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We had to do Kinetic typography in class today. I chose a very important audio clip

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LISTEN UP AGAIN KIDS STOP REBLOGGING THIS FUCKING GARBAGE POST. IT IS 100% FUCKING BULLSHIT AND CAN AND MOST DEFINITELY WILL LITERALLY KILL. DO YOU NOT SEE WARNING LABELS THAT SAY “DO NOT INDUCE VOMITING”? THEY AREN’T FUCKING AROUND. YOU CAN FUCKING BURN THEIR ESOPHAGUS BY CAUSING VOMITING, CAUSE CHOKING, DROWNING, OR MAKE IT WORSE! AGAIN DO NOT FORCE ANYTHING DOWN ANYONE’S THROAT. THEY. CAN. DROWN. IF SOMEONE IS LOSING CONCIOUSNESS ALL THE CHIT CHAT IN THE WORLD WILL NOT PREVENT IT AT THAT POINT THEY ARE IN SERIOUS DANGER. “Buuut i don’t wanna take them to the hospital!!!” WELL SUNSHINE GLAD YOU’D RATHER HAVE A DEAD FRIEND THAN A LIVING ONE BUT YOU’RE IN LUCK CALL FUCKING POISON CONTROL. THEY ARE NOT THE COPS. THEY WILL HELP YOU. AND IF THEY SAY GO TO THE FUCKING HOSPITAL YOU GO TO THE FUCKING HOSPITAL. NO EXCUSES. 0. NONE. I have seen this shit cross my dash SO MANY TIMES so PLEASE fucking reblog this and prevent some well meaning idiot from accidentally killing someone they love!

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Comic strip artists from the 40’s draw their characters while blindfolded

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Have A Nice Day!

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Ghost of a Chance

Gotham was not a city known for its kindness. Rain slicked the alleyways like a second skin, and shadows crept where sunlight dared not linger. Alfred Pennyworth had seen a great many things in this city. Muggers, monsters, and masked madmen were just part of the nightly routine. What he hadn't expected, however, was to be saved by a ghost.

Or something very much like one.

It was supposed to be a quick errand—a quiet evening walk to clear his head. But halfway down Burnside, three desperate men with more bravado than brains cornered him. Alfred had been ready to disarm the first and disable the second, but he never got the chance. A blur of white and black swooped in, accompanied by the distant, bone-deep hum of unnatural power. The muggers were down in seconds—one frozen to the wall, another knocked out cold, and the third suspended midair by a glowing hand that flickered green.

The boy was there and gone just as fast. Alfred barely had time to register the tattered hoodie, the hollow cheeks, the white hair and green eyes that didn’t seem quite human.

"Wait—!" Alfred had called, but the boy was already gone, melting into the shadows like smoke.

The encounter would’ve ended there—just another strange chapter in Gotham’s nightbook—if it hadn’t kept happening.

Twice more, the mysterious young man appeared. Once to stop a purse snatcher near the theater. Another time to drag a lost child out of a crumbling building during a fire. Always fast, always silent. Always gone before Alfred could properly speak to him.

And always too thin.

It was the kind of thin that spoke of long nights without food. Hollow cheeks, knobby elbows, a belt cinched too tight around jeans that barely stayed up. It reminded Alfred of the early days—of Dick, of Jason, of Tim, of Damian. Of boys who had learned to survive instead of live.

Alfred Pennyworth had a rule: no one went hungry on his watch.

And so began his campaign.

At first, it was subtle. A wrapped sandwich left behind after one of the ghost-boy’s heroic appearances. A thermos of hot tea left conveniently near a rooftop perch. A backpack, clean and durable, filled with protein bars and fresh socks. Most of it vanished, though Alfred never saw it happen.

Then came the note, scrawled in messy, tired handwriting:

“Thanks. You didn’t have to. I’m not sticking around though. It’s safer for you if I don’t.”

The next day, Alfred left a response tucked in the same spot:

“You are not a danger, young man. I’ve seen far worse, and fed far worse. If you insist on continuing your streak of rooftop chivalry, I insist you do so on a full stomach.”

He added a slice of quiche. It was gone by morning.

