#Humans are Bostonian

[jpitha]

I was looking for information on the Rt2 Rotary in Concord MA so I could show a friend. I used to have to drive on it for work and it is wild. Rt2 is a two lane divided (in parts) highway that ostensibly has a 55 mph speed limit, but being one of the major routes into Boston everyone drives 70+ on it. Anyway, I found this.

Note how they're not trying to eliminate the chaos. They know this is impossible. They have the slightly more realistic goal of organizing the chaos.

How will they do this? Maybe by rebuilding the Rotary? Maybe by changing the approaches so you don't go slinging into it at full tilt?

No. With paint.

As if paint will stop a Boston Driver from driving the way they know they have a God Given Right To Drive.

Old friends Séan and Randy meet up at the Dunkin' Donuts outside of Arlington, MA. Séan drives a beat to shit first gen Osyssey filled to the top with paint, dropcloths, ladders and brushes. There are paint stains all over the car and on the back is a Boston Red Sox’s license place surround, Red Sox stickers and a “MY KID WAS FUCKER OF THE MONTH AT CONCORD HIGH” Séan is not a painter by trade.

Randy drives a 1993 Nissan Hardbody pickup with a headache rack and that diamondplate lock box everyone had. The truck cab is full to the smokers windows with empty Dunkin cups, cigarette packets (Parliaments) and the back has an old tire, a waterlogged bag of cat litter and some frayed wire cable. Randy has been out of work for 15 years and nobody knows how he still has money for Dunkin.

“Séan! You old fucker! Howyadoin?” “Fuckin terrible Randy. They’re changin my commute!” He takes a sip of his extra-large coffee "regulah" (coffee with cream and sugar is "regular" around Boston). “Fuckinell. How?” Randy lights a cigarette. “Get this: theyre tryin to make the Rout 2 rotary LESS CHAOTIC” “Wha? Fuck me that’s nuts” “I know right? I need my Dunkin, I need my cigs, and I need to be sliding around that rotary at 70mph.”

Randy nods, takes a drag. He sucks the cigarette down in two puffs and lights another.

[defness]

JuST FINISHED WATCHING KING OF MONSTERS. SOBBING SO LOUDLY AUYGH

[meiliarotten]

Team Fortress 2 Kinktober Time Two: Electric Boogaloo

Day 17: Thigh Highs Save Lives (Stockings)

🔞MINORS DNI🔞

Pairings: Medic x Fem!Reader

Summary: Medic finds himself quite enamored with a particular choice of clothing

Tags: Stockings, thigh highs, thigh jobs, oral, Medic is a thigh guy cause I said so

Word Count: 2.8k

The Masterlist

Medic hadn’t taken his eyes off of you from the moment you entered the bar. Everyone was out celebrating a rather large streak of victories. You had arrived a bit later than the rest of the team, as you wanted to change into something a bit nicer than your work uniform. This was one of the fancier bars in town, after all, but that wasn’t saying much. Still, you liked to feel pretty every now and then, even if it was a rather casual outfit. It wasn’t the outfit that caught Medic’s attention, but rather one specific article of clothing you had included.

Stockings. Thigh high socks, to be exact, worn with shorts. It was actually a rather practical way to guard your bare legs from the cold desert night while also not being too hot in the crowded environment of the bar. Well, maybe they kept you from feeling hot, but they were doing Medic no favors. He practically burned with envy whenever you laughed or danced with his drunken coworkers. You were simply having fun, but surely if he could see how beautiful you looked in those godforsaken things, they all could too.

The thought of them and the other patrons laying their lascivious gazes on you had him downing his beer in an attempt to cool his temper. It was uncharacteristic of him to get jealous so easily, but you had awakened something in him, something he wasn’t expecting at all. Medic shook his head, giving himself a quick reality check. His coworkers probably couldn’t care less about what you were wearing, most of them being far too intoxicated to even see you as more than a blurry figure leading them through the steps of some generic dance.

That thought calmed his nerves and he chuckled as he watched you struggle to keep Demoman from toppling over a bar stool. He was even more drunk than normal. It was a good sign in Medic’s opinion. If his coworkers were drunk enough once they returned to the base, he could easily explore his newfound affinity with you without the risk of anyone overhearing, and if they did, then they most likely wouldn’t remember. He couldn’t hold back a grin at the thought, now waiting eagerly for closing time while nursing a fresh beer.

—

By the time you arrived back at the base it was nearing midnight, and it felt like an eternity before Medic could finally return back to his own room. He would have been able to go there immediately if some of his less eloquent colleagues hadn’t decided to cause a massive bar fight within an hour of closing time. He hadn’t even figured out how the fight had started, but it led to his current task of picking beer bottle shards out of Scout’s arm, all to the tune of the Bostonian’s incessant complaining. Once he was certain there was no more glass protruding from Scout’s skin he bandaged the arm a bit more hastily than usual, eager to send his patient on his way and return to his room, and more importantly, to you.

He prayed the flush in his cheeks wasn’t noticeable in the relatively dim light of the infirmary as he ushered Scout away and quickly made a beeline for his private quarters. The click of his boots seemed louder than normal in the thankfully empty halls as he made his way to you, knowing you would be waiting for him. After all, he had asked you to, and you were always so obedient for him.

When he finally reached his room he opened the door to find you sitting at his desk. You were reading one of his books on human anatomy. While the material was a bit beyond you, you were fascinated by the diagrams as well as some of the photographs of real internal organs featured in the book. Medic was oddly disappointed, but he mentally shook himself- had he really expected you to be kneeling in nothing but your stockings, waiting for him? All he had asked of you was to wait in his room, and you had done just that. If he wanted more, he should have been more specific.

You looked up from the book and gave him a wide smile, one which seemed far too innocent. You really had no idea what those garments did to him. Everything from the way they clung to your legs to the way the flesh of your thighs naturally protruded ever so slightly over the hem was a source of erotic allure.

“Finally finished?” you asked, placing the book aside. You stood up, approaching him with that unwavering smile. “I swear, I could hear Scout complaining from here-”

You were cut off with a rough kiss. Medic grasped your upper arms, holding you still as he dominated your lips, stealing the breath from your lungs. You moaned against his mouth, eyes fluttering shut as you surrendered. His hands wandered low on your body, squeezing and caressing until you were quite aware of the subtle heat building between your legs. You clenched your thighs together with a muffled whine.

“I want you in my bed, now,” he growled, breathing hard when the two of you parted. Such a stern order coupled with the suddenness of everything made your head spin. Quickly, you made your way over to the bed with Medic trailing close behind. You sat down on the mattress, reaching down to undress, but your wrist was snatched in a death grip the moment your fingers touched the hem of the stockings. You winced, and Medic immediately released you.

“So sorry, meine liebe,” he said, giving you an apologetic look. “But please, allow me.”

With a nod from you, he proceeded to unbutton your shorts, pulling them down over your legs and removing them, taking care not to accidentally pull the thigh highs down as well. Your underwear followed soon after. You watched him with a confused tilt of your head, trying to figure out what he was doing. It was only when he began to absentmindedly stroke your thighs up and down that a lightbulb finally went off in your head.

“Medic,” you began, grabbing his attention. He glanced up at you, barely pausing as he felt the fabric beneath his fingertips. “Do you like the stockings?”

He paused, before letting out a short laugh. “Is it not obvious, meine liebe?”

His laughter was contagious, and you found yourself chuckling along with him. “It’s just interesting. I would have worn them sooner if I knew they got you this worked up. Maybe I’ll have to buy some more.”

“Gott, ja,” Medic gasped, the very thought of you purchasing more gorgeous, thigh hugging garments just for him making him breathless. “I would like that very much.”

You weren’t used to getting such strong reactions out of Medic, especially so soon. Perhaps that’s why you were so easily convinced by his next request. You could tell he had something on his mind, his brows knitted together and his mouth parting slightly as if he was trying to find the right words. You waited patiently for him to finally compose himself as he stroked your thighs, as if he was soothing himself with the texture of the fabric and the subtle give of your flesh under his grip.

