#if only i had a job so i had money so i could afford to get diagnoses and medication for my cocktail of severe mental issues

[ienjoywritingfilth]

the blue burrow

what if you could have everything? Well, almost everything.

trope: sugar daddy PP character: Dave York x f reader summary: money has always been a hard thing to come by, so when a handsome man offers you everything you've ever dreamed of, you'd be an idiot to say no, right?

warning: alcohol. strippers. smoking. my usual friday night. just so you know this story is gonna get 18+ in later chapters

words 4.4k

wanna see my other stuff?

part i - the blue burrow

The parking lot is already packed when you arrive at the Blue Burrow in your black shorts and white tank top, a typical uniform for the girls that sell booze and food while the others dance on stage. 

"Evenin' sweet thing," a tall black bouncer croons to you as you approach. 

"Evenin' handsome," you parrot his accent with a playful wink as you make your way inside. 

Randy the bouncer was the first person you met on your first day on the job. It was Randy who pulled the hand of the lecherous old creep in the third row off your ass when you froze up in shock. 

You've been working as a server here for almost six months, saving up for more night classes. You couldn't afford college right after high school so years later you're finally getting back into your studies. The only issue is saving enough for both that and rent in a world that seems to grow more expensive by the day. 

You make your way to the back of the club, past the gyrating woman on stage and the glassy eyed regulars in the front row. A few men sit near the back, a bachelor party by the looks of it. Those are usually good for two things: big tips and drunken fights. You pray it's the former tonight. 

You open your locker in the back room, placing your purse inside before sliding the lock back in place. The club is in a decent part of town, but you can never be too careful. Unlike the others here your locker is free of stickers and photos, free of anything that makes it personalized. You don’t want to get too comfortable here.

A leggy brunette walks up beside you, covered in glitter, her lips puffy and glossy. It's Tiffany, one of the best dancers here. She's impossibly sweet and when she's not dancing she's working at the seniors home her grandmother lives in. 

She looks tired tonight, her forehead damp, obviously having just finished her shift on stage. When she pulls open her locker you see the framed photo of her and her boyfriend in his truck from the summer along with a magnetic mirror, a bag of makeup and a few changes of clothes.

"Good night? You ask, watching as she pulls the stack of bills from her bra and tucked into the side of her panties. She packs them into the locker and closes it, giving you a wink.

"Great night. When are you gonna get your ass up there and make some real money?" Tiffany teases. 

"As soon as I don't care what I look like naked," you shoot back with an eye roll as she giggles. 

The truth is even if you had a figure like a Hadid sister, you still would never get up there and strip for the masses. You don't judge the girls who do; it's just not for you. And contrary to what the media wants you to believe, lots of these girls are like you and me. They do this as a job, meaning it’s professional, they have goals and dreams and they’re some of the nicest coworkers you’ve ever had. From your very first day they took you under their wing when men said disgusting things as you brought them beers. You’re used to it now, used to the gross way they talk and act.

You’re used to the stale cigarette smell inside the club, used to the streaked mirrors in the bathroom and the occasional coke-head you find in the toilets. You’re used to the smell of lotion the girl’s wear and finding glitter stuck to the bottom of your shoes. You’ve become used to a lot.

You walk back onto the floor ready to start your shift, going behind the bar to grab your ruffle apron and circular drink tray. You prepare to make the circuit when something stops you mid-turn.

"My girl!"

A slurred voice sounds out from behind you and you hold in a cringe. A man in his fifties wearing a Hawaiian shirt is curled over the bar waving at you. 

"Hey Pat," you say trying to keep your tone happy as you approach. If your boss is around he'll be pissed to hear you anything less than chipper. 

"Hi honey," Pat says giving you a weak smile. "Can you get me a beer?"

You glance over at Brian, the bartender and overall terrifying figure at six foot to and three hundred pounds.

"He's been here for hours," Brian tells you sharply over the bar as he wipes it down. "I cut him off forty minutes ago but he said he wanted to wait and see you." 

“Thanks, Brian.”

You sigh before pasting a smile onto your face and heading over to the slumped-over figure who slurs something when you approach. It’s garbled, thick with mucus and alcohol and you can’t decipher it.

"You know I have to work, Pat," you say patiently. "Let's go get you a taxi." 

