#moderate competence

[fantastic-nonsense]

comic sales are down because the industry is inaccessible and expensive, not because piracy exists

Higher piracy rates are what happens when you make buying comics expensive, difficult, platform-dependent, and inherently exclusionary while pretending trades and digital don't count as sales.

if any single comic book company decided to be a competent publishing company for even a year comic piracy rates would plummet

[catcactusoww]

quitting art aside from what I want to do for myself. ai has destroyed any market, and I do not want to have to be an influencer or internet personality for attention. I sincerely just want to paint whatever I want and live my life with more regular income and less stress. Thanks for the support.

[desperatepleasures]

will never complain about pple dunking on tsw//ift's generally mid music as everyone is entitled to their opinion but pple get so fuckin weird about it. like that one post that was like "well she's not a good songwriter but I have some of her songs on my fanmixes bc they're Perfectly Adequate" like why are you putting songs you don't actually like on your playlists???? if you don't enjoy listening to them or feel emotionally compelled by them in any way you can simply not use them! you already have to hear that shit on the radio so why would you intentionally listen to it only to then shame others for finding some joy or emotional catharsis out of it??

[depressedraisin]

ten thousand tabs and a google doc open, not a single thought behind my eyes

[soysaucevictim]

Med nerd brain is thinking about how the Spanish flu killed a lot of young people and people in their prime - as opposed to those of naive immune systems (young children), geriatric, and otherwise moderately immunocompromised.

The flu strain provoked a severe and life-threatening reaction called a cytokine storm. It's called the nuclear option for a reason. A strong immune system can launch a veritable Tsar Bomba of systemic havoc. Compared to the W-54 that the aforementioned systems can fire off to an infectious/malignant threat.

(This is different from anaphylactic shock. Which is related to an allergic process- something that SHOULDN'T be harmful.)

[zeromorph]

shoutout to tea because on account of having a practical nursing midterm and a pharmacology quiz coming up on the same day I have panic-chugged about eight mugs today and if all of that had been coffee I would currently be somewhere in the vicinity of lunar orbit

[endearmint-moved]

tumblr is the same website that only a couple weeks ago got back to my report of an account from NOVEMBER. and they determined it wasn't hate speech despite all the links i provided to the transphobic rhetoric on the blog

and then we've got one of the few responsive mouthpieces for tumblr staff using a meme with overtly racist origins to remark on the vanilla meme, just one day before that product release

again, where do your priorities lie??

[actualhumancryptid]

I'm at the point you get to on a Veronica Mars s2 rewatch where I'm questioning all my life choices.

[dualitysdownfall]

it's nice to have a reminder sometimes that actually there are lots and lots of people out there who know way less about the basics of using a computer than i do

[curious-sootball]

TFW a small, basically dead fandom server you're in goes past its "small and cosy gathering of fans" phase and goes straight into "decomposing corpse in a fetid cave stream" phase.

Time to jump that ship. That isn't even jumping at this point, just floating upwards

[autolenaphilia]

God, Matt Mullenweg is a dumbass. He could just have let his staff ban predstrogen, ignore her harassment and kept quiet, and he would have gotten away with it. She is a trans woman and people literally get away with murdering us, and the majority of the people who care are fellow trans women. Don't get me wrong, he will likely still get away with it, but he made this a bigger problem for him than it would have been otherwise.

Like this is more evidence that rich people are not smarter, they are often quite dumb. They don't work harder, and have quite easy jobs. Matt at this point has one of the easiest jobs in history, just let the money from wordpress being 40% of the internet roll into his bank account and relax. And he still managed to fuck that up.

That's because he took the quite minor controversy over Predstrogen being repeatedly banned personally for some reason. I'm not sure why, probably he thought his site being accused of transmisogynic moderation practices was a blow to his self-image as a cool tolerant dude.

And then he proved the critics point by repeatedly misgendering her, and singling her out by him, the ceo of tumblr, personally justifying her being banned. And then arguing about it with randos in replies and even dms. Like he points out himself that "We generally do not comment on individual cases." That's generally a good policy for a ceo of a social media site to have, Matt, don't ever make an exception to it, no matter how upset you are about "misinformation" that you are a transmisogynist.

Like his company's PR team must have been literally asleep or off the clock, or he didn't consult with them beforehand, because if they were in any way competent they would have told him what a bad idea this was.

