet.” Ensign Harrison’s scowl grows deeper as he pulls the car over. Marcus, refusing to let the chance slip by, turns it up even more. If he can get Harrison to open his door he just needs to bolt. “Oooh scary, bet you feel like a big guy huh! You got a five foot flat guy ten years younger than you in your backseat. I bet you’re just fantasizing about what you can do to me, you fashy pig! You fuckin-” Harrison clears his throat interrupting as Marcus sees veins start to bulge out of his neck and his eyes darken in the rear view mirror. He starts the car going once more and says, “think it’s best if you apologize kid. Ain’t nuthin’ good gonna come out of you talkin’ shit.”

Marcus scrambles to think what his next move should be. Obviously, fashy pig he may be, but Harrison was correct in that the only rational thing to do would be apologize. Harrison even wants to, but any time he even starts to open his mouth to do so his entire throat goes dry and his head burns hot. It distracts him. It angers him. He was going to? What was he? No, he certainly wasn’t going to apologize. To the asshole who ruined his fishing trip, absolutely not.

Harrison’s eyes continue to glower as he exits the car to retrieve Marcus, who in turn observes everything he can about the Coast Guard Station before he’s pulled out. Seeing cameras he starts to hatch a plan before he hears the door slam open and the thought of Harrison disrespecting their equipment is suddenly the only thing in his mind. Jesus that oaf, he’s making them look like even more of a joke than they are. Harrison’s face burns red as he reads nothing but a look of derision in response to this blatant attempt at intimidation.

Marcus quickly tries to escalate, taunting the trooper, “we’re on camera now fash! What’re you gonna do huh, hope you’re ready to-“ He was cut off as a hand is quickly thrust on his neck, a move he was all too familiar with, though he would vastly prefer to be on the other side. He struggles out a performative moan as the hand grows tighter moving up towards his jaw, before breaking out into coughing laughter.

True rage appears in Ensign Harrison’s eyes as he pushes Marcus’ head down into the seat, spitting on his face before letting him go. Still leaning over Marcus, he talks through his teeth, “That’s it you fucker. Hope your little jokes were worth it. You’ve had every chance and you’ve run your fuckin’ mouth. Clearly someone needs to set you straight.”

Finally getting out a sentence without being interrupted, he looks to see an expression of hunger on Marcus’ spit-covered face. Not what he expected and certainly not what he wanted, and as he glances further down he sees an even less pleasant sign growing in Marcus’ swim shorts as a boner swiftly becomes impossible to miss. As Marcus regains his breath he chokes out a “that’s all you got?” To which Harrison begins to feel a heat in his own crotch that is met with both self-derision and an eagerness for the kid to be gone.

Starting to feel out of his depth, despite ostensibly being in charge, Harrison leads Marcus in, taking great care to hide the growing cock in his uniform, which Marcus neglects to attempt, letting his own swing in his shorts. Upon getting inside he leads Marcus to an unoccupied office and locks the door behind him, demanding he stay there and keep his hands off everything while Harrison finishes processing him.

This was beyond irresponsible, but he cannot stand being near the delinquent one second longer, and something about Marcus now makes him think that it’s fine if he’s in this office. Marcus rolls his eyes and agrees though as soon as the lock turns his hands are in a desk drawer. Before he snoops though he wonders about how empty the station is, weird that he didn’t see a single other soldier right? Must be why the pig was trying to flex so hard on him and his brother, trying to hide what a pathetic joke this operation is.

He also briefly thinks about making a break for it, before remembering that Harrison has a gun on his belt. He hasn’t pulled it on him yet but surely as soon as he got the chance to shoot at a runner he’d probably blow his load. He rolls his eyes thinking how Harrison must be compensating. He’s sure all soldiers are, anyone so obsessed with guns and power clearly has something going on.