Pat goes to protest but you fix him with a stare that tells him you don't have time to be messed with. Like a whipped dog he stands, trailing after you over the sticky floors, past the women who wave him out with sweet goodbyes. They like him, he never messes with them or makes them feel less than.

When Pat stumbles a third time on the way out you pull his beefy arm over your shoulder and you help him out the front doors of the establishment. He’s sweaty and reeks of old booze. You wrinkle your nose.

The two of you move past some approaching men who take one look at Pat hanging desperately onto your shoulder and then smirk at one another, murmuring loudly.

“Kill me if I ever get that bad.”

You glare at the two of them, about to say something when Pat’s sour breath is on the side of your face. 

"I never see you anymore.” 

"Been busy," you inform him, grunting as you attempt to guide him to the nearest taxi. "I thought you were gonna cut back on the booze?"

"I have been I swear."

“Uh huh.”

The taxi pulls up to the curb and Pat sniffles right in your ear, a wet loud thing that make you grimace as you pull the taxi door open. You herd him towards the taxi, trying not to let your irritation get the better of you.

"I just miss her so much," Pat says and you feel your heart break. 

"I know." 

He pulls back when you motion to the open taxi door.

"Pat, I don't have time for this," you say trying to keep your tone light. "They're already going to be pissed that I'm out here instead of serving drinks inside. So help me out, huh? Or would you prefer I lose this job?"

Pat's watery eyes meet yours. He nods and he now shuffles towards the open door of the taxi. 

"There we go," you sigh, helping him into the cab, making sure he doesn't knock his head against the low roof. 

When you straighten to go to the driver’s side you notice a man standing outside the club watching you, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. He's dressed in a suit, his dark brown hair tousled fashionably. He doesn’t look like the usual clientele.

For all you know he watched the entire display so far. The thought is embarrassing. You can't see his face but you're sure it holds judgment. 

You shift your attention away and tilt down to the driver’s window to give the tired looking cabbie Pat's address. 

"I didn't bring my wallet," Pat moans from where he's seated in the back. "And I used up all my cash inside." 

You hold in the urge to scream at him. 

"I've got it," you sigh, digging into your shorts for the rumpled twenty you put there this morning. It's the money you were saving for dinner after your shift. The shitty greasy fare they serve at your job isn't exactly stellar. But you'll manage. 

The dough-faced cabbie takes it and you know from experience twenty isn't enough to take Pat home. But tonight you're hopeful he'll take pity. You give him Pat's address and he holds up the twenty as if disgusted. 

"This won't cover it."

"C'mon man. It's all I've got."

"I'll take him twenty bucks worth," the sneering cabbie tells you. "Then he's out on his ass."

Thoughts of Pat in a gutter somewhere make you panic. 

"I'll pay you the rest tonight after my shift," you plead with the cabbie. "All my tip money. Just make sure he gets home."

"This ain't a charity."

Pat is half propped up in the back seat, looking ashamed of himself and your heart breaks. You feel frustrated tears starting but you blink them away. Maybe you can borrow another twenty from Tiffany.

Before you plead for the cabbie to give you a minute to dash back inside a masculine hand moves over your shoulder, not touching you, holding a fifty in between his middle and pointer finger. The cabbie takes it, knowing full well a fifty by itself would cover the entire trip plus a tip. You turn, about to tell the mystery man just that. 

Your words turn to sand on your tongue when you recognize the man from before. Only up this close you can see he's very handsome with pouty lips and eyes the colour of mahogany. The kind of handsome that ties your tongue.  He smells amazing, something expensive you're sure.

It all combines to distract you long enough for the cabbie to take off with Pat slumped over in the back. When they peel off you have enough sense to step back, lest you get your feet run over. The man is still staring at you, his cigarette smouldering, forgotten.

"He scammed you," you finally croak. "Only costs thirty to get Pat home." 

The man shrugs, watching the taxi speed off into the encroaching night.

"Thank you for that," you tell him. 

"It's okay." The man surveys your face and his voice is soft molasses. "He always act like that?" 

"Pat? No. Not always. He's a really nice guy. Just drinks too much lately." You swallow. "His wife passed away a few months ago and he's been a wreck ever since."

The man nods, taking a drag off his cigarette. 

"I can relate," he finally says quietly.

You glance to see his ring finger free of any gold band and you understand his loss. 

"I'm so sorry."

"Why?" He asks sardonically. "You didn't kill her. Unless you moonlight as lymphoma?" 