“Liebchen, this may sound odd,” he began, his face going pink. You were suddenly very interested in what he had to say. Not much could make Medic blush. Furthermore, it was very difficult to find something the mad doctor would consider ‘odd.’ You gave a small nod, urging him to go on, which he did with a shaky inhale. “I want to feel your thighs around my cock.”

After a brief moment of confusion, you realized what he meant. Thigh fucking had never been something you would have considered yourself, but you certainly weren’t unwilling to try, especially if it meant getting more reactions out of Medic.

“I think I understand,” you said, sitting up and turning around so your back faced him. Medic began to unfasten his belt, almost frantic in his race to undress. His pace only slowed once his pants were off and he could press himself between your thighs

You heard him gasp and felt the rise of his chest against your back. He went still for a moment, and you felt him twitch between your legs which urged you to clench your thighs tighter. When he began to rock his hips you allowed yourself to lean back against him, letting yourself relax and simply enjoy the ride. You couldn’t help but watch with rapt attention at the way Medic’s cock speared between your thighs, already dripping precum onto the sheets. The only thing that could steal your attention away from that sight were the sounds he was making. With his head nestled against your shoulder, you could easily hear every enraptured noise, even those he tried to muffle with desperate bites to your neck and collar.

Medic fucked between your thighs desperately, his steady rhythm growing rougher and harder. His arms wrapped around you at one point to keep you from falling forward, keeping you pressed flush against his body. He didn’t seem to notice your needy whimpers as he pleasured himself, not until you managed to finally utter a coherent word.

“Medic!” you cried, and for a moment, he seemed to snap out of his pleasure fueled daze. It was then that it finally dawned on him that he had been focusing on his own desire for far too long. While he loathed the idea of withdrawing from the plush comfort of your thighs, Medic knew that better things awaited him. He pulled away with a soft noise, akin to a whine, and you quickly turned back to face him, pulling him into a kiss before he could say a word.

He leaned forward, deepening the kiss and pushing you back onto the bed. You let him push your thighs apart and tried to wrap your legs around his waist only for Medic to stop you, holding your legs still and pulling away from the kiss. You shivered in anticipation as you watched him descend down your body, trailing ghost-like kisses in his wake until he finally reached your cunt. With little warning, Medic delved his tongue into you, making you shout in delight. He held your thighs firmly enough that if the stockings weren’t there you would be able to see bruises blooming beneath his fingers. You rested your legs on his shoulders, sitting up slightly so that you could see him.

Medic’s eyes had drifted shut, brows knitted in concentration as he focused on your pleasure, tasting, teasing, and savoring every bit of you until he had his fill. Then he would begin focusing on your clit, making you squirm and whine, his grip tightening to keep you still. Right when you were at the brink he would stop, moving from your clit to kiss your inner thighs, paying no mind to your frustrated whimpering. He continued this pattern for a while, slowly working you up before denying you the release you craved again and again until you finally lost your patience, reaching down and taking a fistful of his hair.

His eyes snapped open as you pulled him off you. You were going to say something, to tell him to quit teasing you already, but the look in Medic’s gaze, almost animalistic in his expression, made your heart skip a beat and the words caught in your throat. Any complaints you may have had were forgotten as you tasted yourself on his lips and tongue. It was a passionate, desperate dance that only paused when one of you needed to part for air. Even so, you felt him shifting on top of you, fitting himself between your legs as he kissed you.

“Bitte, wrap your legs around me, liebchen,” he whispered between breaths. You did as you were told, pulling him close as he finally entered you. He shuddered, fixing you with a lustful gaze before starting a slow, but steady pace.

With an impatient whine, you used your legs to pull him deeper into you, bucking your hips until Medic finally picked up his pace, allowing you to simply sit back and enjoy the ride. He rutted into you desperately, spurred on by the way you began to moan and writhe beneath him. Even so, his movements were no less calculated than usual. They were quite rough however, and you whimpered when he delivered a particularly hard thrust to your core. He stuttered and slowed, and you felt his hand come up to cup your face. You opened your eyes, not even realizing until now that you had been squeezing them shut, and you were met with his gentle expression. His thumb gently brushed over your cheek and you leaned into his touch, cherishing a brief moment of calm.

“Am I being too rough?” It took you a moment to register what he said, but once you did you quickly shook your head.

“No, I’m alright,” you said. “I was just caught off guard, that’s all.”

Medic nodded and began moving again. This time you could tell he was trying to reign himself in, focusing on your pleasure. Eventually, he did start to increase his speed, but it was a slow buildup, giving your body plenty of time to adjust. All the while he continued to stroke your thighs, practically shivering at the sensation of those garments under his palms and wrapping tight around his waist. You meanwhile were content to lose yourself in bliss, so much so that you barely heard Medic ask you if you were enjoying yourself. You also failed to notice the devilish smirk he gave before slipping a finger beneath the hem of one of your stockings, pulling it, and letting it snap back against your skin. You gasped, the sting bringing you back to reality.

“I asked you a question, meine liebe,” Medic whispered, making it clear that he expected a verbal answer from you.

“Yes! Fuck,” you stammered through your words, desperately trying to string together a coherent sentence as you became aware of the pleasure building between your legs. “I’m so fucking close!”

Medic knew that he was nearing his limit too, no matter how much he didn’t want this to end. You shuddered as his hands trailed up from your thighs until they reached your hips. His fingers dug into your skin as his grip tightened and you gasped when he hoisted you up suddenly, making it far easier for him to hit that sweet, incredibly sensitive area inside you. You couldn’t keep yourself from trembling as he pounded into that spot repeatedly, and you knew you were moaning, even if you were too blissed out to hear yourself think, let alone speak. Whatever sounds you were making, Medic certainly seemed to enjoy them.

“Gott, I love hearing you scream like this, singing so nicely for me. Good girl.” His words came between strangled moans as he tried to stave off his own climax. It was no use, and before long he was coming undone, his movements becoming uneven and frantic.

You weren’t far behind, coming hard with a few more well placed thrusts, back arching and legs tightening around his waist, pulling him close against you as you cried out loud enough to risk being overheard. At the moment, you couldn’t care less who heard you. You were vaguely aware that you were calling for him, a soft mantra of ‘Medic,’ being repeated even as you came down from your high. It was akin to the calls he heard on the battlefield, although with the stark difference that those were usually cries of pain rather than pleasure.

“I’m here, liebchen, I have you.” His voice was as breathless as your own cries. He used the last bit of his strength to withdraw from you, pulling you into his embrace as he rolled to the side. The way your body trembled in his arms almost worried him, until he brushed a hand over your cheek and saw the soft smile that spread across your face. It was obvious that you had very much enjoyed yourself. It was a beautiful sight to see you so satisfied and relaxed.

Medic was quite the sight as well. He looked weary, eyes half lidded and breathing heavily. It was rare that he was equally, if not more exhausted than you were after activities such as this, and you took pride in the fact that you had managed to tire him out as well. You quite liked his contented expression, as well as the adorable struggle he put up against the beckoning of sleep. You loved it almost as much as you loved the ravenous way he had fucked you senseless.

You nestled against his chest, signaling that you were happy to fall asleep like this, limbs entangled with each other atop messy sheets. The stockings you wore were still on, and you probably wouldn’t find an opportunity to remove them until morning. Before finally letting yourself drift off, you made a mental note to wear them more often- and maybe even buy some more for special occasions.

[liaromancewriter]

Miracles

Premise: A chance encounter with Ethan brings an expected revelation for Cassie.

Fandom: Choices Book: Open Heart Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff. Words: 1,050

A/N: Submission for @choicesmaychallenge24 prompt "mood changed like the weather" and for @jerzwriter Mother's Day event.

Miracle of life, my ass!

It was a miracle the world’s population was edging toward eight billion, given the indignities that pregnancy wrought on women’s bodies.