As he continues this line of thought though, he can’t help but feel that, well, but wouldn’t he want a gun too? Just to have that power? Or just in case? As he thinks about the weight of a gun in his hands he finally remembers that he is rooting around in a desk, as his hands find purchase on what can only be a weighty wallet. He smirks as he palms it thinking of the schmuck Navy flunkee whose credit card is gonna buy him and his brother lunch once he’s out of here. Marcus starts to go through it looking for anything particularly juicy to nab. He hunches over the wallet, conspicuously hiding something, though no one is there to see him.

He shoves the cash into his pocket and finds a license, his eyes glaze over as he tries to look at the name and photo of the man. Not that he cares really though, soldiers are all the same. He continues to hunch and as he does so his back begins growing wider, as if he’s willing it to hide his deeds better. His button up starts to get in the way of his movements so he starts to unbutton it as he feels an itch on the face. He realizes, god, he never wiped that pig’s spit off his face.

His shirt now hanging unbuttoned on his wider shoulders, he raises his arm to wipe whatever surely steroid-filled dried spit remains on his face and finds nothing but a face that is decidedly rougher than it should be. Day on the beach must have been pretty rough on his skin. Maybe he did overdo it today? I mean what was he doing drinking on the job anyway. He pauses before correcting himself, fishing, he was just fishing today. He groans and spins in the desk chair, fuck he needs to get back out there. This room is giving him a headache or something.

It’s kinda hot in here too? Bet that fucker turned up the heater to torture me. Marcus shoves the wallet in his back pocket and goes to stand and inspect other parts of the room before immediately falling over. As he lies on the floor his sweaty chest grows even larger, his traps expand to strain the now unbuttoned shirt as sweaty pecs force themselves into existence pressing into the cold tile floor. Then greater than anything else he feels the wallet pressing against his ass. He might not have noticed how much his upper body has grown, but his legs certainly have and if they want to support it, they need to grow.

He moans to himself. His thighs fill his swim trunks enough to make one wonder how he could even get them on. His ass grows enough to make it clear that the only way they’re coming off is to be ripped off. His bulge on the other side endeavors to make headway to this end as his cock forces its way down his pant leg and his balls swell over twice their size trying to keep up the testosterone production this body demands.

He struggles to his feet, making careful movements as to not burst open his pants then and there. Not to be deterred from his M.O. he hobbles over to a bookshelf and continues to investigate. Marcus sees a bunch of dusty tomes that feel vaguely familiar, though he of course would never want nor need to read whatever droll garbage lies inside of them. Finally he remembers just how bizarre his situation is. What the fuck is he doing? He’s literally being processed for an arrest, or whatever these knock-off cops are gonna do, and he’s just gonna steal some actually important guy’s wallet?

Neglecting to inspect how knows the importance of whoever’s office this is, he instead trains his eyes on the bookshelf. Marcus finds himself eye level with the highest shelf which he knows was not possible when he walked in. He would’ve had to jump to grab any of these books and now he can reach them flat footed. He starts to look down and see just what is happening but as he does there’s another hot flash and he leans against the shelf in pain. God! This fuckin’ place, needs to fix the fuckin’ AC or something. He pushes back against the wall not noticing he stands even taller now as a breeze wicks sweat off his ever more exposed midriff and torso and he sees a conspicuously not dusty manual.

Weird, he’s up to date on all his regulations yeah? He pulls it off, knocking dust loose from the surrounding tomes, causing him to sneeze, his neck bursting wide enough to tear shirt open were it not unbuttoned. His vocal chords thicken as he clears his throat and returns to sit down at the desk. He opens the book wondering what’s so special about this manual, causing a picture to fall to the floor.

He laughs as he grabs it and finds it is a compromising picture of Ensign Harrison. He smirks wondering just what he has stumbled into as he finds himself absorbed into the image. His eyes can’t help but trace the strong curves and powerful muscles of his, the Ensign’s body. His cock gets the messages and finally grows enough to tear a hole in the side of his swim trunks and hsi free hand immediately goes to paw it. God, he needs to see Harrison like this in real life. Drool begins to pool in his mouth as he continues to drink in the image. It spills down his chin as he sees the look of begging in Harrison's eyes, when there is suddenly a scuffle at the door.