His dark humour takes you by surprise. Before you can reply he offers you a cigarette but you shake your head politely explaining you don't smoke. 

"I better get back before I'm fired," you say. He nods, wishing you goodnight and you’re fairly certain you feel his eyes following you until the door to the club swings shut behind you.  

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

You're reading on your dinner break several weeks later when two familiar black shoes stop next to you. Gucci, if you’re not mistaken. Though you were never one for brands. You glance up the long legs to see the dark haired man from last time and your heart trips in your chest. 

"Evening."

"Hi. 

You're sitting in the alley between the club and the shop next door. It's clean and quiet and a great place to catch up on your coursework. A diet coke and crumpled bag of Cheetos rest next to you on the bench you’ve made of old crates.

The man glances at your seat before his eyes move to the book you hold, your thumb acting as your bookmark. 

"What're you reading?"

You hold up the book to show him the cover. 

"Tess of the d'Urbervilles." 

"A classic," the man says lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply. You watch the smoke curl around his lips, but its his chocolate eyes make you want to keep talking. “I was never a Hardy fan though.”

“No?”

“Nah, more a Vonnegut guy. Breakfast of Champions, Sl- ”

“Slaughterhouse Five. Of course,” you say rolling your eyes. “I bet you really love Kerouac too, right? Every man does.”

“And every woman loves the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen,” he lights his cigarette before motioning to your book, “and Hardy, apparently.”

"It's for the course I'm doing,” you laugh. He joins you, a warm chuckle sounding from deep in his chest.

"Which course is that?"

"English lit." 

He nods thoughtfully, looking at you before glancing over to the stream of people entering the club. It's going to be a busy night. He must see your chagrined expression because his gaze turns sympathetic. 

"You like working here?"

"It pays the bills." 

“If you had all the money you needed, what would you do all day?"

The answer comes to you immediately. 

"Paint, drink coffee overlooking the water somewhere warm," you smile dreamily. "How about you?"

The man looks surprised, scuffing the bottom of his shoes on the low brick of the alley. "Me?"

"Yeah," you nod. "What would you do if you had all the money in the world?" 

Dave quirks a smile before answering. 

"Try to make other people happy."

"Oh that's a much less selfish answer then mine," you say with a laugh that the man joins in on. 

"I don't think you're selfish. Just honest."

He seems to be about to ask you more when the side door squeaks open and your name is hissed out by your boss; a stocky bald man that's is perpetually sweating. 

"Breaks over. We're bottlenecking in here."

"I still have ten minu---"

"You'll have all the time in the world if I fire you right now," he snarls back at you. "if you'd prefer that?"

You sigh, wiping your dusty fingers on your shorts. You cast a look at Dave that reads this is my life. Dave is glaring at the bald man who ducks behind the door before you're headed back inside after your asshole employer. 

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

You saw him the second he entered the club a few weeks later; the man in the suit. You watched another one of the girls wait on him, deflated that you wouldn't get the chance to chat with him again.  You liked him, liked how he talked to you without raking his eyes over your chest or ordering you to fetch him another vodka. 

So you were disappointed that it was the men who did just that, that you had to wait on that evening. You ignored their leers as they watched the girls on stage. You held in a grimace when they wafted their onion and beer breath over your face asking for a refill.

You try not to be jealous when some of the dancers come out to the crowd, offering lap dances. You see several approach the man in the suit - why wouldn't they? He's dressed clean, he's handsome, he smells gorgeous and he looks like he has money.

You hold your breath, covertly watching him as they approach him. He shakes his head politely, waving off their offers. He seems perfectly content to watch in the back row nursing a glass of whisky. 

A pathetic part of you is delighted. It's not every man that can turn down Tiffany and Candi. 

But the man in the suit catches your attention a short while later as you dropped off a beer at a neighbouring table, murmuring your name. You didn't realize he'd known it. The sound of it in his silky baritone make you break out in tingles.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Was hoping I’d see you tonight.”

The man gives a calm smile up at you and you attempt to hide your delighted beam. He was hoping to see you. You can’t deny thinking about him lately, hoping every shift that he’ll be there. He’s become a bright spot to your shifts, a dream of something you’ll never have.