Cassie Valentine barely controlled a grimace as her patient let out an inhumane scream and tried to push a watermelon-sized human being out of her hoo-ha. The mammoth pregnant belly heaved and metamorphized with each contraction, blood and fluids gushing out from between her thighs.

She was in week three of her intern year ambulatory electives block. She’d chosen Women’s Health, thinking learning more about her body would be cool. However, most of her rotation had been spent in labor and delivery since that team was short-staffed.

Apparently, this was a popular time for giving birth in Boston. What else could horny Bostonians do during the long, cold winter nights?

Contrary to popular belief, babies straight out of the womb were not cute, with their skin red and wrinkly and covered in amnio fluids. Witnessing a mid-morning birth was enough to put one off their lunch.

“You have a beautiful baby girl,” the third-year resident cooed, smiling widely as she laid the wriggling tiny human on the mother’s chest.

Cassie scrutinized the scrunched-up face peeking through the blanket and thought it looked more like a fish, but to each their own.

Leaving mother and child to bond, she followed the team out of the delivery room, discarding the protective sheath and cap in the bin outside, and shook loose her long blonde hair.

Checking her watch to make sure she wasn’t late for afternoon didactics, Cassie strode toward the nurses’ station, intent on completing the notes from this case while it was fresh in her mind.

She didn’t often think about motherhood. After an almost scare in college that had given her and Jackson several restless nights waiting for the results, she’d been diligent about preventing accidental pregnancies.

Still, given that she came from two prolific dynastic families, Cassie supposed it was inevitable she’d have kids one day. But everything she’d witnessed these few weeks hadn’t exactly endeared her to the idea of putting her body through all that!

Her mind came to a screeching halt, and her feet slowed at the sight of Dr. Ramsey leaning against a wall, arms folded, chatting with another attending.

Ethan looked out of place in the brightly painted maternity ward, decorated with colorful wall posters about the benefits of breastfeeding and glittery balloons bobbing in the air as eager parents took their babies home. His somber expression countered the excited hubbub in the busy hallway.

Now, that was a man who couldn’t see kids in his future. Cassie still remembered his ambivalence about family and children when they tested the fMRI machine. Given how his brain scan lit up, it was a sore subject.

Not that it’s any of my business, she thought, turning away. Still, she furtively sniffed her underarms (the delivery room had been hot and sweaty) and sighed in relief. All clear.

Cassie sat behind the desk at the nurses’ station, entering notes into the computer, when a shadow fell over her. She glanced up mid-sentence, instinctively knowing who it was.

“Be with you in a minute, Dr. Ramsey,” the charge nurse said from behind her.

Ethan towered above the station, but his eyes were locked on his phone so Cassie could observe without him being any wiser.

He looked tired, his jawline scruffy with overgrown stubble. His short, neatly styled dark brown hair was unusually tousled—as if he’d run his fingers through it.

Cassie’s hand itched to touch the small, subtle strand of hair that fell slightly forward. It gently curved towards his forehead, softening his otherwise polished (and somewhat austere) look.

She thought it added a bit of character, giving Ethan a relaxed and approachable appearance. Until his striking blue eyes caught you spying. Then, there was nothing casual about Ethan Ramsey.

“Rookie,” Ethan said neutrally, head cocked sideways, his gaze inscrutable.

“Dr. Ramsey,” Cassie acknowledged cooly with a slight nod. She wanted to be nonchalant, but curiosity won out. “What are you doing here?”

He quirked one eyebrow, his expression haughty, for lack of a better word.

“Sorry!” Cassie blurted out, feeling her cheeks flush. “I know it’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, hesitating. “But, since you knew Dolores…”

His Adam’s apple pulsed as he swallowed, emotions swimming in his eyes. He blinked them away, cleared his throat, and shut down any hint of vulnerability.

“Baby Hudson is being discharged from NICU this week. Dolores’ sister asked me to coordinate the transfer to his pediatrician in Minneapolis.”

“Oh. I didn’t know he was still here.”

Cassie realized she hadn’t given Dolores or her baby much thought in the last couple of months. She had moved on to other patients, trying to keep her head above water as the harsh realities of residency and competing in the fellowship competition beat down on her.

Of course, Ethan Hudson was still in the neonatal ICU, given his premature birth at twenty-six weeks. It was a miracle he’d survived the night. She felt terrible for her negligence, even though Dolores’ untimely death had devastated her at the time.

“Why would you?” Ethan commented impassively, drumming his fingers on the desk. “He was no longer under your care.”

“How is he?”

“He——” Ethan sighed, looking away from her briefly. “He’s hit all his developmental markers. Dr. Lozoya doesn’t expect any long-term complications. He has Dolores’ eyes.”

Her green eyes sharpened at the softly spoken words, the tenderness in his voice catching her off guard. From the sudden frown on his lips, Cassie suspected he hadn’t meant to make that admission, at least not to her.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, doctor,” the charge nurse interrupted.

The bubble surrounding them burst. Ethan straightened from the desk and nodded absently before accompanying the charge nurse down the hallway.

Cassie watched his retreating back with a considering look. In the short time she’d known him, his moods appeared to change like the weather.

The man was full of contradictions: arrogant one minute, compassionate another. Dismissive and rude at times, he was also wickedly sarcastic and funny on the most unexpected occasions.

Who, she wondered, was the real Ethan Ramsey?

---------------

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @jerzwriter @lady-calypso

@mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16

@justyourusualash @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @youlookappropriate

[marzipanandminutiae]

i think it’s less that ppl are legit expecting a white christmas in boston every year and more that the probability for one used to be 20 to 30% and it’s now been almost 15 years without one and probability has dropped to 10% and will continue to drop. for someplace like worcester in massachusetts it’s even worse — probability was 67% ish for the boomers and now it’s a little over 30%. only 27 white christmases in boston since 1892 sounds small but when u consider most bostonians had 3 white christmases by their mid-teens on top of all the christmases where there was snow even if it wasn’t one inch and now there are teenagers who haven’t seen even one white christmas… it makes sense why ppl freak out every year it still hasn’t happened.

And that absolutely makes sense, yeah! I have immense climate anxiety too, like I said!

What I was responding to was more the people saying "it's 60 and raining in Boston and it feels like the apocalypse" or "this isn't how it's supposed to be ever; this never used to happen."

I don't know if you saw my longer post, but I went and looked at Boston weather records going back to 1893. Most Decembers from 1893-1903 had multiple days in the upper 50s, with many years getting into the 60s at least once. I didn't track every single year from 1893 to the present, but it seems reasonable to assume that that 10-year period wasn't just a weird fluke. December 1895 actually had more days in the 60s (5) than December 2022 (1).

That's not the full story, of course- December 1895 also had a couple of days in the 20s before that upswing, some with small amounts of snow. You also have things like overnight lows going haywire, and other reminders that climate change is real and it is happening now. I would never, ever attempt to deny that. It's the single biggest problem facing humanity at the moment.

However. There are multiple things to hold in our minds at the same time when thinking about its day-to-day effect on our lives, and one of them is "the effects are seldom as simple as It's Warmer Every Day Now Than It Ever Has Been, And That Will Continue Unilaterally For The Rest Of Our Lives." I'm not trying to deny or negate anything. I'm just trying to make people feel a little less despondent.

(I also just discovered that the metric for a white Christmas here in Boson states that it has to fall before 7 AM, which seems arbitrary and weird. We actually had a white Christmas here in 2017- we got 2.9" of snow -it just fell later in the day. So...it doesn't count for some reason? That's really strange to me. Anyway, the article where I learned this estimates our average yearly "one inch of snow on the ground at 7 AM on Christmas morning" chances nowadays at 19% as of three days ago.)

(I also think this demonstrates what I'm calling Reverse Environmental Amnesia- where, rather than thinking that the effects of climate change have always been normal, you tend to remember past weather in a way that fits the absolute direst interpretation of circumstances. Anyone who was in Boston on Christmas 2017 SHOULD remember the snowstorm...but I've seen multiple locals who don't travel for the holidays agreeing that we've had no Christmas snow at all since 2009.)