Mark takes the second he has to hide the photograph and rip his hand off his painfully erect dick, as Harrison bursts into the room. Nonplussed as ever he looks with a sneer at Marcus with no reaction that he looks any different than when he was booked. Under his breath he complains that Mark’s clothes are far too tight for any respectable man before. He can’t hide the blush on his face though as he asks Mark to button up his shirt before getting to the real purpose he came in, “You didn’t give me your ID uh, kid?” His eyes glaze over at the incongruity of calling the man before him kid and he blushes as Mark sneers at him in return. Raising his sharpening jaw in disdain he produces the I.D. of the Coast Guard officer in his pocket without a second thought and offers it to Harrison.  

The Ensign goes to grab it, sniffing the air as he does so and making a clear face of discomfort. Marcus doesn’t notice how he smells, not his problem, if lesser men are bothered so be it. But Harrison makes haste to leave the room, on his way out saying “You better not get your stink on the furniture, ki-, uh, Sir.” Angry at himself for calling that delinquent sir he slams the door and locks it once more, leaving Mark alone in the room, his erection pulsing even larger at being called Sir.

That ball buster needs to learn his fuckin’ place, Mark thinks, I’m in charge here after all. Or? Hm. I mean I pay his wage right, tax-payers and all. Something like that. He rubs his scratchy, sharper jaw as he feels his clothes near their limit. He pauses to decide which drawer to raid next. He settles on the top left drawer and as soon as he does he slams it open only to jump back in shock, his body flexing and tensing as he hears something heavy loudly slam into the back of the open drawer. His biceps rip apart his sleeves as reaches into the drawer and feels ice cold carbon steel. His left arm burns as tattoos he doesn’t remember getting begin to stain his whole arm. He pulls out a gun, His Gun, and begins to inspect it.

He feels a regulation mustache push out of his upper lip, the one he’s always had right? He feels the burn of more ink appear on his torso as it begins to grow shredded. He feels the lengthy hair cut he has always been proud of pull into his head, leaving nothing but a high and tight that can only display the void of a personality that the military demands. He feels the weight of the gun in his hands not noticing as his clothes begin to reform around him. Good thing he got those stupid dress clothes off, he’s at work. He needs to be in uniform.

The scraps of his dress shirt cling back to him and turn into the same respectable military green of any branch. He feels a nylon shirt cling to his sweaty pecs as a thicker top slides over his biceps, struggling to keep them contained. His attention is drawn, as it often is, straight to his cock as he feels his torn swim trunks grow into silkies that are only just able to hide his impressive bulge. He is able to stuff it down the leg of his trousers as they form around his impossibly thick thighs, though even a passing observer would be able to see the beer can running down his leg. His pants are already custom made to fit his ass and thighs, it’s not like he can, or even wants to, hide his masculinity any more. He is thankful though that his, may as well be kevlar, boxers keep him from constantly staining his pants with pre.

Still rubbing his cock through his pants, he releases the unloaded magazine of the gun and moans as wrinkles begin to form under his steely eyes. He absolutely fills his pants with pre and nearly finishes the job before there is another knock at the door. He groans as his body grows once more in agitation, his veins bulging out in aggression as a definitely not regulation beard pushed out of his jaw. But he’s in charge here. He’ll get it back to reg as soon as those fuckers start giving him some respect.

Before waiting for an answer Harrison bursts in, preparing to continue his little power trip, though as he sees the man sitting at the desk, gun drawn and more importantly now in uniform, he can do nothing but salute and shout “Captain, uh! Sir!”

Absolutely not ready or willing to set him at ease Mark gets up and begins to walk over. Captain huh, he likes that. The Captain walks up to Harrison and starts to tease his Ensign. His already deeper voice grows gravelly and gruff as he rubs his thumb across the saluting soldier's jaw, “Now Harry, I don’t believe I gave you permission to enter, did I?” Harrison gulps as The Captain continues, “Now are you here now on business, or is there something else I can do for you?” Harrison glances down to the impossible bulge in his captain’s pants, causing Mark to smirk and all-too-familiarly launch his hand to his Ensign’s jaw. He forces Harrison to make eye contact with him. He gulps once more as he hears the fabric stretch in The Captains pants and his face grows red. He shuts his eyes, feeling his own cock instantly surge into an erection. “I- uh, there was a call, sir!”

