#you're hired
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I eat ants by tapwatermanta
#webcomic#cartoon#reddit#anteater#red panda#i eat ants#tell me about yourself#you're hired#print comics#comic panels#graphic novel#comic strip#speech balloon#comic books#comic art#mini comic#comic artist#comics#comic book#web comic#comic blog#self publishing#webtoon
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this is the only resume i know
#so you wrote stories for [fandom]?#SUBSCRIBED!!!#YOU'RE HIRED#ao3#shitpost?#fanfiction#fanfic#fandoms list
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I wonder what the requirements to being a hat man are
Okay you have to look boring, be the same height and build, and look a little like my ex- bestie who I still want to fuck
#unless tadashi hired them#yes u look like my reflection come to haunt me#you're hired#sk8 the infinity
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hired clip art
#clip art#clipart#illustration#nostalgia#graphic arts#art#80s#80s aesthetic#stamps#hands#you're hired
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The leftism/anticapitalism leaving people's bodies the zeptosecond you imply that disabled people who aren't "productive" still matter in society and need to be treated like intrinsic equals who have a place in this world:
#disability#disability advocacy#described images#image description in alt#ableism#ableism tw#my full-time job is my disability and you're lucky that i am still 'productive' as-is#your boss doesn't care that you think you're superior for being hired by them. they're still going to treat you like profit machines#it astounds me how people will capitulate for oppression because they place their intrinsic value in their ability to be at the top...#...or at least 'at the top' compared to others. it's the same impulse that makes people think their cisgender status makes them superior...#...you are placing your worth into systems which not only oppress others but offer you no true sense of worth...#...ESPECIALLY if you're also being exploited (even if just a bit)...#...you have a job sure but... do you actually get treated like a human being? are you actually paid? are you actually safe?...#...if the answer to any of those questions and more is 'no' then why do you place your value in capitalistic production. genuinely.#and why would you DEMAND disabled people to have the same exploitation you experience. why do you DEMAND productivity if you are proletaria#yes being a leftist and anticapitalist are linked but. some people still internalize capitalism without questioning it#being a leftist is about challenging that rather than assuming you're correct i think#also scientists were very silly when describing time that's like. less than a millisecond i think
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drug testing is such a fucked up thing for employers to do. like, alright, I get not wanting your employees to be drunk or high while they're at work, that's fair enough. but how is it any of your fucking business what I do when I'm off the clock? you don't own me, and you should not have the right to dictate what I do with my body outside of work. and the fact that they SO OFTEN specifically single out cannabis is fucking ridiculous. weed isn't even illegal in a lot of places anymore!
#bitching#the worst part is that if you're unemployed there's literally nothing you can do about this because you have no power to begin with#having to go without weed for so long while I wait for a job to hire me is stressing me the fuck out#1k
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labor psa: a scab is somebody who does struck work. a scab may be a union member or not—usually not, in many industries. if you are doing work that would ordinarily be done by a person on strike, you are a scab, even if you yourself are not part of a union whose members are striking
for example, an influencer who starts doing promo work for struck companies that would ordinarily be done by actors: that is a scab
regular person going to see a movie: not a scab
annoyed addition: customer going to coffee shop whose baristas are on strike to get a coffee made by a scab: not scabbing, but crossing the picket line
#i saw a post today that said only people who should be on strike are scabs#and that is incorrect#managers are often scabs frex#(this happened at john deere iirc and was disastrous)#sometimes scabs get bused in from other towns#or just other departments or whatever#(happens a lot with grad student strikes where the institution tries to hire undergrads to grade)#anyway#crossing a picket line is a different thing also#like if starbucks baristas are on strike and you go get a coffee made by a scab you're crossing the picket line but not scabbing#we should all learn labor history in schools but of course#that would defeat the purpose of schools#we should bring back harsher consequences for scabs btw in my opinion#not to say all scabs should get the casey jones the union scab treatment but#well i do think it would benefit everyone if that song was back in the popular consciousness#with apologies to the actual casey jones who was apparently not a scab at all
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Max: " [after qualifying] i nearly destroyed the entire garage. i was barely able to hold myself in. i was so angry. i rarely get this angry. yes definitely an angry boi. rawr I'm a lion and no one can stop me and my wrath"
Also Max after qualifying:
*giggling like a fool*
#RB should just hire Charles as max's therapist full time#like please max you just placed P17#why the fuck are you so happy#STAND UP for urself pls#and Charles you're no better#truly emotional suppoort rivals#“my husband is here. oh hes so pretty. how lucky am i. i love my life.” sorta vibes here#lestappen#f1#brazil gp 2024#max verstappen#charles leclerc
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Some really rough expression sheets I did for fun today! They're really coming along - it's almost like we're professionals hah
Hey! Dahlia has a last name finally! Do you like the logo?