[dopscratch]

Spydad Excerpt

so a while ago i was just idk going wild over spydad and dadgineer and my tf2 headcanons and wrote this

idk if i will ever finish it but it doesn't seem right for it to just rot away in my docs

and yes i do have a LOT of headcanons for engie's family which i may share at a later date if the interest arises haha

i still absolutely love spydad and also extremely love dadgineer so this is certainly not the end

without further ado:

The Engineer prided himself on being able to solve practical problems, very efficiently with a copious amount of gun. He had a feeling this one would take a little more nuance.

---

Down in the dusty badlands of New Mexico, a Texan with a hard hat and oil-stained overalls offered his help to a rather taken aback Frenchman in a prohibitively expensive suit. It all started when a new man joined the team of mercenaries warring in the gravel pits two exorbitantly rich brothers were feuding over. Really, the new Scout was a kid, in his early twenties physically and even younger mentally. He adapted quickly to the job and his new coworkers. It certainly wasn't his first time he had worked as a trained killer, judging by the practiced ease he handled his weapons. The amount of gloating he did while slaughtering the enemy helped too. He fit right in with the rest of the questionably sane men, sharing that marked disregard for human life. However, the resident Engineer noticed something strange going on between the newcomer and the Spy. Usually, the masked infiltrator was distant and unseen on the battlefield, his only impact being the convenient disappearance of some enemy forces and the strategic destruction of a few buildings. Ever since the Scout joined, he seemed to be much more present and daring, stabbing backs in the frontlines much more frequently. In the Engineer's opinion, Spy had blocked far too many bullets cloaked in front of the young mercenary for it to be coincidental. The implications were so clear to him. Some might have called it an instinct, others may have chalked it up to excellent reasoning skills. Regardless, the assumption had planted itself deep in the Engineer's mind, and at a certain point just became fact.

"Say, son, how does it feel to work with someone you personally know?" The Engineer asked the Scout one day as they were getting ready to enter the battlefield.

"Eh? Whaddya on about, egghead?" The pure confusion from the Bostonian would have marked an embarrassing miscalculation on Engie's part if it weren't for the Spy, standing a couple feet behind the Scout, dropping his precious cigarette. Though he quickly wiped the look off of his face, it was enough. The kid didn't know.

"Ah, never mind. Musta spaced out for a second, mistook ya for someone else. Guess I'm gettin' old, huh?" The Engineer laughed good-naturedly and headed off for the gates, leaving the baffled Scout behind.

---

The Engineer was not done with this. Perhaps it was the sudden separation from his own kids, still a fresh wound even after months. In retrospect, he had no business in meddling with the two. Interpersonal relations strayed dangerously far from his area of expertise. In the moment though, he was not about to deny the kid the presence of a father who clearly still cared for him. So, he approached the Spy on that hot, dusty afternoon.

"Spy, I know we've got our differences, but I can't just stand here and watch that sad display you got goin' there between you and your son. If there's anythin' I can do, just say the word."

"What." Was all the normally eloquent Frenchman could muster in response. 

"Well, I'm a father myself, so I suppose I could give ya some pointers-"

"I don't think I need help from a man who was banned from seeing his own children," the Spy snapped back coldly.

"How didja know about that?" Even as the Engineer asked the question, he already knew the answer. Still, it was strange hearing it from someone else when he had put so much effort into separating his personal and work life.

"I am the Spy. It is my job. However, you are the Engineer. Your job is to make little toys to aid us in battle. So tell me, tinkerer, how did you know about me?" 

"Well..." He started, lifting a hand to adjust his helmet. "I noticed y'all been hangin' around a touch more ever since the kid joined..." The Spy raised an eyebrow.

"So you guessed. It was pure luck. Fascinating." The observation was nearly more sarcasm than accent, and Spy had a pretty heavy accent.

"I wouldn't say that," Engie quickly interjected, unwilling to take that blow to his ego. "I’d call it more of a... educated guess. A hypothesis, ya might say.”

---

and unfortunately that's all i've got, but hope you enjoyed :)

[jamneuromain]

Creative Writing

Andy Barber x Reader (You)

Warning: Professor-Student relationship (possibly?), College AU, a lot of curses. A bit enemy to friends(?)lovers(?) vibe

W/C: ~4k

Summary: based on this prompt

A/N: dividers are from @firefly-graphics, and I spend another couple of hours on fanfic instead of my deadlines, yay!

Dancing in the Daydream M. List

Week 1

Three minutes into the class, you feel like not only you are listening to complete nonsense, but also you disagree with each and every word that comes out of your professor, who is currently standing on the podium, criticizing the shit out of your favorite author.

You regret selecting Creative Writing just because it sounds fun. Although you have been fairly warned by seniors, who took this class last year, Professor Andy Barber who taught Creative Writing runs his class with a tight fist, and of course, not kind with his comments and his marking. Not only does he want the “best” answer from students in class, but also ask everyone in the class to address him as “sir” or “Professor”.

Though he is fairly hot, as the seniors have warned you, with the trimmed beard and occasionally slipped-out Bostonian accent, with the suit and shirt and tie.

To be honest with yourself, you have been writing fanfic and whatnot for over five years, and you hoped that you could learn something from this class to improve your writing. And you love writing. If anything, this awful Professor Barber just gave you more reason to stay, because you want his approval, even if it would only be demonstrated via your grades.

You are not a quitter.

“Now speaking of a writing example that I highly recommend; this is a work I recently come across. Twenty thousand e-copies have been sold so far, now that’s a pretty good number for an author. I don’t expect you to read it thoroughly after class, but the writing style and the balance between story-telling and own reflections of the main characters are something that you should learn from.” Professor Barber takes off his glasses, twirling the frame between his fingers, hitting the button that would let the computer display the next slide.

You huff. You seriously doubt he would present anything barely readable to actual humans. Considering his comments on your favorite book, you take a rough guess that the only thing he will recommend is ancient European Lit.

Except ancient European Lit wouldn’t be in creative writing class.

You lift your head from your iPad, and you widen your eyes, unable to contain the astonishment on your face. Your jaw slams on the table – if it could, while in reality, you press your palm to your mouth, crushing your cheekbones so hard, that you feel your jaw will disconnect the next second.

Your mind blank, unable to come up with any thoughts. Apart from “THIS IS NOT HAPPENING”. In all caps.

On the slide, there is one picture, cropped out from a chapter online. Two paragraphs on the picture, the first describes the action and the verbal communication of two characters; the second describes the mental activity of one character. Below the picture, there is a bracket that contains the source of this snapshot.

The bracket and what’s in it catch your eyes, before the picture.

Well, if it isn’t your damn penname from 9th grade staring right at you in the face.

(A.  Vulpecula, 2020)

Your dumb idiot self wanted something unique and stand out among all the writers in the world. You were, unfortunately, in your Harry Potter phase, and wouldn’t it be a brilliant idea to pick your penname out of constellations, just like a lot of Slytherins?

You ponder what on earth have you written in 2020, raising your head to read your own writing.

Shit, at least it wasn’t your College AU.

This piece is a long story about a witch and a demon. The paragraphs he cropped out happened to be where the witch and the demon didn’t know each other’s true identity.

Your face is burning. You don’t know if you are humiliated by reading your own fanfic in your fucking college class, or if you are gloating because the man who criticized your favorite author thinks your writing is exceptional.

Yes, that “thing” on the screen started out as fanfic.

You also don’t know whether you want to quit this class right this second or stay to hear his opinion on your work.

Or if there’s any value in his comments at all.

Your humiliation doesn’t stop there.

Oh no, it gets way worse.

At least ten slides are focused on your witch/demon au. Barber actually likes your concept of a magical world. He goes on to explain the importance of details, which runs along your story, complimenting how your designs fit perfectly into your story and your characters.