The Captain’s look of hunger changes slightly and he grins, “a call hm? At ease, Soldier.” Harrison collapses against the door, his eyes still closed, lest he cum on the spot from seeing The Captain in front of him. Mark then leans over him to whisper to him, his breath tickling the neck of the Ensign, “Now, why don’t we go show these fuckin’ delinquents just what business the US Coast Guard means hm?” Harrison’s eyes open as his body convulses, cumming as he slides down the door, moaning in shame. In turn The Captain stands and prepares to go gather some more recruits, the station has been awfully quiet recently. Just him and pathetic little Harrison, they could use some fresh blood, which he will inevitably gather at whatever bonfire or fishing crew they are about to raid...

[clove-pinks]

Been having something of a rough time lately, long hours at work and a lot of stress. I wish I could turn to tumblr friends to buoy my spirits, but when I'm going through it I always withdraw from people and find it hard to communicate and interact.

My comfort media continues to be books about frontier fighting in the War of 1812. I'm reading William Henry Harrison and the Conquest of the Ohio Country, which is excellent, and The War of 1812 in the West: From Fort Detroit to New Orleans.

I'm dying to talk about how Harrison was a brilliant politician and military leader, a cunning and interesting man, albeit not a good person. It's so unfair that all anyone knows about him is the died-in-30-days factoid (sometimes with the implication that he talked himself to death in his inaugural speech)—or is this the afterlife he deserves?

[lesbianjohnlennon]

It's queer! by Nelson Motta (O Pasquim)

"o pasquim" was a brazilian alternative weekly, known for its paradoxical and satirical nature, published between 1969 and 1991. it was recognized for its engagement with the brazilian counterculture scene of the 1960s and for its role in opposing the military regime. in 1970, the magazine published an article about john and paul (and brian) affair, written by nelson motta. here's the translation (with adicional notes) 👇

It’s queer! by Nelson Motta

Paul McCartney loved John Lennon, who loved Brian Epstein, who loved Paul McCartney. All the whole London music scene (1) knows this, and there, the famous suspicion about Paul's “death”, which originated with an American DJ, didn't catch on.

The "death" theory is well-constructed, but the true story (the one about their faggotry (2)) makes much more sense. And it's much spicier. I prove what I said (3):

Everything was going great in the John-Paul-Epstein triangle. Everyone loved each other, they adored jelly beans, everything was rosy, smoke and mirrors, etc. Ringo and George Harrison were always on a different page. The duo was Lennon and McCartney — they sang together, composed together, did everything together. Together with Brian Epstein, of course, who was openly queer and quite relaxed about it.

Everything was fine until Paul and John decided that two's company and three's a crowd, etc., and kicked Epstein out of the bed.

It's not proven, but many serious and well-informed people claim that Epstein committed suicide after a fight with Paul. Epstein supposedly gave Paul a very valuable gift, which Paul not only ignored but also hung up on Epstein, who, in despair, killed himself.

But John and Paul had many arguments, especially when Paul was still single and John was already tied down with the Japanese woman. The nippo, who is very wild and forward-thinking (4), didn't mind sharing John with Paul, but McCartney (that face never fooled Sérgio Cabral (5)) had jealousy issues. They fought and made up many times, even through music.

To "show the proof"(6) (I'm not sure why this phrase keeps coming up): Paul made up by composing Get Back (To Me) (7), and Lennon responded with a passionate interpretation of Oh Darling that everyone thought was "darling" (in the female sense) but was actually "darling" (in the male sense)(8). These are some of the great ambiguities of the English language.

But the Japanese woman really tied John Lennon down; no one knows exactly how. Or rather, everyone knows how.

The press started reporting that they were fighting a lot, and the explanations were always about "business and musical matters." Only a fool would believe that, since it's known that Apple was never in danger, none of the Beatles were at risk of starving, and the duo's musical production never suffered any drop in quality or sudden change in style.