[mariacallous]

https://meidasnews.com/news/republican-mayor-of-3rd-largest-city-in-az-endorses-harris

John Giles, the Republican Mayor of Mesa, Arizona, wrote an OpEd today for the Arizona Republic stating the reasons why he is endorsing Kamala Harris for President. Mesa is the 3rd largest city in Arizona, and the Arizona Republic is the largest newspaper by circulation in the crucial battleground state. 

Giles listed the following reasons why he can't support Donald Trump: 1. He refused to accept the outcome of the 2020 election, and continues to do so. 2. He continues to trash the American legal system to delegitimize it. 3. He orchestrated the "fake elector" scheme in Arizona. 4. He orchestrated the sham "audit" of the election by the Arizona Senate and Cyber Ninjas. 5. He blocked the bipartisan border bill negotiated in the Senate. 6. He treated Infrastructure Week like a joke when cities like his badly needed it.

7. He is a convicted felon and threat to the nation. 8. He has threatened to abandoned NATO. 9. He has eroded public confidence in our institutions. 10. His advisors and associates drafted Project 2025, which is a threat to our freedoms. 11. He is crude and vulgar. Giles then listed the reasons why he isn't just anti-Trump, he is also pro-Harris: 1. The Administration delivered on their promise with infrastructure funding for the Phoenix-Mesa Airport, and made technological investments in the transportation sector. 2. Thousands of new jobs are being created in Arizona with the CHIPS Act. 3. She has taken a strong stand against gun violence. 4. She has taken a strong stand for women's rights which are under assault from MAGA Republicans.

Giles then concluded with the following: "We can choose a future for our children and grandchildren based on decency, respect and morality — or succumb to the crudeness and vulgarity of Trump and J.D. Vance and the far-right agenda they would champion.

Arizona leaders like McCain and Sen. Mark Kelly have embodied the commitment to country over party. And it’s that same high caliber of character and leadership I see in Vice President Harris.

That’s why I’m standing with her. Kamala Harris is the competent, just and fair leader our country deserves. This year too much is at stake to vote Republican at the top of the ticket.

It will take Arizona Republicans, independents and Democrats standing together against a far-right agenda. Let us put country over party by voting to stop Trump and protect our democracy."

Powerful stuff. 

Winning back Arizona is crucial for Donald Trump. It is difficult to see any electoral path to victory for Trump without Arizona. He has continued to support candidates in that state like Kari Lake and Blake Masters who are toxic to moderate voters. He continues to attack the McCain family, who remain popular with those same moderate Arizona voters. 

This endorsement by Giles certainly doesn't help Donald Trump, and gives a big boost to Kamala Harris in Arizona.

[yzzart]

── ★｡𖦹°‧ KENJI SATO SEEING THE SCRATCHES ON HIS BACK .ᐟ

୭˚. ᵎᵎ content warnings: mention of sex, oral, back scratching, sexual content.

⭑.ᐟ Everything happened, properly, while Kenji was getting ready to mark his presence, alongside the team, heading to the arena for the match later on. — Coach Shimura ordered him to appear early, something that bothered the player. — Sato didn't need this, it was something dispensable, and he was forced to agree.

⤷ Due to the fact that he was unfortunately removed from your side; unable to cling to your body, cling to your touch or worship, lasciviously. — Longing to feel you once again; even though he had done this moments ago, he was still insatiated by you. — God, just by clicking his tongue, your taste reached his palate.

⭑.ᐟ Getting up from the bed, half-heartedly and with little enthusiasm, and admiring your serene and moderate image as you rested, Kenji fought the urge to ignore the order and lie down next to you; unfortunately and evidently, the sense of responsibility spoke louder.

⤷ And, knowing you like the back of his hand, Kenji knew you would disapprove of him if he did that. — Like a good boyfriend, he wouldn't make you upset.

⭑.ᐟ On his walk to the bathroom, assuming that he could put an end to the indolence that coursed through his body, Sato did not fail to feel some burning pains, small discomforts in his back, awkwardly running his hand around the area. — Ignoring, for now, the mental questions and went to the mirror.

⭑.ᐟ Kenji could already imagine the coach's voice echoing, unbearably, in his ears, scolding him for arriving at least a few minutes later than expected; and he was already reasoning out the most understandable excuse in his mind. — Or he would just say "don't worry, it won't hinder our competence", no, better not; but deep down he would like to say that.