You are flattered, you guess?

But also extremely awkward when he pulls more examples from your fanfic to illustrate his idea.

“Alright, for the upcoming three weeks, we are going to look into more stories. Here is the reference reading, remember to take notes. If you want to, send me a short story or a few paragraphs you have written via email before Wednesday, no more than 500 words, and I’ll see you here next week.”

Before you even notice, the class is over. You, however, are still shocked over the fact that your mean professor likes your work.

You grab your iPad and your bag slowly, scoffing as a bunch of girls swarm up to the podium and giggling, asking Professor Barber for his contact information.

“My email address is in the course handbook, so are the office hours. If you have questions, send an email or make an appointment prior.” He nods them off coldly, though this does not discourage the girls from swooning over his broad shoulders and back under his navy-blue suit.

Your barely-friend sighs, jumping off the podium, obviously displeased by Barber’s cold demeanor. She counts as a “barely friend” because she’s just as active in class as you. Though you sometimes don’t like the way she disregards the lecturer and whisper-yell in your ear when she doesn’t understand.

She pouts: “Can’t get a hold of him.”

“You can always book an appointment for his office hour.” You swing your bag over your shoulder, shrugging, “seniors said he was harsh. I wouldn’t recommend you ‘contact’ him too much.”

“Can’t hurt to try.”

“True.” You wave your hand as a goodbye, leaving the lecture room and a bunch of disappointed girls.

Week 2

On second thought, you should have quitted this class.

Because then you wouldn’t be listening to this ridiculous remark about description over characters.

“I’m just going to let you sit on it for a minute.” Professor Barber pauses his lecture, “think about why Vulpecula describes the man’s blue eyes and red flannel.”

Then there’s silence in the room.

Knowing how easily he gets disappointed, you are not surprised.

Barber wants the “answer”, the best one, the correct one. Well, shocker that students don’t know what he has in mind.

However, in your opinion, which is: For Christ’s sake, the celebrity, Chris Evans, on whom you are basing this fanfic, has a red flannel.

What else are you going to write? Him wearing a suit being a lumberjack? In the middle of nowhere? In a fucking forest?

“What do you think?” Your barely-friend whisper-yells to your ear. Sitting in the front row, she probably makes herself heard for Professor Barber.

You lean away from her, toying with the hem of your sweatshirt, whispering back: “No idea. I’d probably say brings out the characteristics and stuff like tha-”

“Is there something interesting you’d like to share with the class, Miss …?”

Professor Barber lands his piercing sharp gaze on the two of you. Your friend ducks her head to read on her laptop. While you spare a glance at her, you silently spew a curse in your mind.

“Well, Miss…? What do you want to share with the class?”

Great. Now his gaze lands solemnly on you.

You state your name, most unwillingly, and usher out the only reasonable response you can think of: “… because the character the author is basing on has blue eyes and red flannel?”

He repeats your name, “I’d like you to address me as Professor, or Sir. Anybody else?”

He didn’t even say if your theory was interesting, needs work, or some other commentary, which he normally does, trying to inspire thinking and criticality. Like that’s going to work with his tight fist.

You roll your eyes out loud.

“I think red flannel brings out the main character’s – Christopher’s -warm and welcoming character. Red symbols the feeling of fire and warmth, and it’s only plausible that he’s wearing that color, Professor.” Your barely-friend fake coughs, then chirps “her” answer with great confidence.

Professor Barber nods, humming with approval, “very well, you are on the right track. Anybody else?”

Yeah, like anybody is going to know better than you, the author, about how and why you choose to describe his red flannel.

You begin to ponder the question, how is it possible that people interpret too much into the text they are reading? How much people are reading these days are actually the thoughts of critics instead of the authors?

But you are not standing up and revealing that you are A. Vulpecula.

Maybe in your next life but not now.

However, seeing the shocked expression on Barber’s face would be worthwhile.

You can almost imagine how his red lips form an “O” and he stutters due to the bomb you deliberately drop in front of him.

You bite your lips from smiling, too indulged in your imagination to notice Barber glaring at you a couple of times.

“Just a quick reminder that I wouldn’t be looking into more works that are submitted after today. If you want a little feedback on what you have written, send me an email before 12 o’clock midnight. Again, this is not compulsory, it wouldn’t affect your marking, think of it as a fun exercise.” Professor Barber announces once more, shutting off the projector, “we will discuss the coursework for this week next time. Class dismissed.”

Students take their belonging and move slowly toward the exit. You are sitting in the middle of the front row, which means, you are going to be stuck here for a while. A few girls go to the podium to ask questions, which you tune out completely when their questions become giggles.

You are scrolling through your phone when someone calls you by your last name.

Surprise, surprise, it’s Andy Fucking Barber.

“Yes?” You put your phone away, confused as to why he is talking to you.

“Yes, Professor. And I would expect you to pay more attention in class,” his blue eyes feel like ice, numbing your body inch by inch, “that’s all.”

Mother – Fucking - Idiot dickhead - Thickest skull in the fucking galaxy - Every curse word inside your head is cut off by one another, tangling together because none of them is able to describe your fury.

How dares he?

You were paying attention to class compared to at least two-thirds of the students present here. Focus on the word “present”, because you are fairly certain some of them skip this class because Andy Shithead Barber is too harsh.

So what you didn’t provide the answer he had in mind? And the answer he liked was not even close to your thoughts when you wrote that chapter.

You are fuming. You grab your bag and go to the library, sit there for the next two hours, and post a chapter on your Tumblr account about a love story between two vampires.

Your anger blend into your motivation to write. You wrote four thousand words in two hours, which is a record.

Yeah, you will show Mr. Professor Sir your “attention to the class”, see if he likes it next week.

Week 3

You are sure this would be the death of you.

He sent you an email two days prior, asking you whether you have time to discuss your piece of writing in his office, right after his class.

Of course, you RSVP-ed yes, but you have completely no idea why he wanted to talk to you, while other students have already received their feedback.

“OOOOOhhhhhhh, he said I am creative, but my descriptions are a little too detailed.” Your barely-friend squeaks dramatically, earning herself a silent eye-roll from you.

You can’t think of any reason that could explain his email. You wrote as yourself, you have given him a piece of your ongoing work, which was about two vampires. You are satisfied with your work. He could have just written feedback and sent it to you, even if he didn’t like your writing. What could possibly be the problem here?

Professor Barber takes off his suit jacket, rolling his shirt sleeves to his elbow, his calm voice circles the classroom, “coursework from last week, anyone has any idea about why the author wrote ‘There are two trees in the yard. One is a jujube tree. The other is also a jujube tree’?”

You turn to the page of your notes, not looking up at him, “because that’s exactly what the author sees when he looks out of his house?”

As if it couldn’t have been worse, with an extra reminder for you to call him “Professor”, his cold blue eyes glide over you, commenting on your answers to his questions that your ways of thinking and dissecting texts are “far from those of an author”.

His words, not yours.

At this point, you don’t even bother listening to his comments, instead, you start writing on your iPad.

Might as well use the time to do something at least meaningful.

“Did you make an appointment with him before, like during office hours?” When the class is over, you ask your barely-friend in a low voice.

“No.” She shakes her head, a smirk on her face, “I’m trying my best not to get on his bad side. Why? Why’d you ask?”

Like you were trying to. You get on his bad side so very easily. You grunt a “nothing”, waiting for Barber to finish packing his things.

“Okay, see ya!”

Your barely-friend slips out of the room.

You highly doubt if Barber wants you in his office because he would like to give you a compliment.

Andy Barber calls your name to snap you out of your mind. He has shrugged on his suit jacket, his lecture notes in hand, “shall we?”

At least his office is in this building so you don’t have to endure the long and awkward silence when you are walking.

You follow him into his office.

His office is a small room. Three desks are put together, taking up most of the space. His desk is by the window, equipped with computers and office supplies, while he points at the empty desk near the door, “please, have a seat.”