#The organizing is the hardest part#hiring a concept artist made me realize how....messy it all was aha#but here!!#For the sake of future concepting I did some isolated expressions of the crew!#they are not yet finished even pfff#Im always getting ahead of myself#Bailey - they will HATE you#Dahlia - needs a big hug#Lulu - my handsome little gremlin#WB - ....you're doing great buddy!#Nimrod - punt sized <33#corduroy stew#nimrod honorary stew#wb stew#lulu stew#dahlia babel
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hey. hey. hey. are you sleeping. hey. wake up. hey
#the Arcana#Lucio Morgasson#hired this thing to stare at you#pov you're Alastor during the ungoating spell research era#Nabesimart#eye contact
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one of the last barriers keeping jester from sending ludinus da'leth the most threatening four part save the date to her wedding has finally been removed. only the cage surrounding the moon still protects him.
#critical role#critical role spoilers#'hey beau and caleb say you're uhhhh busy taking over the moon people which is BAD and you should feel bad and honestly i don't'#'i don't know if your energy is matching our party plans right now but you DID send a really cool fruit basket to my gallery'#'opening AND you hired the shipping company a bunch and fjord is trying to figure out this networking thing so anyways if you're still'#'a super important guy by like... late spring? you can come to the reception at the lavish chateau. ask caleb for our registry. byeeee!'
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The Foster Mother
Now on ao3 and VHS release
There was, supposedly, someone waiting for him in the green sitting room.
“…Why?” Tim asked. Most of the usual suspects had already come by to give their “condolences”—former Drakes Industries investors, curious about the newly orphaned heir; fellow socialites, once again flocking in to give and receive sympathies for their “close friends, the Drakes”; gawkers come to see what they could scavenge off of a dead family’s home, never mind that their child was alive.
“She claims to know you, Master Tim,” Alfred offered, kettle in his hand. He spent a moment deciding between different two canisters of tea; a sign of possibly difficult future conversation. “Her interest in your father's estate seemed quite…minimal.”
…Alright.
Tim was still in his formalwear. Dissolving Drake Industries would take at least another year, and plenty of future hours cementing the future home of certain resources in their dissolution, but the outfit probably was more appropriate for whatever oncoming conversation that was about to ensue than his planned change into Dick’s old hoodie and board shorts.
Okay. Tim steeled himself. The self-determination…mostly worked. Whatever. He trudged up into the green sitting room from the kitchen with his usual introduction ready on his tongue.
And then Tim walked into the room.
And then Jazzy was there.
*
Tim had been three, and Miss Jasmine had been his had been his third nanny. He’d outgrown the wetnurse early on, and his second nanny had been dismissed, so although Miss Jasmine was the third nanny, she was first nanny Tim could consciously remember.
She’d had red hair. She’d been very gentle with him.
She got him up in the morning and put him to bed at night; for the first time, there had been someone who sat with him until he was asleep, reading all sorts of books his parents had left to engage him with as an early genius. Then, when those were over and done as promised to his parents, they got unauthorized books from the library: silly books with made-up words, dinosaur books, books about teddy bears and adventures around the world.
