#none of them are polite

[lady-phasma]

just thots

[followthebluebell]

every year, my boss buys a few cat calendars for our workplace. Due to some sort of mix-up, we accidentally got a few naked women calendars this year.

Normally, that's where the story would end. It would just be a mildly amusing mistake.

But it becomes absolutely fucking hilarious because I opened up the calendar package in front of clients today. One moment, we're just discussing the cats up for adoption and if their current cat might be willing to accept a new baby brother/sister and bam. Suddenly it went all tits up the second I picked up one of the calendars and actually looked at the damn thing.

Unfortunately, the clients ALSO looked at it.

None of us wanted this to happen. None of us knew how to respond to it. There's nothing in any social protocol that could have prepared us for this.

There was just like thirty solid seconds of absolutely dead silence as we all tried to think of the most polite thing to say.

"Wow," i said, because I'm entirely braindead at this point. "Not the kind of pussy I expected to encounter today."

Thankfully, they thought it was hilarious. It probably wasn't the most politic thing to say, but it was very funny to at least three people.

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake Accidentally Takes Over the World (and Didn’t Think to Mention It)

So, Janet somehow spent decades climbing her way into every government worth a damn, ruling the entire world from behind the scenes. And then, because the universe is apparently wild, she left it all to Tim.

Cut to Tim Drake, the brand-new, completely reluctant secret ruler of the entire planet. And he just… never really thought it was worth mentioning?

The Batfam finds out when Bruce stumbles across an encrypted memo traced to a mysterious Gotham office with Tim’s name on it.

Bruce, holding up the memo: “Tim. Want to explain why this document about, oh, international finance reforms is signed with your encryption key?”

Tim, not even looking up from his laptop: “Oh, yeah. That. Janet left me her ‘global influence portfolio’ or whatever. Mostly paperwork.”

The Batfam stares in total shock.

Dick sputters nearly dropping his coffee: "Wait—you’ve been managing world policies?!”

Tim, shrugging, barely paying attention as he emails the president of Germany: “Well, yeah. I figured someone had to keep things running. It's not that big a deal. I mostly just redirect some policies. You know, keep things running smoothly.”

Jason, absolutely cackling: “Are you telling me that little Replacement here is the reason for half the ‘global cooperation’ headlines?”

Tim, scrolling through emails: “They send me reports; I send suggestions. And honestly, they make it way more dramatic than it is. It's not that hard."

Barbara stares at him, half horrified, half impressed. “How did we not notice this?”

Tim blinks. “I mean, it’s not like I was actively hiding it. I assumed you guys knew I was… kind of managing these things?”

Cue utter disbelief.

Stephanie, laughing too hard to breathe: “Tim, do you have world leaders on speed dial?”

Tim, completely unfazed: “Only the important ones. They text, mostly. Oh—by the way, I might’ve influenced a minor arms control thing last week. Don’t worry; it’s all sorted.”

Bruce, looking like he’s two seconds from fainting: “Sorted? Tim, we're talking about you having global authority here. People notice these things."

Tim shrugs again as his phone buzzes with notifications. “Sure, but it’s not like they’re going to do anything too crazy. I just suggest stuff, and they listen. Honestly, it’s like herding really powerful, really overdramatic cats.”

Damian, scandalized: “You mean to tell me, Drake, that you’re manipulating world politics like it’s a game of checkers?”

Tim, still casual: “Manipulating’s a strong word. Like I said, it’s more just nudging things along.” His phone buzzes again. “Oh, hang on. France is panicking about their energy policy again.”

The Batfam tries to process the fact that Tim—Tim, who routinely forgets what day it is—is now, somehow, running the world.

And then his phone buzzes with a message from the UN Security Council.

Tim sighs, glancing down. “Oh, great. Looks like they’re debating nuclear arms again. Be right back.”

Meanwhile, the Batfam is left absolutely speechless, processing the fact that their Tim—scrawny, coffee-fueled Tim—is apparently one of the most powerful people on the planet. And to him its just another tuesday.

[thefloatingstone]

Appleseed PDA montage to save you from reading endless pages of unimportant politics that don't amount to anything

also because I have nothing better to do, I'm bored, I'm moody, my gaming laptop is still broken so no BG3, and it's too late at night to start drawing after doing animation clean-up all day.

[ladyinrainbowglasses]

So... I read Trump's executive order trying to ban trans people.

It says "at conception."

Which means everyone is now legally female.