Bruce raised an eyebrow the first time he caught Alfred baking two loaves of banana bread instead of one. Tim said nothing when the supply order mysteriously included a half dozen extra protein shakes and thermal gloves in medium size. Damian made a snide comment—something about stray ghosts haunting the pantry—but Alfred didn’t dignify it with a reply.

Then came the night it changed.

A patrol gone wrong. Batman caught in a collapsing parking garage. The comms went dead. Nightwing was too far. Red Hood was tracking Penguin. The only one nearby—untraceable, unregistered, and undeniably powerful—was the boy Alfred had been feeding for weeks.

He left the beacon on the rooftop.

“Help him. Please. –A.P.”

Within minutes, Bruce stumbled through the Batcave entrance, soot-smudged and breathing, but alive. Behind him, almost hidden in the shadows, was the boy. White hair. Green eyes. Shivering slightly, but still on his feet.

“I didn’t do it for favors,” the boy said. His voice was hoarse, too young for his haunted face. “I just... couldn’t let him die.”

“I know,” Alfred said gently. “Which is precisely why the offer of dinner still stands.”

“…I shouldn’t.” But his eyes drifted toward the warm lights of the manor beyond the cave, toward the smell of fresh bread and something sweet baking in the oven.

“No one escapes me forever, dear boy,” Alfred said with a small smile. “Not even slippery ghosts.”

The boy stared at him for a long moment. Then finally, like a candle burning out, he sagged.

“…Okay. Just for tonight.”

“Of course,” Alfred said, already turning toward the kitchen. “We’ll start with soup.”

Behind him, the boy whispered a name like an afterthought—like something long buried finally being said aloud.

“Danny. My name’s Danny.”

“Well then, Master Danny,” Alfred said, with the same fondness he reserved for all his wayward sons, “welcome home.”

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DP X Marvel #11

Danny Fenton did not plan to be adopted by the Scarlet Witch. It wasn’t even on his list of top ten weirdest things that could happen in his afterlife. Then again, after falling through an interdimensional ghost rift and crash-landing into a cult ritual mid-WandaVision finale, Danny realized the universe hated him and this was its love language.

He’d barely had time to wipe the ectoplasm off his face before Wanda Maximoff locked eyes with him, levitated, and declared, “You poor haunted creature. You’re mine now.”

Danny blinked. “I—I what?”

She hugged him. Mid-air. While glowing. “Don’t worry, dragul meu. I’ll protect you.”

Danny, held like a traumatized kitten, tried to process the rapidly shifting situation. Somewhere, a witch disintegrated. A fake town crumbled. A grief-born reality collapsed. And Danny Fenton—half-dead teenager from Amity Park—accidentally became Wanda Maximoff’s emotional support poltergeist.

He didn’t even try to resist. It was honestly kind of nice.

Because unlike his real parents—who were actively trying to vivisect him for science—Wanda made him soup. Sokovian soup, no less. Which kind of tasted like regret and paprika. But it was warm. And for once, someone looked at him like he wasn’t a freak but something precious. Like a haunted doll or a cursed Fabergé egg.

She called him pet names in Sokovian. Îngeraș when he tried to sneak out at 2 a.m. to fight a ghost. Puiule when he accidentally exploded a toaster. Scumpul meu when he sobbed uncontrollably after seeing a “Family is Forever” sign at Target. It was the most love he’d ever gotten outside Jazz buying him discounted Halloween candy.

Speaking of Jazz.

Danny mentioned her once. Casually. Offhandedly. In the way someone might mention, oh, by the way, I have an older sister who looks like you but taller and with clinically concerning rage issues.

Wanda’s eyes lit up like she’d just been told kittens could talk. “You have a sister?”

“Yeah,” Danny said, eating a pierogi shaped like a ghost. “Her name’s Jasmine, but we call her Jazz. She’s super smart, real protective, and tried to fight my teacher once.”

Wanda stood. “We must get her.”

“Wait—what?”

“We’re getting your sister. My daughter.”

Danny didn’t know whether to be touched or terrified. But forty minutes and three death threats to the GIW later, Jazz Fenton was dragged through a portal and deposited into a reality-warped Sokovian living room, blinking and armed with a baseball bat.