He drags his chair over to sit on the same side of the same desk as you. He sighs, taking off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he puts on his glasses again, rubbing his bearded chin, “do you know why you are here?”

“The homework of 500 words …?” You chew on your lower lip, hesitant to give him the answer.

“It’s Professor or Sir. And yes.” He sits straight on his chair, his blue eyes staring into you, his voice sterner than ever, “and?”

You let out a long breath, gathering enough courage to say what you have always wanted to say in the last three weeks, “to be honest, I have completely not the slightest clue what you want me to say.” You pause, then add a word for good measure, “Sir.”

He sighs again, taking a moment to organize his words, “the reason you are here today is that I want to talk to you about academic malpractice. Now it might not be stressed enough in your past studies, but the university takes academic malpractice very seriously.” He slows down as if trying to imprint you with each and every word he says.

Your brows furrow: “And how does that have to do with…”

He is NOT implying what you think he means, right?

He is NOT implying that you copied someone’s work, right?

Or you let someone copy your work?

“I don’t understand what you mean.” You cross your arms, almost defensive, looking back at him in disbelief, “I can guarantee there’s no academic malpractice.”

Pause.

Oh right, you nearly forget, “Sir.”

“I’m gonna cut to the chase here.” Sir Professor Andy Barber pulls over his own laptop, turning it toward you so that you can clearly see the content on his screen, “the document on the left is your work, the one on the right is a chapter of A. Vulpecula’s stories.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms too, allowing what he said to sink in, “can you see the similarity?”

Um.

Okay.

You did not expect this. Not one bit.

Of course, what he shows you are two identical snippets.

But since when is “presenting something that you have personally written” a crime?

You cannot hide the amusement on your face. No matter how hard you try to suppress your grin, it just keeps getting wider and wider.

“I know that it’s only homework, a practice at writing, if you will,” he gestures at the screen, unaware of your grin at first, “it won’t be reported to the university, but I strongly suggest you, not to copy other’s work just because you would like to impress your lecturer.”

He stops talking when he sees your expression, which must be a mix of half-laugh and holding back, though none of the above successful.

“I’m sorry, is there something funny?”

His voice ice-cold, clearly not pleased with your reaction, your behavior, and you as a human being.

Yeah, you can tell he is pissed.

“No, nothing,” you nearly snort out because of suppressing your laugh, “please, continue.”

“No. Indulge me.” He purses his lips into a thin line, blue eyes so sharp that they could pierce your skin.

Silence.

You thought about letting the misunderstanding of “academic malpractice” grow, but if there’s one thing you simply could not abandon, it would be your academic integrity.

You cross your legs, loosening your arms, “I just … I find it funny because I submitted my own work.”

You wait for your words to sink in.

Barber shakes his head in disappointment, “academic malpractice is what -”

“I have submitted my own work.” You cut him off, “I am A. Vulpecula.”

You really don’t mind beating the information into his thick skull.

But, alas, battery & assault is a crime here.

You pull out your iPad, opening the folder of manuscripts. Clicking on the vampire AU, you show him your own manuscript and what you have written in the past hours.

“I can post this chapter early to prove my point, if you like.” You lay your iPad in front of him, leaning back in your chair, “anything else, Professor?”

More silence.

“No. Nothing.” His mouth slightly agape, not entirely what you had in mind, but close enough, “thank you for coming by.”

“No worries.” You pack your things, heading to the door. “For the record,” you turn on your heels before stepping out of his office, “week 2, the discussion about the red flannel?”

“Yes?” He raises his head.

“That was really because Chris Evans has a red flannel, Sir.” You look at him one more time, then lower your eyes, “goodbye, sir.”

Two months later, you are celebrating with your friends in a pub, that the finals are over.

Your real friends, not your barely-friends.

“Phew! Tell me about what you wrote for your Creative Writing!” Your friend fans her tongue for having swallowed a shot, nudging you to tell them more about your major and your classes.

You down your shot in one gulp, wincing due to the burn in your throat, “well, I did learn my lesson. I wrote a new piece, about a cheesy princess-bodyguard romance.”

Your friends don’t know about the full story. You altered the details a little, not telling them about you being a part-time some-what-famous writer, but enough for them to understand your situation.

“We also had this ridiculous lecturer, a skinny guy, who keeps asking you why about everything and every question-” Your friend rambles about her life story, with a round of “No way” “No shit” “What???”.

“I’m gonna need drinks, not shots.” Another one of your friends stands up, dragging you along with her to get drinks, only for her to dump you at the bar while she hurries to the bathroom.

You wait for the bartender, slightly bored.

“Hey,” your first name was called, a slight tap on your shoulder having you turn around. Andy Barber is standing in front of you. He is wearing a casual shirt without ties, and denim from the waist down. With a beer in hand, he smiles at you, “fancy meeting you here.”

“Likewise,” you nod curtly, “Sir.”

He waves his hand as if it was nothing, “please, no need for that, Sir or… just no.” He smiles nearly apologetically, “I never get the chance to say I enjoy your writing. I’m sorry for discouraging you in class. You are an exceptional writer.”

This takes you by surprise.

“Oh! Okay…? Thanks?” You twist your fingers together, unable to think of anything that could respond to him, “I’m … flattered?”

“Please, if anyone is flattered, it’s me. I am very glad to meet an author I appreciate.” He extends your hand for you to shake. You shake his hands lightly, engulfed in his large and warm hand for a second.

The friend who abandoned you for bathroom slings an arm around your shoulders, although she can barely walk straight, “oooohhhhhh, I think he’s cute!” She yells in your ear, giggling, “you should sleep with him!”

You are pretty sure Professor Barber heard that.

He looks flustered, his neck a shade redder than before, mumbling, “I suppose I’ll leave you with your friends.”

Speaking of your friend, she disappeared – more like dashed - to your table with your drinks, yelling to your other friends about how you are “getting laaaaaaaaid” tonight.

“There goes my ‘said’ friend.” You chuckle, “it’s nice seeing you, Professor.”

Barber lowers his eyes before looking into yours, his blue eyes sparkling with joy, “please, I’m not teaching you anymore. Call me Andy.”

[minipliny]

Sublime episode of Civil War Talk Radio recently about a set of love letters between a Quaker colonel in the Union Army and his fiancée (a woman with strong opinions about George McLellan) that derailed midway through exploring the inner moral conflicts of this man prepared to take human life for the cause of abolition into two distinguished historians trying to work out exactly how intimate the "petting" they alluded to was and whether all the weather references were a sexy Bostonian metaphor

[peonydollbunny-drawwrite]

Scout Snake/Python Scout 🐍

Last noon, I suddenly got bored lately and decided to draw something, and then thinking about Scout from TF2 as a snake (Ball Python) inspired by Kiwi Sniper (already drawn four days ago). I tried my best to draw a snake's tongue and also added different colors of red and blue like from Team RED and Team BLU.

Btw, you may ask how RED/BLU Scout fought against the other team without arms and legs when he was a snake and couldn't hold his baseball bat.

His team will carry him on their shoulder as becomes their bodyguard to watch out and protect his team such as Spy, Sniper, and even Engineer, and his Sentry Gun.

However, when Scout becomes as big as the size of his human body. Unfortunately, he can not be carried by his teammates due to his size of big. There is a solution, Scout can ride his skateboard to bonk the other team.

Again, how did he hold the baseball bat with no arms?

Well, there are two options…

First, Scout uses his tail to hold his baseball bat to hit the other team.

Finally, he had an invisible arm the entire time, but waited until becoming size of big.

Fun fact: Scout can hit or slap them hard using his tail without using his baseball bat.

Hope you all like my digital drawing of the Scout Snake/Python Scout.

It doesn't matter what called this cute Bostonian snake.