[grandapplewit]

Harem AU where Shen Yuan transmigrates into one of Bingge’s wives shortly after he returns from the other world. After a brief (and frantic) realization that’s she’s a woman (and always has been, but we’re not getting into that right now), she delves deep into this harem drama she’s been thrust into. It’s not until she comes face to face with Luo Bingge that she realizes just WHICH harem drama she’s living, and immediately sets about making his life as good as she can manage. Oh, harem infighting is causing strain on his containers? Simply nudge Liu Mingyan and Sha Hualing into working together to manage the harem. The Northern Desert is hinging on disaster because of clerical neglect? One of her harem sisters has a brother who’s in need of a job, no stress. Luo Binghe’s kids are unruly and there’s no clear successor? She has a college degree and a little sister, teaching a dozen or so demonic children is a breeze! All in the name of giving Luo Binghe the time to find a new wife, of course, one who will disperse with the need for this sprawling harem, and once that happens she’s free to travel and document monsters to her hearts content.

[fictionadventurer]

Maybe the problem with Christian fiction is that it's non-denominational. People are just "Christian", with no effort put into showing what practicing that religion looks like for them specifically. No indication that there are other Christians who could have different beliefs. No wrestling with differing ideas and the struggle of how one should live out their Christian faith. And that makes it unrealistic and unrelatable.

[lady-raziel]

I need the progressives to have a response to everything that’s happening that isn’t just this fucking image (challenge level: impossible)

[sforzesco]

hey! hi! the cartoonist cooperative has an e-sim drive for gaza, offering art for e-sim donations (instructions etc in the link)

[novelconcepts]

There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.

Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.

Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).

But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?

How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.

How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.

How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.

How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?

All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?

They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.

[navree]

"rhaenys could have ended the war by dracarysing all the greens right there" yes because a distant relation to the throne deciding to barbecue an anointed and publicly positively hailed king and his entire family who is well loved within the city and in multiple other parts of the country for the sake of the succession of a far-away princess no one was ever on board with who hasn't been seen by the populace in literal years, her psycho husband, her three obvious bastards, and two toddlers from the psycho husband would go over super well with westeros and especially in king's landing where scores of the still-cheering population were killed for no reason by that same dragon who would do the barbecuing, because when targaryens act unilaterally without thinking of how the people would react there's never any problem, which is why the storming of the dragonpit and robert's rebellion were actually just collective delusions dreamed up by readers who hate rhaenyra and not key parts of the story and house targaryen's history that directly contributed to their demise and are intrinsic to the plot

truly team black stans are made up of only the most genius and media literate amongst us

[messrsrarchives]

if you are one of the people who goes to comment sections on jegulus or snape posts, who talks about the DE characters having a place etc etc, i hope this is a wake-up call. i really do.

if you are one of the people that throws around the word nazi when you see this content and the term nazi sympathiser to the people engaging in it? in the nicest way possible, wake the fuck up.

it's important to discuss politics in literature, absolutely. but this is a fandom space and the things people ship have absolutely no repercussions on the real world, nor does it reflect their personal views.

this does.

the richest man in the world doing two back to back nazi salutes at a presidential rally for the most powerful country on the world stage? that has repercussions worldwide.

that has the EU looking at X. that has the EU worrying about X because europe took a massive shift to the right after trump's last presidency and the german government has collapsed. that has the EU worried about the influence of a nazi salute on germany's upcoming elections next month. when the us "government" is run by someone who likes AfD (an extremist far-right german political party), and the richest man in the world stands and does a nazi salute. two, mind you. two nazi salutes back to back?

THAT has repercussions worldwide. not fictional character james potter fictionally kissing fictional character regulus black.

i am normally a lot nicer when i address these things but point blank: you are a vile fucking person if you care more about the fictional politics in a fandom space than the real politics that is playing out right now.

these words in fandom have made so many people so uncomfortable for so long. they have tried to explain how uncomfortable it is to come to their SAFE SPACE and see these words thrown around, to have them themselves be called one when they and their families have been affected.

yall ran to tiktok and cried over americans using the word sweater instead of jumper. yall ran to tiktok and said that words. have. meaning?

apply that here. words have meaning. stop throwing them around and put this energy into real world politics if you're so passionate about stamping out nazi ideology.

[greenleaf4stuff]

Of Convenience 3

(all previous parts of "Of Convenience")

Adar x Celebrimbor (silverscars) political marriage AU, 3rd snippet. Officiator found, Adar and Celebrimbor get right down to business and get wed in the uruk camp. However, there is an unforseen hurdle. Celebrimbor ends up being the voice of reason this time around – with unexpectedly nice consequences. (aka, a kiss)

I feel like my muse has lured me in with candy (the political marriage AU idea) and is now holding me captive (making me write more snippets). Not like I have like. 20 ideas in my ideas folder and two other WIPs open or anything like that. Nuh-uh. I feel like I have gotten completely blindsided but – I am having an absolute blast so far?! Let’s see how far this wave will carry me, shall we?