Tim hadn’t been allowed to travel the world. Tim hadn’t been allowed a teddy bear. His parents had thought it would encourage undue attachment.
(It had been the same reason he’d never been given a pacifier.)
Miss Jazz had given him a knitted bunny. She’d said her dad had made it especially for him.
The toy’s name was Bunny and Tim remembered him being very soft.
She didn’t smile all the time, but smiles were rewards that were easy to earn. He finished his meal and she smiled. He finished an educational puzzle and she smiled. He was quiet all through her phone call and she smiled, and answered all his questions once she was done.
Jazzy had been the first person in his life who was there all the time. She’d kissed his forehead after the bath and kissed his scraped knees; she’d carried him in his arms when he was tired and sometimes even when he wasn’t. His parents had wanted him to be independent, proactive, and not clingy, but Jazzy had been someone who he could run to from his bed when he’d had nightmares and someone he could cuddle on her lap with when he’d cried.
She was gone when he was seven. He didn’t remember why. His parents had probably never told him, but still; he'd assumed he'd have found out why eventually.
Jazzy looked the same right now as she looked in Tim’s memories, although she was likely no longer a college student at a nannying gig. Her red hair was pulled into a high bun, her dress modest and conservative from her neck to her ankles. There was a backpack beside her foot. She was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, on the high-backed loveseat in the green sitting room.
She looked up when he came in.
Tim. Stopped in his tracks.
It didn’t matter. Jazzy—Miss Jasmine stood up as soon as she saw him, eyes alight with worry. Foggy memories were swimming to the forefront of Tim’s brain. He couldn’t move.
“Tim?” Ja—Miss Jasmine asked, teal eyes raking over his frame. Tim froze where he was. He didn’t move, wide-eyed and terrified for no reason at all when Miss Jasmine got closer to him, at a distance that was more appropriate for a conversation.
She stood there. Watching him. It felt like his mother had just come home from her trips with Dad, and a ghost of old terror wafted through him as he waited for her to decide he’d done something wrong. Her voice got softer. Her eyes got softer. Why was Tim feeling so wrong-footed?? It was only a former staff person!
“Tim?” her voice was so gentle. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—“
“M’s Jazz,” Tim croaked. Which. Wasn’t the level of formality he’d been going for, but better than Jazzy. He wasn’t a toddler anymore.
Miss Jasmine was so tall—honestly, was she taller than Bruce? She’d seemed insurmountable as a child; he hadn’t expected her height to truly be so statuesque as an adult.
(Or. Well. Almost an adult.)
She didn’t quite kneel down, but she did stoop lower, as if Tim was small and he needed to be on equal footing in order to have a serious conversation.
He could see all her freckles. Tim swallowed. It was too familiar. Everything about her was too familiar.
“You’re so big now,” Jazzy whispered, looking at his hair, his suit, his polished shoes. He didn’t feel it. “Oh, you’ve grown up so well.”
Thanks, Tim almost said. Something stopped him—something thick in his throat, to impassable to break through.
“I—“ he tried. He coughed. “Why…you… You’re here?”
Jazzy threw him an incredulous look, and then an incredibly wry one. “Well,” she drawled a little too primly, in the way that Alfred occasionally made obvious statements, “I’d think it obvious that when one’s parents have passed away, that those who care about you might come to check and see if you’re alright.”
Which. That didn’t make sense. Jazzy hadn’t come back for any other reason; she hadn’t come back for his mother’s funeral, nor when his father was injured publicly by a villain. Why start now?
“And,” Jazz added, seeing his visual confusion and distrust, “Your parents can’t exactly threaten me with a kidnapping charge for visiting you when they’re dead.” Pause. “Which I am sorry about. My condolences.”
Which. Whiplash. What a statement.
“Uh,” said Tim, who was rapidly losing control over the situation.
Jazzy stood again, and went back to her seat; she didn’t set herself down, though, as she only stooped to grab her backpack. “I am sorry for being unable to visit, although I really wanted to; you were at a very vulnerable age and had already moved into a class a year above you, and your parents should have been less hasty about replacing your main caretaker. The assassination attempts were unwarranted, but they did drive the point home that attempting contact was perhaps discouraged.”