⭑.ᐟ In front of the mirror, which showed his hair, in pure disarray and mess and his discouraged face, feeling bored, but, enigmatically, seductive, Kenji is worried, once again, about the discomforts of his back. — While uttering incoherent mumbles and swear words and directing his hand towards his skin for the second time, Sato allowed himself to turn towards the reflective glass, wanting to know what was bothering him so much.

⤷ And that's how he came across your art.

⭑.ᐟ Kenji's eyes examined, in fact, venerated with prudence and eccentric attention the marks, made by your nails, prominent and so protruding and, at the same time, deliciously burning exposed on his back; expressing an exotic, inconceivable and voluptuous sexual countenance. — The red lines, which blended into the tone of his skin, burned him both physically and mentally.

⤷ He couldn't imagine — oh, this cynical, shameless man believed it — that there was a small, furtive possessive streak coursing through your blood as you yearned, longed, to mark him.

⭑.ᐟ His fingers moved, still in disbelief, over a part of the skin he could reach, and he felt the current protuberances there and Kenji's lips couldn't stop themselves from forming a slutty, depraved smile. — He fucking loved what he was seeing, maybe more than he should have.

⤷ The moans, whimpers, and murmurs, that begged with desire for more, that came out of your beautiful mouth cried out in Kenji's mind; remembering, again, them like a song lyric he had memorized. — Sato began to identify a pulse, a throbbing in his dick and a wave of excitement flood his chest.

⭑.ᐟ Your boyfriend didn't care how fast he had to get to the arena, he would miss the time anyway, and then he contemplated what was captivated about him. — Showing off his corpulent, athletic back, wanting to see the marks better and not wanting them to disappear from view. — Kenji would beg for more of them later, he was sure of it.

⤷ Well, you better pray your nails don't break.

[softgrungeprophet]

one of these days i'll draw some of the other dancers....

[pissvortex]

we have come to a point where i think we need to acknowledge that social media moderation as a concept is completely broken - rules are created by well meaning people for good reasons, but because of the infeasibility of human moderators actually giving each of these cases due diligence and making a decision that is widely agreed with, it’s largely just automated. it comes down to whoever hits the report button more and when. with social media as a whole being fractured into all of these individual corporate entities with no cohesive unifying operating procedures, there is probably no good solution to this other than moving away from social media platforms and focusing on smaller self-contained / community run online groups.

we’re probably already seeing this happening with the massive popularity of discord communities while social media companies flounder and shrivel up around us. as a matter of fact we have already seen this happen for most of the internet’s existence - they were called “Forums”. it’s pretty obvious that social media was only really good at facilitating the creation of these pockets of community anyways, but the nature of social media as a “platform” that must be as profitable as possible only ever forced these social clusters together in a way that drove engagement via arguments.

as hard as it is to imagine for people who grew up in a world where the default state of being online was competing for massive attention in full view of the entire public on these massive platforms, it’s probably going to be looked back on as a short-lived and failed experiment.

[skzdarlings]

lady-like ; skz ; chan x reader

original ask: requested by anonymous: ❛ i'd say you need someone to put you in your place. ❜ W CHAN I BEG OF YOU + original ask: requested by anonymous: “You want gentle? Wrong fucking address”+ Chan <3

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: enemies to lovers, established lovers. criminal!chan, masked!chan. dom!chan, sub!reader (background mentions of switching). choking, floor sex, rough sex, dirty talk. brief mention of some sexism in the workplace. word count: 2050 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy!

-

It is the middle of the night and you are patrolling the art gallery yourself.  You do not trust your colleagues or the security team tonight.  No one believes there is any way to track the SKZ gang but you have found an undoubted pattern.  That motley band of thieves have struck this gallery more than once, making off with paintings and artifacts alike, but tonight you will catch them.

Tonight you will catch him.   

Your thought conjures him like a devil.  You turn a corner and a gloved hand escapes the shadows, covering your mouth.  You are yanked backwards, right into his chest, your back to his front. 

You feel a moment of satisfaction because ha, you were right.  No one believed you but you knew SKZ would strike tonight. 

Then you are furious because those rotten thugs are probably making off with a priceless artifact while their leader holds you hostage. 

“Hey there,” Bang Chan says in that too-friendly drawl.  “How’s my favourite girl tonight?”

You try biting his hand but the leather of his glove is quite thick.  Probably on purpose.  You have left more than one bite mark on him in past encounters.   

“Ah-nah-nah,” he says, steadying you when you wriggle. “Stop that.  We both know how this ends.  Let’s play nice this time instead, yeah?” 