After his last fight with John, Paul met Linda Eastman, who, through talks and things like that, convinced him to re-establish his heterosexuality (9). Probably out of revenge, Paul ended up marrying her to get back at John with a "for your information, I've already found someone else to replace you." (10)

The final result: John recording solo (Instant Karma is third on the American charts) while Paul is also making waves as a solo artist with Let It Be, first place on the American charts, and Paul's solo album has already been released.

Some clueless people might ask, "But how do Lennon & McCartney songs keep appearing?"

Elementary, my dear Jaguar (11): The duo has an exclusive contract with the music publisher Northern Songs until 1972, and everything one does will carry the other's name, at least nominally, as a partner. This practice is very common among songwriting duos where both contribute to the lyrics and music interchangeably.

You must admit that, at the very least, this is a respectable theory. I can't prove it because I've never been involved in this affair, which is absolutely not my specialty.

They’re the ones who are queer; let them figure it out.

notes:

(1) in the original, “patota musical de londres”. “patota” has a kind of pejorative meaning of a group of people. also means a group of friends or colleagues.

(2) in the original, “bichisse”, and it was the best way of translation that i could find.

(3) in the original, “mato a cobra e mostro o (the) pau”. again the best i could find.

(4) in the original, “superprafrentex”, which was a common slang in brazil in the 70s, used to describe someone who was modern and progressive.

(5) sérgio cabral was a famous journalist in brazil, and one of the founders of “o pasquim”.

(6) again, in the original, “mato a cobra e mostro o (the) pau”.

(7) in the original, “Get Back (Volta pra mim)”, which is funnier in portuguese and i tried to keep the tone.

(8) in Portuguese, every noun has a gender. darling can be translated to “querida” (feminine) or “querido” (masculine). 

(9) in the original, “restabelecer a mão única”. “mão única”, which literally translates to “one-way street”, makes a reference to paul’s sexuality, implying he was going (or into) on both “ways”, men and women.

(10) in the original, “pra teu governo já tenho outra em teu lugar”, another idiom. but works in english, anyway.

(11) in the original, “Elementar, meu caro Jaguar”, a playful reference to sherlock holmes’ line.

disclaimer: this was written in 1970, so is full of outdated expressions (and slurs) so read carefully!

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

Hey, neighbor

Masterlist

Pairing: Jason Todd x (f) reader

Tags: neighbors, close proximity, sexual tension, roommates, eventual smut, strangers to lovers, touching, fluff, domestic

Chapter 3: Spending so much time with Jason in close proximity is distracting. Poison Ivy breaks into the safe house and kisses you with her toxin, knowing you'll do whatever she tells you. And what she tells you to do...

You woke up in a strange place, disoriented and confused. You took in your surroundings: a loft with exposed brick walls, minimalist furniture, and a cleanliness that felt almost military. The events of the previous day crashed into your mind like a tidal wave, and your heart sank. The vial, the body, your formula. Guilt and fear twisted inside you.

You sat up, wearing clothes that weren't yours—an oversized t-shirt with a Guns N Roses album cover on the front and sweatpants, both too big for your frame. Red Hood had given them to you last night. You remembered his voice, calm and authoritative. You were in his safe house, you remembered. Hiding from the world that might condemn you for murder.

The door opened, and Red Hood stepped in, carrying a gym bag. Your gym bag.

He paused when he saw you awake.

"Morning," he said, his voice low, tired. You presumed he had been out all night getting your things. Then he'd confirmed, "I brought some of your clothes."

"Thanks," you replied, your voice small. You got up off the couch and accepted the bag and rummaged through it, finding familiar items. It felt strange, intimate even, knowing he had gone through your things.

Seeing you in his clothes did something to Jason. The shirt hung off your shoulder, and his sweats hung loosely at your hips, emphasising how much smaller you were compared to him. He felt a surge of adoration, mingled with a sense of possessiveness. He even began to regret bringing you your clothes, not minding the idea of you wearing his for a bit longer.