[utilitycaster]

have u heard the song "10,000 year earworm to discourage settlement near nuclear waste repositories?" its one of my favorites about radiation cats lmao

Yes, I have! I have a lot of thoughts about the actual efficacy of long term nuclear waste warning strategies with the caveat that I fall entirely on the "nuclear" side in terms of education and not on the "semiotics" side; I think people underestimate the persistence of human knowledge but also the persistence of human curiosity. I also think that A Canticle for Leibowitz is unintentionally hilarious for being like "we shall use religion as the vector for maintaining human knowledge by. converting from a 3500 year old religion to a 2000 year old one." And Fallout, generally, is like, the worst source of nuclear safety facts one could imagine though it is a pretty good guide on how to interact with Bostonians. But one must admit that the Raycat Solution song slaps.

[alwaysbewoke]

Most Bostonians know little about the man for whom Faneuil Hall is named, who enriched himself by trafficking in human beings. 

[weirdestbooks]

The Shot Heard Around the World Chapter 10

One Hell of a Tea Party (Wattpad | Ao3)

Table of Contents | Prev | Next

May 1773

Thirteen sighs in resignation as he read about the new act. The East India Company would be allowed to bring their tea to his land without paying any of the Townshend Acts. But Thirteen still has to pay them. Thirteen’s people still have to pay them. They still have to pay unfair taxes, while this stupid, idiotic tea company doesn't have to pay any taxes.

It was a monopoly! Thirteen’s merchants would suffer, and his economy would suffer.

'It's like these taxes are here to hurt us. Everyone benefits but us.'

'We're being used.'

Thirteen’s resignation turned to anger as he tore up the paper. This...this stupid tax! Stupid everything! Thirteen helped fight in a war for his father, and this is what he gets in return.

'Did you fight that war for your Father or your people?'

No...Thirteen fought to help his father and his people. He fought...He fought...it was for...

'Your people are more important than your Father. They are you.'

It…it was for his people. Thirteen made that decision a long ago. Thirteen would pick his people if he had to choose between his father and his people. Whatever response they made to this unjust, unfair tax, Thirteen would stand by them.

'We don't like the taxes, and neither do they. Britain may be your Father, but he isn't on your side.'

'These taxes are hurting you.'

'So let's do something about them.'

——————————————————————

December 16, 1773

A ship filled with tea arrived in Boston in late November. A meeting decided that the ship had to return without paying import duty. The other colonies had managed to send their tea ships back to England, but Boston was having difficulties.

"Governor Hutchinson refuses to let the ship leave." Francis Rotch, the owner of the Dartmouth, announced to Thirteen and the rest of the crowd, waving around the note he had received from the governor.

'Seriously? We don't want a dammed monopoly in these colonies!'

'Is Governor Hutchison still mad over us burning his house down? What a childish man, it wasn’t that bad.’

The air in the building changed as the anger of Thirteen’s people grew, as his anger grew. They had another plan that they had come up with during these meetings, a plan that, when suggested, seemed too radical. Nevertheless, Thirteen and the Bostonians still made plans for it, just in case.

If they weren't going to send the tea back to London, they would destroy it all.

'You can't have a monopoly if you have nothing to sell.'

'What if it goes wrong? What if we have a repeat of the Boston Massacre?'

'The soldiers aren't in the city. We'll be unopposed.'

"This meeting can do nothing further to save the country." Samual Adams declared as the meeting continued. But the air was restless. The Sons of Liberty and Thirteen knew what the backup plan was if they couldn't send the tea back. They wanted to do something to stop this. Then, people began leaving the meeting house.

"Who knows how tea will mingle with salt water?" Someone cried, quickly followed by another shout.

"Boston Harbor, a teapot tonight!"

"Wait! The meeting isn't over!" Sam said as more people began to leave, trying to reclaim control of the meeting. Thirteen stood up, and Sam put his hand on his shoulder.

"Thirteen, you can't go. You'll be recognized. Stay here," he said. Thirteen smiled.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but I have to do this." Thirteen told him, "Make sure you have an alibi."

Sam nodded, and Thirteen made his way out of the meeting house, heading to the house of someone who had prepared disguises. Thirteen hid his flag by ducking into an alley and changing to his human form.

England would recognize his face, but no one else should.

Thirteen arrived at the house and was let in. He saw people already preparing their disguises, starting with their faces. A woman was also there helping the men disguise their faces. They were also putting on disguises meant to imitate the native's clothes.

"Like the disguises? We picked them to show that we identify with this land, Massachusetts and America, not Britain." One of the men who saw Thirteen looking at the disguises said. Thirteen smiled.

"I know," Thirteen told him, a strange sense of pride overtaking him.

'Obviously, we were going to pick something that shows we are proud of where we live.'

'Especially since the British seem to enjoy pretending we aren't British citizens and use it to decrease our rights.'

Thirteen prepared his disguise, and after making sure everyone else was ready, they headed out to Griffin's Wharf, where the ships were. Some civilians had followed us and were watching. Thirteen gripped his hatchet tighter in his hand. A small part of him felt guilty for doing this.

'Don't. You're doing the right thing. This tea cannot remain here.'

Thirteen knew that, but it still felt like he was betraying his father.

'Isn't he betraying you by allowing harmful taxes to be placed on you?'

'Don't worry about betraying him. He's already been given enough warnings that your people are at the end of their rope.'

Thirteen was so conflicted. He felt like his allegiance was being torn in half. He wanted to be loyal to his people and his father, but here he was, committing what his father would see as treason with the people his father hated. Who was truly right?

'Your people. They focus on what's best for you. Britain focuses on what's best for him.'

'This isn't the time for second thoughts. You're committing treason. You've committed treason. Stop letting personal sentiments get in the way of doing what's right for you.'

Thirteen let out a shaky sigh. He knew there was no going back and that this was what he had to do...but he always doubted everything. But there was no time for that. They had a mission to complete. There would be time to question where his allegiances would lie later.

They arrived at the wharf and made their way onto the ships they had been assigned earlier. Thirteen went onto the Eleanor, the ship on which he was assigned to destroy the tea. The crates were too heavy to lift on their own, so they began to break them open.

Thirteen used his hatchet to cut the cloth covering the crate before breaking through the lid, cutting through the small lead lining that protected the tea from water bugs. Thirteen then took off his hat and used it to scoop out a bunch of tea leaves before going back above deck to throw them overboard. He repeated that until he could carry the crate out and throw it overboard.

'This is going to take forever.'

The men continued to break apart boxes and throw them overboard, going as quickly as possible. There was a nervous energy in the air, as none of them wanted to be caught by the soldiers.

None of them wanted a repeat of the Boston Massacre. Or the Battle of Golden Hill. Or any of the countless brawls between the colonists and the soldiers.

After almost three hours, they finally finished throwing all the tea overboard.

'That was the hardest thing we've ever done.'

'We just threw about 300, 400-pound crates into the harbor. Did you think it was going to be easy?'

Thirteen looked out at the harbor, seeing bobbing tea crates, wood pieces, and faint clumps of tea leaves. He was apprehensive about what the morning would bring.

————————————————————

December 17, 1773

Thirteen looked out onto the harbor, which had turned brown due to the tea in it. Thirteen stood further away from Griffin's Wharf, where the soldiers would go. Thirteen knew they wouldn't recognize him without my flag, but he was still nervous and didn't want to risk it. After all, Thirteen had committed two different acts of treason.

Thirteen felt someone put a hand on his shoulder, and he turned his head around, seeing England standing behind him. England looked angry, although Thirteen couldn't tell if England thought he participated or not.

‘Oh, hells.'

"Thirteen," he said. Thirteen knocked England’s hand off his shoulder before facing him.

"Hello. How do you like that teapot?" Thirteen asked mockingly, gesturing towards the harbor. England scowled.

"What did you do?" He asked. Thirteen smiled.

"The only thing I've done is protect my people's rights. Everything I've done is no worse than what you've done.”

"You're coming back to our house," England said, reaching out to grab Thirteen’s arm, but he pushed England’s hand away.

"Like hell I am. You think I want to live with the man that shot me?" Thirteen said. Guilt flashed through England's eyes as he pulled his hand back.