You answer by stomping on his foot and throwing your head back.  The smack surprises him and he stumbles, giving you an opportunity to turn and brace yourself in a more defensible stance.  You face him, hands up, adrenaline thundering through your body. 

Chan is wearing all black, including a beanie and mask.  He removes the hat, revealing hair just as black, but keeps the mask while rubbing his jaw.  The half-hidden face somehow makes the dark intensity of his eyes look even more severe. 

You and Chan have a played a long game of cat-and-mouse.  You are so used to his teasing that you almost forget he is dangerously competent man.  A criminal.  A criminal you despise.   A criminal who is undoubtedly grinning at you under that mask, given the way his eyes crinkle with mirth.  It should not make your heart race. 

“Ouch,” he says.  He takes a step towards you, inching out of the shadows.  “You’ve been training.  Impressive.” 

“Not like I had a choice,” you snap. “Some no good criminal keeps attacking my art gallery.” 

“Criminal, yeah,” Chan says.  “But no good?  Really?”  He flicks a hand your way, not so much striking as testing your reflexes.  You bat it successfully and his eyebrows lift, showing he is moderately impressed.  

“You’re a dirty thief,” you say, taking a swing of your own.  Yours is much more deliberate, swinging at his head, but he dodges just as easily. 

You scamper backwards, his booted steps following swiftly.  You keep your hands up in defense.  He is still smirking under that mask. 

“Thief, yeah,” he continues to tease.  “But dirty?  Well… I suppose you’d know…” 

Heat pulses under your skin. 

This cat-and-mouse game has crossed many lines.  You cannot even remember how it first happened.  It feels like Bang Chan has always been in the shadows, stealing paintings and kisses alike.  One moment you were snarking at the infuriating cat burglar, then your hands were in his hair and his mouth was on yours. 

Sometimes he wins, distracting you or holding you, giving his team time to make off with something.  Sometimes you win, trapping him or his men and only letting them go if they relinquish their prize.  Weirdly, Chan seems to like it when you outsmart him.  It quite literally puts him on his knees.

Flustered, your next swing is more emotional than strategic.  He catches your arm and spins you again, trapping you against his body.  You grunt and struggle in his arms. 

“That’s not very polite, you know,” he says.  “I thought you said you were a lady.”

Yes, you have made such an insistence in the past, reminding him you are a lady of class, an educated woman, an intelligent academic.  He did not argue.  He did pin you to the wall and choke you in that infuriatingly delicious way, the way that gets you coming all over his hand in a second.   That’s it, he said, with a hand around your throat and another under your skirt.  Tell me what a lady you are.  Letting a criminal like me make you come.  Tsk, what would your co-workers say? 

You stamp the memory down because it is getting you hot.   He is holding you differently than before, so you cannot swing your head back again.  You writhe uselessly. 

“I didn’t just say I was a lady,” you snap.  “I am a lady.  I am a respected professional, unlike you—”

“I’m respected and professional, thank you,” he says, his tone still bright like he is having fun. 

It is fun. You hate to admit it, but it is.  Before he started breaking into your galleries, every day was the same.  Your life was such a monotony and you dread returning to it. There is a reason you never call the authorities on him.  There would be no triumph in that demise. You would lament his absence and forever feel like business went unfinished. 

You are satisfied when you can face this dangerous man and win, when you can push him on his back and put him in his place, when all that danger and power and skill surrenders to you and you alone.  Because Bang Chan has a notorious reputation for a lot of things, but fraternizing with civilians is not one of them.   

Except you. 

Except right now. 

“You know what I say, little miss lady?” he asks.

He gives you no time to answer.  Your breath catches when he circles that gloved hand around your throat and squeezes.  It softens every part of you immediately, like a kitten grabbed by the scruff, instinctively and animalistically submissive in the claws of something powerful. 

You whimper, your knees going weak.  You know you are wet.  You know he knows. 

He pulls you against him.  You can feel every hard plane of his body, his bulky body armour, his weapons.  You feel either a buckle or his bulge against your body, but either way it is irrevocably suggestive.   When you wriggle, he squeezes your throat, and you go pliant again. 

“I’d say,” he whispers, “you need someone to put you in your place.”   

Oh, he has talked about your place many times before.  It’s with me, he will insist, fucking you within an inch of your life, making you come again and again, putting you on your knees and bringing out all the hidden dark and dirty parts of yourself.  Come on, he will say, we’re perfect for each other, yeah? You know it.  Join my team.  Come with me. 