Men with money who drink top-shelf alcohol and wear fancy shoes. Men who comes to strip clubs when they feel like it and go home to frosty girlfriends with manicured nails. You imagine his apartment, sprawling, with leather furniture and massive televisions in every room. Despite his fondness for literature you don’t imagine bookshelves, only marble floors and sterile rooms. Plush beds for him to fuck pretty, fragile-looking girls on. Girl’s with trust funds or high-paying jobs, girls that smell like Dior and not old grease from the oil trap you often help to clean.

You’ve already got him squared away in your head, the handsome man in the suit. He’s not for the likes of you. But that’s alright, you enjoy his company when he gives it. You don’t want to ask for more.

He twists in his seat, lowering his voice to a purr that only you can hear.

"How much for a private dance with you?"

All the goodwill you'd held for him is lost in an instant. He is in fact just like the rest of them. You balance your drink tray on your hip, swallowing your disappointment but you keep your customer service expression.

"I'm just a waitress here," you mutter, your face heating under his scrutiny. 

"I'm aware." The man nods his head. "I asked how much it would be for you to do a private dance for me." 

You blink at him still unsure that he understands what's offered. But you've seen him before; he obviously knows what goes on in here. 

"I don't know how to dance," you explain, fumbling for the right words. "Sexy, I mean. I don't know how to dance like those girls on stage." 

You motion to one of your friends who is twisting around the pole with feline grace as men wolf-whistle. The man doesn't follow your gesture; he just stares at you with his arms folded over his chest. He has a look on his features that reads that's not what I asked. 

You feel sweat accumulating at the back of your knees, the commotion of the girls on the stage and the men cheering making the room feel small and suffocating. Yet the man still waits for your response with what feels like cool appraisal. 

Fuck it.

"Five hundred," you say, biting back a smirk. 

Most of the dances are from fifty to a hundred for three songs in one of the back rooms. You know it's too expensive but that's-

"Done."

"What?"

The man is standing and pulling his wallet from his back pocket and you can see several crisp hundred dollar bills stuffed inside. He pockets the wallet, straightening. 

"I'm good," he says. "Lead the way."

You stare at him a full moment before cheers for the girl onstage shake you. You nod, twisting and making your way to the back rooms. The champagne rooms. Rooms where the girl’s take the men that pay extra for private dances.

Randy looks you over, smirking as he unhooks the red ropes allowing the two of you to pass. 

"Pulling double duty tonight are we?"

You give him a pointed look. Don't blow this for me. Five hundred dollars is a good chunk of your rent. 

"Room three is open." Randy's smile drops as he looks at the tall man behind you. "Three songs, no touching the talent, you remain seated the entire time. Break the rules and you'll be fined and banned."

"Understood." 

"Enjoy your evening," Randy says nodding at the both of you before hooking the ropes behind you. 

You enter the room with its leather couch and dim lighting. There's a pole in the centre and on the far side is a set of speakers. Beside the couch is a bucket of ice and a waiting bottle of champagne. You don’t drink enough to know if it’s good or not.

"What's your name?"

He surprises you with this question. You glance over your shoulder to see him standing with his hands in his pockets, casual and nonplussed. 

You think of all the things you've overheard working here for the past year.

Never give your real name. Never go home with a guy here. Never walk to your car alone. 

"Aurora," you answer quickly, the first name you can think of as your eyes search the floor before they dart to his face. It's clear that he doesn't believe you, but there's bemusement in his expression. 

"Sleeping Beauty," the man replies in a throaty rasp. "Nice to officially meet you, I'm Dave."

"Hi, Dave."

He smirks before taking a seat on the couch, looking sidelong at you. You swallow anxiously before setting up the speakers with the music player that permanently resides there, stocked with an array of sexy tunes. 

You click the first one and the speakers blast a slow, sensual tango. You lower the volume a bit, so it's not so shrill but you don’t turn around.  

You feel Dave's eyes on your back. Is his name really Dave? It doesn't matter. You have to dance for him. For three songs. You've seen the other girls do this. They rub themselves on the clients, gyrating along to the music. It can't be that hard, right? 

You finally turn and make your way shakily over to him, forcing a smile. 

Dave makes no move to touch you, no desire to degrade you. He simply watches you sway from side to side like a middle-schooler at a dance. You can feel the money slipping away second by second. 

Here goes nothing. 

You prepare to peel the tank top off your body, painfully aware that your old bra is full coverage and likely not the sexy piece Dave was hoping for. Neither is your body which can't hold a candle to the women he's been watching on the stage. 