"I'm sorry about everything," you said, your voice trembling. "I never meant for this all to happen."

"It wasn't your fault," he replied firmly, his tone effortlessly intimidating. "You were set up."

You looked up at him, confused. "How do you know?"

He hesitated. "I don't. I guess you could say it's a hypothesis."

You recounted the events of the previous day, the death, the chance encounter with your professor. What if she had told someone she saw you.

What you were unaware of was that Jason had already broken into Dr. Harrison's place, gathering enough blackmail to ensure her silence. He figured that his threat and the broken wrist were enough to persuade her. He didn't want to burden you with those details.

"It's strange," you admitted, “you having to hide your face in your own home.” You looked down at your hands. "I understand why you can't reveal your identity, but..."

An idea struck you. Digging through the bag, you found an old silk scarf you'd sighted there. "What if I wear a blindfold? You could take off your helmet without me seeing you. You should be able to, anyway. It's your home, not mine."

Red Hood considered this. The thought of removing his helmet and letting his guard down was both terrifying and tempting. He took the scarf from your hands, inspecting it, and confirmed it wasn't sheer before handing it back.

You tied the scarf around your head, making sure you couldn't see anything. "Okay, ready."

You heard the sound of him removing his helmet, a soft hiss of released air. There was a moment, then his voice, softer now, more human. "Can you see anything?"

"No," you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips. "It's completely dark."

“How many fingers am I holding up?” He put his hands in his pockets.

You tilted your head, trying your best to have a look, only to come up short. “I dont know.”

He smirked. “Perfect.”

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

“Can you think of anyone who'd want to sabotage you?” Jason asked as he guided you to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, taking out bread and butter. He was starving from his shitty night.

You considered his question, standing barefoot on the cool parquet of his kitchen.

You told him about your co-workers and lab partners and how you perceived behavior towards you. As you spoke, you heard the sound of pen on paper every once in a while, jotting down details.

You began to pace, making small steps as you tried to provide sufficient details. At one point, you stumbled, and he caught you, his arm wrapping around your waist to steady you.

He liked having you in his arms, feeling your warmth against him. He wished he could tell you who he really was, to share more than just his alter ego with you. But for now, this was enough. He would keep you safe, no matter what.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

Jason watched you navigate the room with his guidance, the oversized clothes making you look cute in a way that amused him. He couldn't help but notice how you seemed out of place yet oddly endearing in his loft.

He remembered the first words you spoke to him last night, smiling to himself.

"So,” he began, feeling bold. “I'm 'your hero'?"

There was a teasing edge to his voice, and you felt a flush creep up your neck.

"I-um-well..." You stammered, trying to find the right words. "It was just... you saved me. Twice now, actually."

“Really?” Jason chuckled, a deep sound that made you squirm. "When was the first time?"

You bit your lip, feeling embarrassed. "It was my first year at uni. A group of us went out, and we ended up at a bar. And then some big, creepy guys circled me when I left to get some air."

Jason's attention sharpened. He didn't speak, letting you continue.

You took a deep breath. "I was scared, but then you showed up. You didn't even do much - you didn't soeak. Just lifted your guns and made a show of aiming them at them,” you chuckled at the thought. “And they ran. You were so badass!"

He smirked, enjoying your giddiness and the way you blushed.

You smiled, though he couldn't see it. "I never forgot that night."

Jason couldn't recall the incident, which made sense. There had been no fight, no trouble—nothing memorable. But hearing your story, seeing how much it meant to you, made him feel something unexpected.

"Glad I saved you twice," he said, his tone light but with a hint of seriousness.

You blushed deeper, fumbling with the hem of his shirt. The embarrassing part was that you'd imagined how you'd run into him again at least a hundred times in your mind. And when you finally did run, you babbled like an idiot, and on top of that, had pulled him into your trouble. “I just hate being so fucking helpless sometimes, you know?”

He stepped closer. "There's something you can help me with."

You blinked in surprise behind your blindfold.

"Help me investigate this. Find out who set you up." He said.