“What,” said Tim. “Assassin what.”
“They were ninjas,” Jazzy offered, as if that was an answer. “Except the last one, which was a former marine. The point is that I do care about you, and wanted to ask if you had any idea where you’re going now that your parents are no longer…available guardians.”
Tim’s mouth opened. It closed.
Jazzy waited patiently.
“…How have you been?” Tim tried, resorting to a part of the script they hadn’t gone through yet.
Jazzy’s laugh was tired, but no less real. It was nothing like listening to his parents titter politely; he didn’t think Jazzy would even know how to fake a laugh. “Well, my brother told me that my former bosses had died, which was somewhat stressful. Otherwise, I’m pretty happy: I live with my brother and worked with him for the last few years. I was going to pursue medicine, but…well. The assassination attempts made it hard to interview for scholarships. I suppose that I could return to that now,” Jazzy mused, attention now elsewhere. She pulled the backpack off the floor and up into her grip. She opened it, and flipped through its contents. “How are you doing? I know that Wayne Manor fosters, but your parents were always rather…hands off. I thought the difference in levels of attention might be overwhelming.”
It was. Tim should be surprised how clearly she sees through him—
—But Jazzy used to watch him stim for almost a full hour after school, twisting Bunny’s arms back and forth until he could calm down. Seeing other people all day had been too much for him. Coming home from his parents’ parties had been similarly stressful.
She’d never been mad at him for it. She held him while he talked and stimmed and talked and talked and talked, and brushed his hair sometimes, or if it was very late and he was very young, helped him brush his teeth through all the medieval execution facts he could name.
“It is a lot to get used to,” Tim agreed quietly. He didn’t want to be ungrateful. He didn’t want to let on anyone about his plan to leave.
He had an out. The papers had already been filed; there was an actor waiting to play his uncle for a custody battle, ready for the fight.
Tim was ready to up and go. It was no hardship to leave all the good things here; anything beat making Bruce stick his fingers into Tim any deeper than they already were, compromising the dynamic they’d already established.
It was for the best.
“I can imagine,” Jazzy sympathized easily. “And I wanted to offer—well. I know there’s probably a lot of choices available to you, but my brother and I recently moved back to Gotham proper for the time being. He’s teaching astronomy courses at the university and I’m filing paperwork for Arkham patients. It’s not so privileged a home, but it’s quieter, and more central in town.”
…Tim’s heart skipped.
He. He couldn’t stop staring. Jazzy stared back at him, quiet and sure. Sure of what, Tim had no idea, but…
Why? Why would she want Tim? There was no way she would be able to get to his trust fund without his help, and he for sure knew better than to enable her ability to leech from him. The last time she’d known him, Tim had been a snot-nosed kid who cried all the time and couldn’t be normal for twenty consecutive minutes. His parents couldn’t even stand to be on the same hemisphere as him as a child. What appeal did this have for her?? What could having a teenager with severe baggage living in her house do for her?
And it’s not like there was any chance she knew he was Robin!
“Oh,” Jazzy suddenly interrupted. “I brought these for you, by the way. Your parents had tossed them out at various points; I’ve washed them since, of course.”
She handed him the backpack by the handle.
…Tim peeked inside.
On top was Bunny, still a washed-out faded sort of pink. He looked as fresh as he had the day when Tim’s parents had ”cleaned out” Tim’s nursery—in other words, a faded, a little gray, and slightly discolored from an old spaghetti stain. His button eyes were big and blue.
And beneath him were books that hadn’t passed his father’s muster as appropriately masculine reading material: The Velveteen Rabbit, with the cover a little scarred from a fierce attack of wet wipes. There’s A Monster at the End of This Book, with a goofy-looking Muppet on the cover, gold spine beat up beyond belief. Art Tim’s teacher at the time must have laminated and sent home; Tim’s dorky, crayon cat proved he would never make it as an artist, but attached to it was a photograph of a grinning boy with a bowl cut and a missing tooth.