(Also a big huge Thank You to everyone who has commented and liked and reblogged and sent me messages about these snippets, it’s been an absolute delight and I partly credit your lovely encouragement with why I have gotten so invested in this.)

They got through the 'ceremony' much better than Celebrimbor had expected. Between Galadriel's lingering reluctance and their shared lack of in-depth knowledge on how elven marriages were to be officiated, it had taken them a while to work out all the details (Adar had helped out in that regard, to both Celebrimbor’s and Galadriel’s surprise) – and then one of the uruk had demanded the two husbands-to-be add some words that included Adar's children and the marriage's legitimacy among them into the vows.

Safe to say, trying to get Galadriel and the uruk - Glug, if Celebrimbor was not mistaken - to settle down after this had been a bit of a hassle.

But still, they got through it - without cussing, without bloodshed, without attempts on one of the grooms' lives (Celebrimbor was considering Galadriel with newfound respect as he acknowledged that particular feat), and so the smith would count the proceedings as a victory. He'd had very few of those in the last few weeks, and would take it for what it was.

However, when it came to the end of the wedding ceremony, another problem arose:

"No," Adar flatly stated. It caused Celebrimbor to blink in surprise, and Galadriel to glare at the uruk from where she stood next to the two future husbands. Adar's face had hardened into a grimace of disapproval. "There must be a way to circumvent this."

What he was talking about was, of course, the part during which he and Celebrimbor were meant to kiss to seal the marriage. It was a common practice, not just among elves but men and dwarves as well. That Adar either hadn't anticipated it, or would now make such a fuss about it after having championed a political marriage as their primary option of cooperation, was baffling, to say the least.

Celebrimbor knit his eyebrows in confusion, even as Galadriel spoke. "Orc- Uruk. You pushed for this to take place, you cannot possibly think to stop now when we have almost reached an accord and bound the two of you-"

"I will not kiss him," Adar replied. This time, there was steel in his voice. "He accepted a political marriage, not one of passion. He clearly does not want to kiss me. I will not force him into it."

Judging by Galadriel's resulting look, she was taken just as off-guard by Adar's words and the smith was.

Coupled with Adar's strained expression, Celebrimbor couldn't help but feel warm at the other's objections.

The uruk had told him he wouldn't touch Celebrimbor without permission, that he would not force him. This had clearly been important to him, even before he'd fetched Galadriel. That it went so far as to include a kiss to seal their arrangement was doing something to Celebrimbor's stomach, and made him feel unexpectedly safe. Confident, even.

He could see that Galadriel and Adar were ready to get into yet another spat, so the smith stepped forward and slowly – very slowly – raised his hands to Adar's face.

The uruk briefly startled, surprised at the elf's brazen gesture, and it took him some obvious effort to untense again. Still, when Celebrimbor brought his hands up to the his cheeks, the uruk did not withdraw.

The feel of Adar's rough, scarred skin under Celebrimbor's fingertips sent a shock through the smith. The other was warmer than he had expected.

Up this close, Adar had green-blue eyes. And they were so completely focused on the smith that it almost stole his the air from his lungs.

"Adar," he tried, and could have sworn that the other had sucked in a breath as he spoke the uruk's name. "You were right, this arrangement is our best chance to avoid a bloody, gruesome war that would claim the lives of countless people – those of my fellow elves, and your children," he spoke back the uruk's words at him, as if reminding him.

"I trust you not to betray this alliance, and I trust you not to hurt me. You haven't so far. I allow you to-," it wouldn't help his case if his words failed him now. "To kiss me. It is part of the ceremony. It will take but a moment. I am allowing you to do this. Maybe neither of us has a desire for it, but, it is no hardship if done for a lasting peace."

Adar looked torn, mouth pinched and eyebrows furrowed, as he stared at Celebrimbor.

The smith tried again. "If you are holding back only for my sake, you do not have to. Truly. Though if it is because you are having second thoughts-"

"That is not it," the uruk spoke, voice brash, and he needed a moment reign himself in again. Celebrimbor waited with bated breath – his fingers still rested on Adar's cheeks, and the uruk hadn't even made an attempt to grab them or shake them away from his body. "I said I would not force you."