A lot was on your mind. You were grateful he believed your innocence. You were scared to touch the formula again, but you couldn't deny the burning curiosity to analyse it that circled your mind.

"Okay."

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

Jason enjoyed the way you reacted to him, the way a simple touch could make you blush and squirm.

At times, he would conduct experiments of his own. Touches that to you could seem innocent and accidental, but we're entirely intentional.

One evening, after a long day of working on the formula, you and him sat together on the grey couch in his loft. His mask was off. You wore your makeshift blindfold. You'd gotten used to the silk scarf over the past few days.

“What can you tell me about Elizabeth Langstrom?” He asked casually.

You put down your cup of tea. "She's my head of research. She's really smart. I go to her for help."

"So she's a mentor to you.”

“Mhmm,” you nodded.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

You thought about it. “She came over to drop off some samples I asked for… before I went out to the club.” You realised out loud.

He hummed. “Did she give you anything before you went out that night? Something you might have overlooked?"

You hesitated, the edge in his voice making you shiver. "No, I don’t think so."

Jason leaned in closer. You felt his body heat closer to you. "Think carefully. Could she have slipped the vial into your purse?"

You were quick to deny his acusation. "No, she wouldn’t do that. She’s always been kind to me."

Jason’s fingers brushed lightly against your cheek, his touch lingering with an unsettling intimacy. The closeness and his commanding presence made your heart race.

Her reactions are priceless, he thought, Every flinch, every stammer—it’s all so… fascinating.

You were trying so hard to hold it together.

"You sure about that?" He continued, his voice smooth but carrying an edge. "People wear masks, y/n. They show one face to the world while hiding another. I think she could be hiding something from you. And I think you think so too.”

You felt your skin flush, your voice trembling. "I don’t believe she would. She’s always been kind."

Jason’s hand trailed down your neck, his fingers grazing your skin with a deliberate, chilling touch. The intensity of his presence, combined with the lack of sight, heightened your vulnerability.

She’s scared… why? he mused, although I suppose it could come in handy… fear makes people easier to control

It sure worked on Harrison. And half the crime scene in Gotham, who he held in the palm of his hand. But he didn't want to control you, did he? He craved control in every aspect of his life. But with you… he wasn't sure…

His proximity and the deliberate nature of his touch made it difficult for you to think clearly.

"I- I don’t know." You swallowed. "Maybe she did, but I can’t be sure. Why would she betray me?"

"People betray each other for all sorts of reasons," he said. "Maybe she wanted something you had, or maybe she was pressured into it. I need to find out the truth. Can you remember anything else?"

You searched your mind. "She didn't seem threatened. She was calm. The same she always was. We had a good talk about my thesis. She said that I could change everything." You smiled at the memory.

Your giddiness was cut short by a mental image of the dead thug, branches sprouting out of his body.

"It could" his voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

"I need to talk to her." You spoke up suddenly, conveying the urgency in your voce. "I need to hear her thoughts about the formula."

"I cant let you do that." He interjected.

"I trust her, red." You insisted, trying out the nick name for the first time.

"Trust is a luxury we can’t afford." He responded. "We find the truth, or we pay the price."

“How do I know I can trust you then,” you whispered in challenge.

“You can always trust your instincts y/n.” He explained. “And your instincts are telling you I would never hurt you.”

The intensity of the moment left you unsettled. Because he was right.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

The next evening, Jason decided it was time to investigate Elizabeth Langstrom's apartment. Armed with the information you had given him, he made his way to the upscale part of Gotham where she lived.

Meanwhile, you were home alone. Comfortable in one of your short sundresses, trying to distract yourself with television.

Suddenly, you felt a gentle but firm hand turn your chin. Before you could react, a pair of soft lips pressed against yours. You jumped back in surprise, your heart racing as you recognized the intruder.

"Dr. Langstrom?" you gasped, staring wide-eyed at your head of research. Her presence was unsettling, her sudden appearance leaving you breathless.

Dr. Langstrom smiled, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Y/N," she chastized softly. "You haven't come to speak to me for the past week. Is everything alright?"