You hesitate.

"Do you want to take it off?"

Dave's voice reaches you as you consider your options. Five hundred dollars is on the line right now. 

"It's what you paid for."

"I asked if you want to take it off."

You nibble at your lower lip anxiously. 

"No."

"Then don't." 

Dave continues staring at you with a serious expression until your hands fall to your sides. The first song ends, the next track beginning. He settles back in the leather seat, arms wide on the backs as if he’s watching a movie.

You shift from side to side, painfully aware that this is the most awkward experience of your adult life. 

"Do you have a song you want to hear?"

"I don't really care about the music," Dave answers honestly. "I thought maybe we could talk." 

"Talk?"

"Yeah. Communicate. Exchange words." He smirks up at you before patting the seat next to him. 

“You want to talk?”

“If you don’t mind.”

You hesitate a moment before striding over and placing yourself at the edge, prepared to take off if Dave tries anything. 

"How's your class?"

"Uh, good, good," you answer truthfully.

“You’re still enjoying it?”

“Yeah, I am,” you smile. “No Vonnegut on the syllabus this semester so I’m in luck.”

Dave leans back against the sofa, chuckling a bit. You feel a flush crawling up your neck, but you maintain eye contact with him. He tilts his head slightly to the left, taking you in.

"Are you taking more classes after?"

"Yeah I wanna get my degree," you confess. "But classes aren't cheap hence me working here at night and at a coffee shop during the day."

"You have two jobs?"

He looks so incredulous you can’t help but giggle.

"Yeah."

"When do you sleep?"

"Whenever I can."

Dave nods thoughtfully, rubbing at his chin in thought. 

"Must be hard."

"It's not easy," you confess. "How about you? How many jobs you got?"

Dave smiles at your question, showing off perfect teeth. This doesn't surprise you. Dave screams money and money people always have perfect teeth. 

"Just the one."

"You like it?"

"Sometimes." 

The third song begins while he glances around the small, humid room with its soft lighting and brass pole. He turns back to you. 

"Why do you work here?"

You give him a sardonic laugh. 

"Why does anyone work? To pay the bills."

"Yeah, but why here? At this club?"

"Because they were one of the only places hiring when I was looking. And because I don't have a degree it's hard to find jobs that pay well and I need the money. Plus the people here are really nice, sometimes the tips are good and I get a free meal every shift." 

"I see." 

The music ends, leaving the two of you in absolute silence. Only the muffled sound of the main room is heard. There’s a gentle rap of knuckles on the other side of the door, Randy making sure you’re not being worked overtime. You give a half shrug to Dave, almost apologetic.

"Times up."

Dave nods, not looking upset. 

"When do you work next?"

This is another one of the rules. You should never tell a guy your schedule.

The only thing is you kinda want to see Dave again. Even if it’s just to sit here and chat with someone who finds you interesting enough to talk to. You so rarely have the opportunity to do that these days.

"Friday."

"Okay."

He stands up, pulling the wallet from his pocket. He pulls out the bills, folding them and handing them to you politely. Despite everything the action makes you feel cheap. You look down, shocked to see he left you eight hundred dollars. For three minutes of work. 

He's moving towards the door where Randy waits just outside. 

"Wait," you say quickly and he pauses, turning to look at you with surprise. 

"I'm sorry, I lied to you before. Dances are only, like, a hundred max, not five. Here."

You hold out all the money to him, feeling ashamed. You did a terrible job, not worthy of being paid at all. 

"Here,” you repeat, shaking the bills at him. “I didn't even dance."

You've never been one to lie and if he'd treated you like shit then maybe you would have kept his money. But as it is he was kind and gentle. He helped you with Pat. You don't feel right keeping his money. 

Dave looks at the money outstretched in your hand, his liquid chocolate gaze moving up your arm until it leads to your down turned face. 

"I know dances aren't five hundred," he says smoothly. "I paid what I thought you deserved."

"I didn't deserve almost a thousand dollars for a chat," you say huffing a laugh. 

"It was worth it to me," Dave replies. "Keep it."

You hesitate and then finally lower your arm, shoving the money into your shorts. He takes a moment to linger at the door, a wry smirk on his face before he taps the door twice with his knuckles. 

"I'll see you Friday, Sleeping Beauty." 

[sixftmp3]

today is literally the worst day ever this is the worst news i have ever been given in the past 4 years.