"You are not forcing me," Celebrimbor disputed, and leant closer. He could see Adar's eyes widen as he almost touched their foreheads together. The way the uruk’s mouth unconsciously opened made Celebrimbor feel even warmer, and he pressed forward with his words. "I could imagine far worse choices for a marriage, or even a kiss. You needn't fear for my comfort."

Granted, not exactly the most elegant thing to say to a man who would soon be bound to his side and commandeer a huge, deadly army straight towards Ost-In-Edhil, but it was the best Celebrimbor could come up with – without obviously lying, or giving away how the the thought of kissing Adar did in fact at least stirr something within him. A little.

He'd never just been interested in elves as potential partners, but he'd never thought he'd find himself in the position of kissing an orc- er, uruk.

Nor that he'd be even remotely interested in wanting to.

It was, indeed, a very strange day.

Maybe some of his thoughts had shown on his face, or perhaps his shoddy attempt of making Adar feel at peace had done some good after all, but the uruk eventually dropped his strained expression and exchanged it for a slightly guarded, but more relieved one. He nodded. "If you are sure."

"Surest I will be, considering the circumstances," Celebrimbor said with a tiny laugh, before he sobered again. "Apologies. But yes, I am sure. You may kiss me. Let us do this."

Somehow, his words did the trick, because when the smith leant forward, Adar did the same.

At the edge of his awareness, Celebrimbor could hear Galadriel gasp and the uruk guards make noises of disgust as they – very loudly – turned away from the proceedings.

But all that seemed to fall away when compared to the feeling of touching his lips to Adar's. It was a chaste kiss, just a press of lips really, but it was...surprisingly nice. Adar's lips were softer than Celebrimbor had expected, slightly parted and as warm as his cheeks.

Their noses brushed as the two moved closer together, and after a moment, there was a gauntleted hand on Celebrimbor's shoulder as Adar tried to balance himself. And soon after that, a second hand – slow and cautious – grasped his elbow.

Physical contact, yes, but it was done in such a considerate and respectful way that Celebrimbor hadn't seen it coming. He felt his belly quiver once more, this time more strongly than when he'd first considered what touching Adar might be like. It was hard, not to lean fully into the kiss – into the uruk – and just sink into the touch like he would into a hot bath.

When Adar drew away from the kiss, Celebrimbor realized with a start that he'd closed his eyes some time during it. Judging by how Adar had to reorient himself, he'd likely had the same happen as well.

'Huh,' the smith thought, and followed Adar's example as they untangled their hands from each other. Adar even brushed down the smith's robe before he retracted his hand from Celebrimbor’s elbow, while the elf couldn't help letting his hand touch Adar's hair as he dropped his arms.

It, too, was unexpectedly soft.

Flustered, he turned to Galadriel, ready to have her announce the marriage as officiated.

And felt the need to avert his gaze at the near scandalized, wide-eyed way Galadriel was looking at him, mouth open and all.

'Why isn't Elrond here to witness this? I thought there was absolutely no way to turn Galadriel of the Golden House of Finarfin speechless. He surely won't believe me when I tell him,' Celebrimbor thought, just a touch hysterical.

"That should be it, right? The wedding has been performed," Adar stated. He was once again standing next to the large table in the center of the tent, ready to down another glass of wine. Celebrimbor couldn't help thinking that so much wine before a battle could not be a good idea, but who knew what kind of a tolerance the uruk had.

Truth be told, Celebrimbor could probably use a glass himself, all things considered.

When Adar offered him one unexpectedly a moment later, the smith took it with a surprised but pleased expression, and thanked the other for it. Adar dismissed it, though not unkindly.

Finally, Galadriel found her voice again. Not without a sputter at first, however.

"You are right. You are now bound together. It...it is done."

"Well then. Cheers," was Celebrimbor’s reply to that, stated drily, before he downed his glass. Not the kind of wedding he'd imagined for himself, but well. At least he didn't have to invite Thranduil. That had to count for something, right?

[rotzaprachim]

the lesson of the 20th century is that dictatorships are popular and can sprout up anywhere given the right social circumstances (usually economic and social upheaval) and that absolutely no culture, religion (including atheism), or economic system is free from them. There’s always another way to hang someone

[stackslip]

oh no! arcane act 2 is like. really, horrendously bad, every bit of it. my gd

[wylldebee]

Was thinking about an AU where Bianca lives—but all I can think of is how much trouble all Big Three kiddos can get into together because demigod luck + being children of the Big Three = chaos, and now I'm imagining something exploding in the distance. There's screaming, monster roars followed by pained cries, and last minute plans that somehow worked. Both camps just heave a big collective sigh.