You do admit, he respects your keen eye and talent, and he acknowledges your expertise far more than the other people at your gallery.  It took a year to even be allowed to do substantial tasks, relegated to fetching everyone’s coffee, getting spoken down to because you were a woman whose ambition was considered a nuisance. 

That is not enough to resort to a criminal life.  Surely? 

But for a moment, you can imagine giving into the darkness permanently.  Tonight, it is you that surrenders as he drags you both into the shadows and onto the floor.  He takes off his jacket and lays it out, pushing you down face-first onto it.  You take a dizzying gulp of air while his hands are occupied, removing his gloves, unbuckling his utility belt.   

You wait for the moment he lifts your skirt.  His breath catches when he realizes you are not wearing anything underneath.

You yelp because he smacks your ass.  You look back at him with as much fury as you can muster in your haze of lust. 

“A lady,” he says, grabbing your hips and tugging you back.  “Sure.” 

“I am,” you say, but your voice is rough, your breathing heavy just from his bare fingers gliding down your wet pussy, the evidence of your desire betraying your claims of propriety. 

“Sure, baby girl,” he says, because he knows it annoys you even while it makes you clench.  He can see the evidence of that too, swearing as he looks at you, making you feel even more exposed and flustered.   “You’re made for me, you know that, sweetheart?  Always feel so good on my dick.  God.” 

“You’re taking your time tonight,” you say dryly.  “Getting sentimental?  Turning into the slow and gentle type?” 

He laughs.  Then he grabs you by the neck, pinning you to the floor as he sidles up behind you.  The head of his cock presses at your entrance, wet with anticipation. 

“You want gentle?” he asks.  He is inside you with one deep thrust.  “Wrong fucking address.”

The truth is, even when rough, he is careful.  Your face never leaves his jacket and he knows where to squeeze and hit and press properly.   Bizarrely, ridiculously, you are safe in this criminal’s dangerous hands.   The biggest threat they pose are just how skilled and deft they are, making you forget about all of those details as he manhandles you and fucks your worries away. 

He wraps a hand around your throat and lifts you.  He is still in his mask, still almost entirely clothed except his undone fly.  Your skirt is up, your shirt in disarray, your chest and throat exposed to his hands.  You can hear him panting into his mask, your own breath as wild until he steals it.  You clench around him, making a weak, ragged sound as he chokes you and pounds into you. 

“You’re not gonna come like this, are ya?” he taunts, because he knows your body well, can feel you are the on verge just from his angles and rhythm.  “Tsk,” he says.  “That’s not very lady-like.”

You would tell him to shut up, but you can only manage a weepy moan as he drives you over the edge of a mind-numbing orgasm.  You feel drenched, dripping down your thighs, and he still doesn’t relent, pushing you back down and holding your hips as he drills through every sensitive nerve. 

“Fuck,” you say, twisting your fingers around his jacket.  Your knees will probably be bruised after this.  No short skirts or everyone will know something happened.  Would they guess you let the most notorious burglar in the country arch your back and fuck you on the floor?  Probably not.  You have always been a stickler for rules. 

Until this.  Until him. 

“Chan,” you say, breathless, rasping.  “Chan.”

“Fuck,” he says.  Then the weight of him is on your back, his hips grinding into yours.  His masked face brushes your ear and he speaks in a low voice, “Guess where I’m coming tonight, baby girl.” 

Your walls are still fluttering with aftershocks, pulling him deeper at his words.  It is not the first time, no.  God only knows how long ago that conversation first happened, telling him it was safe, how much you wanted it.   Letting him do things you never let anyone else do.  Breaking all your rules for him. 

“Fuck, Chan,” you say. 

“Yeah, baby,” he rasps.  “That’s who’s fucking you.  No one fucks you like I do.  God.  You can take it.  So good.” 

You can feel when he comes, his chest vibrating with his groan, the warmth inside you.  You slump in his arms, ravaged and sore and not the least bit sorry for it. 

You should be.  He won this round.  You should be furious at him.  You should be threatening him.  Your usual rapport. 

His mask comes off.  You hear it hit the floor.  Then he is grabbing your jaw and turning your face and kissing you deeply.  He holds your throat, not threateningly but possessively.  He is kissing you for so long, you almost forget who you are.  Then you surface.  You look at each other. 

“Come with me,” he says. 

The haze of lust has vanished.  You should be thinking clearly.  You fear, for the first time, you are.    

You suppose he has stolen everything else, why not you too? 

You put your hand in his.