You had too many questions. How had she found out where you were hiding? Why did she kiss you? How did she break in?

You tried to step back, but the room began to feel dreamlike, your head spinning. An inexplicable wave of happiness and vulnerability washed over you. You struggled to piece together what was happening, the suspicion growing in your mind that Dr. Langstrom had somehow drugged you.

"What are you doing here?" you managed to ask, your voice trembling but laced with a giggle.

Dr. Langstrom’s eyes sparkled as she avoided your question, instead reaching out to caress your cheek. "I just wanted to see you," she cooed playfully. "I’ve missed you."

Her touch was both soothing and unsettling, the drug making you pliant to her manipulations. Your thoughts became hazy, and you found yourself smiling, unable to resist her advances.

"I want you to do something for me, y/n," Dr. Langstrom whispered, her lips close to your ear. "I want you to kiss the Red Hood. Until you’re both breathless."

The words echoed in your mind, and despite the sinister undertone, you found yourself nodding, feeling oddly agreeable. "Kiss the Red Hood... until we’re both breathless," you repeated, the drug making it seem like the most delightful request.

Dr. Langstrom chuckled, a playful edge to her voice. "Good girl. Now, forget that you saw me tonight. You never saw me."

Her words seeped into your consciousness, the command taking hold as the drug dulled your senses. You nodded again, feeling the fog of forgetfulness settle over your mind.

"I never saw you," you repeated obediently, a blissful look on your face.

Dr. Langstrom gave you one last, lingering caress before turning and leaving your apartment. You stood there for a moment, the room spinning around you, before collapsing onto the couch, your mind a haze of happy confusion and compliance.

You waited eagerly for the moment he'd come back home.

[howtofightwrite]

How good would a whip be as a weapon? I'm not interested in it being a lethal weapon but more of it being a weapon that can defend someone long enough to get away or at least disarm or disable someone. I don't see a lot of people or character or referrals on how to use it and that's probably because it's not good enough?

Not great. The whip, like the goad and cattle-prod, aren't really designed for use as weapons. They're designed to control animals. (...and, yes, that does sometimes include humans, but again, in a non-combat, control role.) Part of the problem with the whip is, it's not much use against someone wearing armor. Or, even, heavy clothing.

Now, whips do have a legitimate military history as discipline tools, but that's very different from trying to take them onto the battlefield.

The reason reason you'll still see characters using whips, when you've probably never even heard of a goad, is because the whip is visually dynamic. It looks cool. You don't see Indiana Jones using a whip because it's the best choice of weapon, you see him using one because it stands out, and as a result, it has become iconic. It's delivering a specific vibe.

At the same time, the goad is just a pointy stick.

Whip disarms are a neat trick. And, very doable in a controlled environment. However, successfully disarming someone who's actively trying to kill you is going to be a bit more challenging, and also raises the question, “If you're putting this much effort and attention into taking away someone's weapon, shouldn't you be spending that effort and attention taking their life instead?”

This is probably little thought experiment about combat disarms. There's no point in disarming a corpse. So, why not just skip the middle step and go straight to the corpse-making? A question that Indiana Jones famously answered when, instead of dueling a sword master, simply pulled out his .455 Smith & Wesson and dropped the guy. (The real reason was that Harrison Ford was ill from food poisoning, and in no condition to shoot a prolonged fight sequence. So instead we accidentally got a character defining moment of pragmatism.)

To be clear, if it seems that I'm a bit negative on the subject, I do think the whip is a neat weapon. It's visually dynamic. It's loaded with symbolism. I think it's fantastic in a fictional context. It's just not practical.

There are fantastical versions of the whip that are better options. William Gibson's use of monowire comes to mind as an immediate example. Where the whip itself is created from a monomolecular carbon fiber, and can, as a result, cut through basically anything it strikes. Similarly, I still have serious reservations about the Lightwhip from Star Wars' old Expanded Universe, but it would carve through anything pretty effectively (including the wielder.)

Even in those cases, the whip is a weapon you choose for the aesthetic, more than the practicality.

-Starke

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