Jazz, understandably, had questions.

Wanda just wrapped her in a shawl and gave her a plate of dumplings. “Welcome home, copilul meu.”

“Am I being kidnapped?” Jazz asked, eyes wild.

“Adopted,” Danny corrected. “It’s honestly an upgrade.”

Jazz accepted this surprisingly fast. It helped that Wanda let her redecorate the entire library, gave her free reign over a magic grimoire collection, and, perhaps most importantly, stabbed one of their shared enemies in the chest with a glowing dagger while humming a lullaby.

“I like her,” Jazz said, sipping tea made from herbs that maybe glowed.

Things escalated from there.

The next addition to the Maximoff Household of Misfit Ghostlings was Danielle—Dani for short—Danny’s chaotic, sticky-fingered clone who had been couch-surfing across dimensions since she ran away from Vlad Masters, Danny’s psychotic billionaire godfather and man-shaped midlife crisis.

Wanda met Dani after the girl tried to rob her of a magical artifact.

Instead of obliterating her, Wanda gave her a forehead kiss and said, “You steal like my brother when we were your age. Absolutely perfect.”

Dani burst into tears.

“I’m not a mistake?”

“You are a miracle.”

Danny watched this exchange with a bowl of popcorn. “This is insane.”

“You’re just mad she didn’t say you were a miracle,” Jazz muttered.

“I exploded her car once.”

“You turned it into sentient spaghetti.”

“It was a Tuesday!”

And then came Dan.

Alternate future version of Danny. Older. Meaner. With trauma so dense it had its own gravitational pull. He arrived via ghost vortex, mid-breakdown, screaming something about the end of all things.

Wanda calmly offered him a cup of rosehip tea and called him suflet pierdut. Lost soul.

Dan, raised on fire and suffering, had never been spoken to like that before. He agreed to stay for dinner and accidentally started crying into a bowl of goulash.

Now, technically, the timeline said Wanda should have vaporized him. Dan had, after all, committed multiversal crimes and tried to erase existence. But instead, she put a red scarf around his neck and declared, “You’re clearly just misunderstood.”

“He killed his entire universe,” Danny pointed out.

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” Wanda replied, feeding Dan a pastry like a wounded war veteran.

Dan became her second favorite.

“This isn’t fair!” Danny protested.

“You were less traumatized than him. He needs me more care.” Wanda said.

Danny sulked for three days.

It was around this point that Wanda decided paperwork was for cowards and declared all four of them legally Maximoffs. No documentation. No court. Just raw magical energy, ancient Sokovian rites, and an extremely intense group hug.

“From now on, you are my children. We are going to fix everything.” Wanda said.

By everything, she meant their deadbeat parents. Jack and Maddie Fenton tried to sue for custody. Wanda turned their lawyer into a tree.

“I will kill them,” she muttered, eyes glowing red.

Jazz had to talk her down using a whiteboard, a magic inhibitor, and a pie chart labeled “Fenton Emotional Neglect: 200%.”

Then came Vlad Masters.

He tried to get Dani back by showing up in a giant mech suit made of ghost goo and Apple Watches. Wanda incinerated him with a look and then cursed his bloodline to sneeze every time someone said the word “plasma.”

“He’ll never know peace again,” she said sweetly, spooning paprika stew into Dani’s mouth.

The GIW, naturally, got involved. Tried to declare Danny a weapon of mass destruction. Wanda made their building and people disappear. Not explode. Not collapse. Just—gone. Like they never existed.

Danny laughed so hard he passed out.

The Avengers had questions.

Strange came to investigate. He left with a black eye and a sense of foreboding. Wong stayed for dinner and gave Jazz his number.

Sam Wilson tried to talk to Danny about “superhero responsibility.” Danny dragged him into a ghost fight and said, “Cool. Let’s see you responsibility your way out of that.”

Eventually, the Maximoff household functioned like a chaotic sitcom.

Wanda would be floating upside down while teaching Dani hex theory. Jazz would be dissecting the latest government conspiracy in a conspiracy-board-filled sunroom. Dan would be brooding in a velvet cloak like a rejected Dracula. Danny would be stuck in a ceiling fan.

“Family dinner!” Wanda called one night.