[stellardeer]

i have to come to terms with the fact that I am actually well off for someone in this country now, like.. idk it's weird

i'm still living the exact same lifestyle that i was before, so for the most part it feels almost like nothing has changed, like maybe im spending a little bit more money on food and buying the "good" toilet paper, but all that does is allow me to actually have savings in my bank account

i still stand with the working class and impoverished people of this country, and I am very much still in the boat of "one [very] bad day from homelessness" so i am not taking this for granted whatsoever

i've just been watching some of those youtube channels where they interview random people all over the country and just like.. kinda show what their life is like and it's definitely putting mine in perspective

very very grateful for the opportunities i have had and very proud of myself for forcing myself to stay in college (even tho it took almost 10 years to finish and left me with a mountain of debt) and just like.. idk, i feel like i could be doing more to help people out, i can't wait til im out of debt ;o;

[cannot-copia]

just applied for the job i had during college and honestly it feels bad man

everyone I know is actually accomplishing things with their life, buying property, getting promotions, getting their masters etc

fuck, even my cousin who is several years younger than me and has very little to no college (aka doesn’t have student loan debt) just got a management position at a fortune 100 company and is now making more than 60k

And where am I now?

Couldn’t do my job at the big company I was supposed to work at, where I had insurance and got paid enough to actually pay for things

all I do now is feeding horses and basically just putting them in different places 4 hours a day 6 days a week for less than what I made ever since I started working and living off that and what’s left of what I had accumulated in my 401k at my old job (that im gonna have to pay thousands of taxes on for taking it out too early im sure) and therefore fucking myself over for the future- everyone always says start young well I did and I’m too fucking useless to function without wanting to remove my skin apparently so I fucked that up

And yeah it was just an online application so I don’t know how likely it is they’ll even respond and hire me again but I feel like I am going backwards

I did what everybody always insisted I had to do

i went to college

i got a “real” (office) job

i got more than 25k student loan debt I have not been able to make even a dent in

and what do i have to show for it? even worse mental illness? A piece of paper that said i went to college? Crippling fear of answering a phone? an extreme hate for the way I look now?

and now im (at least attempting) to go back to where I was before all that bc that’s the only place i can think of will hire me, to a job I did not enjoy whatsoever, where I am going to have to explain to the high schoolers that would be working closing shift that I will have to do after the morning job like yeah i left here 3 years ago for a competitive job that paid twice as much at one of the (apparently voted) best employers in the city that everyone wants to work for but I threw it all away bc im a useless fucking idiot and now I’m back here working fast food watching all these people who will go to school and get the jobs they want and not fuck it up and actually be successful and move on with their lives

it just,,, it doesn’t feel good

i feel like I’ll never get anywhere so what’s even the point

[sad--tree]

keep saying i don't want 2 work another retail xmas but canNOT 4 the life of me make myself finish my goddamn fucking job applications !!!!!! death & dying & despair etc. etc.

[nomaishuttle]

What would you consider to be middle class though? Cus I had an American Girl doll but I think I was still poor lmao credit card debt

tbh i dont think owning like. A american girl doll makes u middleclass or anything i think i said that lol. bc its like.. a big purchase you save for. but the girl i was talking abt and didnt seem to realize that was like ... not the same for other ppl she was just like "LOL i was just soo into american girl doll i know more abt american girl dolls than you do" when its like No your family could just afford to buy you a rly extravagant gift a couple times over.

[charliecuntcicle]

going to be coping with mommy issues by projecting on jason <3

[mephilver]

entry level retail job with 3 years prior experience required just tell me to kill myself maybe

[rahabs]

I should have listened to my instincts and avoided law school lmao everyone says law school is the worst part of law but uh, no, actually everything gets worse after you get the JD because the entire culture of law is shitty and toxic and I’m so Miserable.

[fallingbyjuleecruise]

[loregoddess]

welp, for better or for worse I'm withdrawing from the teaching residency--nothing against it, just...I Don't. Own. A. Car. And all the best opportunities, along with some of the education parts of the residency, are very, very far from my house, and the public transit rides daily to and from locations is gonna be murder on my mental health (which will affect my physical health bc stress and IBS love to set each other off), so I'm calling it time to cut my losses, and take some more time to figure shit out

[thoughtvoid]

I spent so much money during the holiday season (half on myself, half on family), but. While I am slightly ashamed (being unemployed most of the year, and spending pretty much everything I was getting while working holiday immediately), my satisfaction with what I've been getting feels pretty good.