Tim stared. There’d been purple marker on his hands and face. His grin looked…really bad, actually, like as if he was baring his teeth because he didn’t know how to smile. There was no formal grace there. Nothing to show the neighbors, nothing worth framing to put into the line of sight of the investors in the office.
Jazzy had kept it and brought it home with her. Jazzy had fished it out of the trash, and brought it with her to give back to him in Gotham.
It was crinkled like it’d been folded, over and over again. Further down in the bag was a crumpled certificate dedicated to “Timmy Drake, for: knowing a lot about octopi”, and a baby blanket Tim didn’t even remember. It had rocket ships on it. It looked as if someone had cut into it with scissors, although it had been obviously and brightly mended with red embroidery floss later on.
Jazzy had only been his nanny until Tim was seven. She had simply been gone one night, and Mom and Dad had been home for ten nights after without help before giving in and hiring Mrs. McIlvane and Mrs. Edith. Ms. Edith had never been so…permissive…with Tim as Jazzy had been.
Tim swallowed. He carefully put everything back into the backpack, unsure if he even wanted to keep it or not. It wasn’t like he could leave it here; he’d be gone, ideally, before the week was out. There was no point in taking it with him if he only planned to live with a stranger until he was eighteen.
“J…” Tim tried. He cut himself off before he could get too informal without prompting. “Miss Jasmine—“
“Just Jazz,” Jazzy corrected politely.
“—Why are you here?” Tim asked, ignoring how she’d technically already answered. He didn’t believe her. “What made my parents fire you?”
Jazzy’s expression turned…soft. Tim couldn’t look at her. Something horrible was welling with it, and he didn’t know how to cope.
“I’m here because I care about you,” Jazz repeated, and knelt beside him. She looked up into his face, and took his hand. Tim didn’t know why. He was practically an adult—he didn’t need this!
“And I was fired because your Mother overheard you calling me ‘Mommy’ on accident when you were tired. I suppose she was insulted, although I’d never know why; it’s not like she was ever home to bond with you in the first place.”
Tim’s throat closed. He missed his mom. He missed waiting up for his parents’ flight home, seeing their headlights outside the window, and knowing they’d bring home gifts from overseas. He missed using Mom’s perfume, and knowing he’d used more of the bottle sitting on her dressed than she ever had, but that it still smelled like her. He missed hearing his Dad telling all sorts of adventure stories and promises through the phone to be home for the holidays, even if Tim knew there was every chance he’d find some other way to spend the time back in Gotham.
And there was some small child in him who missed Jazzy, who hugged him and walked him to the library and made him soup from a can instead of fancy dinners and, who’d never needed to be waited for in the first place.
Tim looked at Jazzy’s round, freckled face.
He swallowed.
Tim moved out before the end of the week, as expected.
#dp x dc#Jazz fenton#tim drake#that one time Tim specifically hired a fake uncle so that Bruce couldn't adopt him#free to a good home#Jack Fenton knits btw#I'm not going to continue this but i thought it was a cool premise and needed its time. Have fun with it if you want to!#this is dedicated to all the fulltime nannies at the library who are fully just college girls raising babies#dpxdc#dcxdp#Jazz said is anyone going to raise this baby and was targeted by ninjas for it#I don't have any future plans BUT there is a moment where Dick tries to sneak into her apt to 'check it out' and she fully Gets Him with a#TBI and a Fenton CreepStickTM#also. parents who try to shape their kids by denying them every form of human comfort and access to their interests. You're dead to me#also also also I'm still a Tim Drake Autistic truther#not NOT inspired by the Say Uncle by Megarakles. This one's for you fellow fans#also. if he goes with her. He gets parented for the first time ever and it Sucks Ass lol.#faer fic
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Leyendecker style fanart of your blorbos? That's cute! You know, MY blorbo (AJ Raffles) was painted by JC Leyendecker himself. Mhm. Yeah.