“We’re in the middle of a ghost invasion!” Danny shouted, firing a thermos at a skeletal goblin.

“You can’t save the world on an empty stomach!”

They ate around a magically reinforced table, surrounded by summoned protective wards, and discussed whether or not to curse Danny’s English teacher with mild diarrhea.

It was perfect.

It was dysfunctional.

It was home.

Wanda made them all matching red sweaters with little “M”s on them. Dan refused to wear his until she got that look in her eyes, and then he wore it for three weeks straight.

Sometimes, Wanda would look at them with a strange, soft expression. Like they were her salvation.

“You saved me,” she told Danny once, brushing his white hair back.

“I fell on your lawn during a reality collapse.”

“Exactly. My savior.”

Danny smiled. Because honestly? Maybe she was right.

She gave them love. Stability. Curses. A home with infinite rooms and zero vivisections.

And in return?

They gave her family. A real one. Weird. Dead. Half-dead. Emotionally unhinged. But hers.

Wanda Maximoff had lost everything.

And then the universe, in its cosmic chaos, dropped four glowing, traumatized, half-ghost disasters into her arms.

She cradled them like stars.

And this time, she didn’t lose them.

Because if anyone tried to take her children?

She would burn the multiverse to the ground.

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dash is dead im teleporting to the past

https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard?max_post_id=606474489540042752

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Unmute!!

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Say hello to Batsy! The sweetest and smartest little kitty who worked as a mouser in my uncle's garage and as an assistant engineer to my father. We were so careful with her, nothing even remotely dangerous was left out. My father kept that garage as clean as he could.

Then my stupid, idiot of a cousin decided to not be careful. His car is the only one that was in the garage that needed antifreeze in the engine (everything else was sign boards). He spilt some and didn't clean it up.

If you are not aware, antifreeze is sweet but also a poison that causes successive organ failure. Animals love sweet things. She died within a half hour of my father finding her, just as we were about to take her home. Nearly made it to her first birthday. She was happy, sassy, and a beautiful cat. Such a daddy's girl.

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I wish kinky sex ed wasn't so stigmatized even among left-leaning "sex positive" circles. Everyone's all "uwu I'm a sub I'll do anything you ask" okay mommy wants you to read The New Bottoming Book so you learn how to sub without hurting yourself since your sex ed up to this point is porn and your ex boyfriend Jared who liked to choke you incorrectly

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Hey kid you want a job?

Great get online and go to a job board. Indeed, Linkedin whatever. Now you're gonna search for a role that's in your city, fits your qualifications, and doesn't seem like a bad time.

See that easy apply button? Don't hit it they just throw those in the trash. Now you're gonna want to go to the company's website and check their careers page.

Oh? That job doesn't exist anymore. Cool go back to the job board and find another one.

Great you found another job, you're on the company's career page and the job exists!! So you're going to need to make an account on the career page website. They're using Workday, the same site as the last job you applied for? Who cares? You need to make another account for THIS job's workday page.

Now you're going to upload your resume. That'll autopopulate about 15 boxes with everything on your resume, except formatted wrong and with tons of errors. So just go through and painstakingly check the dates on all of that and rewrite everything you already laid out in an aesthetically pleasing format on your resume.

Ok time for the cover letter, explain why this specific job and company are deeply important to you. You love their mission statement and wouldn't even laugh if their ceo was gunned down in the street. You'll really want to reiterate the things you just spent the last 20 minutes filling out on the resume section

(Remember to include language from the job description, people who work in HR are lower than dogs and they need patterns or they get confused.) Write about a page, but hey don't sound too desperate or robotic this is where they judge your character!

Maybe add your portfolio site at the end here, who knows if that helps no one has ever clicked mine haha.

Anywayyy time to hit apply! Congrats! You'll see that confirmation email come in and you should be getting the rejection letter in about 2 weeks. Unfortunately your resume didn't have the right buzzwords and the AI auto rejected you :(

Time to start again and try not to kill yourself!

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98

y’all expose yourselves and take this fanfic test i was just forced to by an irl so now i’m making you too

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Ok, but what if prev and op kissed?

i dont hate shipping i just think a lot of you people maybe like shipping too much

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