"I'm so sorry, Thirteen. I never meant to shoot you."

'Bullshit.'

'But you did mean to shoot one of my people.'

'If we weren't shot, England wouldn't care about the people who died. He only feels back because it's us.'

"Empty words. You should have never been firing a weapon into a crowd anyway." Thirteen snapped back, holding his hand above where the injury was.

"That was a riot, not a crowd, and it was an accident. If you and the other colonists hadn't started throwing things at us, it probably would have gone in a different direction." England started.

'Don't lecture us on how you can do nothing wrong. That's bullshit.'

'Right, so we started it by reacting to your soldiers hurting a child!'

Thirteen scowled, and England noticed his change in expression and changed the topic.

"Thirteen, everyone's worried about you. They haven't heard from you in three years, aside from rumors about you burning a ship," England said. Thirteen rolled his eyes.

'We burnt that ship! It deserved to burn!'

"That was on purpose. You think I want to talk to you after you shot me after you tried to blame me for the deaths of my people, England? You think I want to be around any of you after all this?" Thirteen snapped. England stepped back after Thirteen called him by name, shocked.

"You called me England." He said, his voice quiet.

"You think I'm going to call you uncle after you shot me? No. And I did throw the tea in the harbor. But what are you going to do about it? You need two witnesses to accuse me of a crime; not everyone who participated in that will tell. We're not all idiots like Mr. Akeley." Thirteen said.

"Thirteen. I...I...what happened to you?" England said.

'We realized we were being used.'

'We realized you don't care about us.'

'We realized you care more about money and control than your nephew.'

'Our eyes have been opened to the world, and we realize that not everything you say is correct.'

'We've started making our own decisions.'

"You. And Father. And all of those stupid taxes and acts. You're pushing my people to the brink of bankruptcy! You're taxes are hurting my economy! YOU ARE HURTING ME! I'm just responding accordingly." the Colonies said. They raised their fist to swing it at England, but before that happened, something hit thei–Thirteen’s head and knocked him to the ground, his vision blurry.

What just happened?

—————————————————————

England looked at the soldier who had hit Thirteen with his gun and then at Thirteen, who was lying dazed on the ground.

"Why did you do that?" England demanded. This would only give Thirteen more things to whine about and convince him to further side with the criminals and rioters.

"Sorry, sir, but he looked like he was about to attack you." The soldier said.

"I can handle myself. Work on finding out you threw all this tea into the harbor!" England ordered. He wouldn't rat out Thirteen, as it would be bad if it looked like Britain couldn’t control his colony by that much. It was clear that something had happened to him. If Thirteen had been with the Sons of Liberty for the past three years, they could have twisted his views on things.

Or... no. England wasn't going to consider that opinion. Thirteen would eventually fall back in line.

England would make sure of it.

[clndstn-headmates]

can you make me a scout from team fortress 2 alter with a lot of transids and paras? :D you can go wild!!!

For sure, I hope you like him. Feel free to change anything.

-Mod Max

NAMES: Scout, Jeremy

AGE: 27, permateendult

PRONOUNS: he/him

GENDERS: trans man

SEXUALITY: bisexual

SOURCE: Team Fortress 2

SPECIES: human

ROLE: socializer, ADHD holder

TRANSIDS: transbraces, transfamily, fathelatian, transolderbrother, transbaseballplayer, transathlete, massdeath, nullFrench, mutoAsian, mutoVietnamese, mutoJewish, transTaiwanese, transChinese, polyAsian, transJapanese, transSingaporean, transliterate, transrelationship, transstraight, transautistic, transdating, transboyfriend, trans1970s, trans1960s-1970s, transjock, relatian, transartist, transcomicartist, transcartoonist, transscars, transboxer, transbutch, translesbian, translingual (French, Vietnamese, Yiddish)

CISIDS: wasian, mixed, white, Asian, Vietnamese, French, Bostonian, Jewish, brown hair, blue eyes, ADHD, disabled, hypermobile, dyslexic, energy drink addict, hyperactive, outgoing, confident, younger brother

PARAS: hoplophile (🔫), somnophile (💤), mesophile (🖨️), sadomasochist (❣️), autoaptophile (🍭), oplophile (🔪), mazophile, autoephebophile (🧸🫒), himephile, iatronudia, peiramaphile (🩺), autoassasinophile (✨🪓), kormáphile, cheirophile (✋), asphyxiophile (🫁)

APPEARANCE:

[egyptroyal]

@girl-in-the-tardis (because i think it would be funny)

He listened while the other spoke their grounds. Same grounds, different person parroting. All can be summarized under the umbrella term 'no funny business, clown'.

Ironic.

This was a little different - he wasn't stupid, he studied people, that's how he broke them after all - so, he knew that look. Of absence familarity.

Reminiscence always stunted those that see reminders in everything - even when there was none.

A sigh escaping him, leaning back in the chair in his orange jumpsuit. At least the New Jerseyan met the Bostonian in passing.

Not by choice and extremely brief. Forgot the name.

Now, there was no extraterrestrials, no monsters in human clothing. Well, not in the traditional sense. No noise. She was alone.

At least, technically. If one can ignore Arkham's new surveillance system in interview rooms and in front of cells. Better to have full accountability than none, it seems.

The sigh came from many things, mainly on when were they getting to the point of why they came to him.

Appearences and distractions aside, that is.

"And this is the part where you demand I help you, right? Or are we trying something new?"

[fortrivmph]

'haytham was responsible for the boston massacre he's so evil' l + i'm from boston + biggest pr stunt pre-revolution save for the tea party + 5/400 dead ( yes haytham is playing with human lives to advance his cause he's still willing to do that don't get it twisted ) + british army freaking out and punishing those responsible and sweating over the optics + organised concentrated resistance by the bostonians as a direct result + media circus and trials that tied up british representatives in boston for months. like he did throw people under the bus he couldn't control how many died and that's something he just does as a rule he's fine feeding randos to the meat grinder if it means progressing his agenda. but also the way people clutch their pearls over it like OF COURSE CONNOR HATES HIM HE STARTED A MASSACRE always gives me a little chuckle because i'm like. real massholes know that shit was blown out of proportion. also he sadly cooked with the results.

[princesssarcastia]

sometimes i do wonder about identity politics, and whether they truly serve us well. but then i remember! i live in a nasty queer progressive bubble that's not at ALL representative of reality.

If you do live in America, I can't recommend this article highly enough. Nikole Hannah Jones is inevitably going to be written down in the annals of history as one of the great writers of our time. She really truly blows the whole issue wide open, every time.

Excerpt:

Thus, the first time the court took up the issue of affirmative action, it took away the policy’s power. The court determined that affirmative action could not be used to redress the legacy of racial discrimination that Black Americans experienced, or the current systemic inequality that they were still experiencing. Instead, it allowed that some consideration of a student’s racial background could stand for one reason only: to achieve desired “diversity” of the student body. Powell referred to Harvard’s affirmative-action program, which he said had expanded to include students from other disadvantaged backgrounds, such as those from low-income families. He quoted an example from the plan, which said: “The race of an applicant may tip the balance in his favor, just as geographic origin or a life spent on a farm may tip the balance in other candidates’ cases. A farm boy from Idaho can bring something to Harvard College that a Bostonian cannot offer. Similarly, a Black student can usually bring something that a white person cannot offer.” But, of course, a (white) farm boy from Idaho did not descend from people who were enslaved, because they were farmers from Idaho. There were not two centuries of case law arguing over the inherent humanity and rights of farm boys from Idaho. There was no sector of the law, no constitutional provision, that enshrined farm boys from Idaho as property who could be bought and sold. Farm boys from Idaho had no need to engage in a decades-long movement to gain basic rights of citizenship, including the fundamental right to vote. Farm boys from Idaho had not, until just a decade earlier, been denied housing, jobs, the ability to sit on juries and access to the ballot. Farm boys from Idaho had not been forced to sue for the right to attend public schools and universities.