#absolutely NO offence meant to people who make leyendecker style fanart of their blorbos!!!!#you're a godsend i love you kissing you on the mouth. this is just a joke#but like!!! you gotta admit that having an actual Leyendecker piece with your blorbo is living the dream!#also raffles illustrations are so insanely good in general??? it's like they hired everyone who drew the best twinks lmao#crime and cricket#aj raffles#raffles#jc leyendecker
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chocobo breeds based off of real life chicken varieties :>
#anyone else wish the rebirth chocobos were. yknow. a little more creative than just recolors#'lol this one is green because it's in the jungle' BOOOOOO 👎👎👎👎👎#square enix hire me. i will lead your company to glory with cloud strife's chocobo farm sim game.#btw the rhode island red chocobos are fucking assholes. just like real reds.#and the buffs follow you around and need to know what you're doing at all times.#you will never know peace around a buff chocobo.#it will stare at you through your bedroom window while you try to sleep.#it will knock on your front door with its beak and scream if you don't answer.#and the sebrights are even tinier than the silkies but they will rip you a new one if given the chance. jsyk.#the brahmas are dumb as a bunch of rocks and sound like a foghorn. BWAAAARRK. they are very sweet and gentle tho.#ffvii#my art <3#cloud strife#chocobo
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You mentioned before that the people who would have access to Machete's bedchamber would likely already know about Vasco. How did that come up in your mind? Did they get caught in the act or was the subject broached with enough trust? How did those people handle it? Sorry if this is a bit vague but I thought about it today and I'm very interested. :)
I think it just has to be the case, I can't imagine how they could manage to hide the fact Vasco is bunking with him from everyone, for years and years. Machete doesn't live alone, he has staff and servants who do his housekeeping and run his errands. Even if Vasco didn't stay there for any extended periods of time and snuck out the back door to avoid attention, I'm assuming at least the people who do his laundry and change his sheets would eventually detect that some sort of funny business had happened. But the number of people who are in on it is still very very small and tightly controlled. His assistant Vittorio definitely knows and helps to manage this situation, so does his personal doctor, and on top of that maybe a handful of most trusted high-ranking emplyees, which he has vetted extremely carefully and pays handsomely for their discreetness and prudence.
#or something along those lines surely there has to be a way for this to work people have had secret affairs since the beginning of time#if you hire someone#or more likely promote someone you know who has worked for you for years and has proven to be trustworthy and unlikely to betray you#and there's a very high risk that that person will find out your secrets it's better to bring them to their attention yourself#in a controlled setting ahead of time#instead of waiting to see if/when you're caught and not knowing how they will react#right?#and his private quarters are indeed private you don't go snooping in there without a good reason and an official permission#answered#anonymous#Vaschete lore#Vasco hanging around there often probably isn't an immediate red flag it's a big house and people can have friends and guests#plus at the time it was generally more common and accepted for two men to be close friends and openly attached to each other platonically#it's sunday morning and I'm awake trying to piece together the practical logistics of#maintaining an undercover long term relationship between two 16th century statesmen
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anyway i'm always fascinated by the people who think that trans men transition purely to escape misogyny and gain social capital. idk how it is for other people, but since i transitioned i have not only experienced more misogyny than i ever did before but also lost access to the public spaces and support systems that might have helped me deal with it
#the people on here who claim that trans men have male privilege are also fascinating to me.#i experience the exact same marginalisation i experienced when presenting female#except it now comes with extra steps#i am not more likely to be hired or promoted; my opinion is not more likely to be respected#my rights and freedoms are even more restricted than they were before and i still get harassed on a regular basis#my body is still a topic of political debate and my voice is still silenced#i still feel obliged to control my appearance and clothing and body language in order to be treated with respect#and i can't even talk about it because i'm not a woman and therefore have no place in The Conversation#i don't regret transitioning but if you think that i'm getting any kind of privilege out of it you're mad
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