Like. I had a small bit of reasoning in that I was only guaranteed to be working holiday, so I wanted to heavily use my worker's discount (retail) while also taking advantage of good holiday sales. Got a healthy mix of 'things I will need in the future/improve my quality of life immediately' and 'I don't need this but I like it so now it's mine'. I will probably lose most of my shame of spending money in a month or so, when cards are paid off and I start actually accumulating money again, since I was kept on after holiday. I'd like to be able to stop looking at my balance and worrying about maintaining a certain amount and just vibe again.

[asidewalksymphony]

I've been looking at work from home job postings for 15 minutes and I'm already overwhelmed.

[glow-in-the-dark-death]

The Daycare

Danny moves to Gotham after Lady Gotham themselves asks for his help.

Gotham's natural ecto has been deteriorating, and considering ecto was what held everything in existence together safely this was a major problem for Lady Gotham.

If Gotham got too bad it would spread to the rest of the world, and could cause it to cease to exist entirely.

So Danny came, as the Ghost King he had the power to filter in great amounts of the corrupt ecto just by being in the city.

But part of his obsession was protection & helping, Gotham already had a lot of help (Batfam). So he decided to focus on helping not with the problem at the top (villains), but with the problems at the bottom.

The problems at the bottom that would be the root cause in breeding more problems.

After all, many didn't start evil, but need and desperation pushed them towards that path.

So Danny moved to the worst part of Gotham, The Bowery.

What did he do there?

Why open a Daycare of course!

Many parents could not get a good or stable job simply because they needed to look after their kids and could not afford to pay the daycare fee.

Danny wasn't worried about money after all the coffers that he inherited as king would take forever to even make a dent in it, and that's only if he was living a very lavish lifestyle everyday for several human generations.

With this in mind his Daycare fee was pretty much nothing.

He would take care of the children of a very wide age group, while the adults could focus on getting a decent job or even returning to school for a higher education for better opportunities.

How does he care for so many children?

He duplicates himself of course!

At least in the very beginning, after a while he begins expanding his Daycare offering classes and tutoring to the children as well as free food at all times.

Who's helping him ?

His ex-rouges and other ghosts who volunteered.

Lunch Lady absolutely adores having so many people and kids to make food for, and Box Lunch can socialize and play with the other kids while she works.

Ember even volunteers to be the music teacher!

Danny has the help of many ghosts who once they heard his plans were very excited to help, many having the obsession with teaching children or in general. Other ghosts helped with building, expanding, and just generally helping maintain the building in great shape. Even building a very diverse and fun playground.

Of course all this catches the attention of Red Hood. Danny just appears one day on his territory with many others and practically having a building appear out of nowhere with how fast it was built, asking literal pennies to take care of the children, and free food for anyone who asks.

All that gains a lot of attention and is rather suspicious.

But the crime rate has been going down since he opened, which is a good thing.

But many people don't want good things and decide messing with Danny and his Daycare.

Unfortunately for them cuz Danny is absolutely down for violence if he's protecting what's his.

~

Villain: "What a lovely place you have here would be a shame if something were to happen"

Danny who has the audacity to fight Gods and win: "Someone call an ambulance! But not for me!

Also Danny: "These hands are rated E for everyone"

~

Other people:"Should we call someone for help?"

The ghosts:" Nah, let him have his fun he needs his enrichment"

~

Red Hood: "He's very suspicious"

Danny is absolutely covered in paint and singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star with the young kids: "Ah yes I'm totally doing normal Gothamite behavior"

~

Lady Gotham is having some self care spa time she's having a grand time: "Should I warn the young king of the other halfa (Jason)? Hmm best not, it'll be more entertaining if it happens naturally"

~

Just an Idea

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fanfic idea: Big Fish in Gotham Pond

Based off of @saphushia art found here. . I just loved the idea of Tucker not knowing his skill level because he grew up in the boonies

Tucker gets scouted by Wayne Enterprises after he fixes a kid's computer game while in Gotham visiting Danny.

See, Tucker always known he is passable at tech- one has to be when a technology theme ghost is consistently harassing one's best friend- but to be good at something in a small town like Amity Park didn't mean much .

It's a big fish in a small pound sort of deal. That's why he's never put much thought into it. If Tucker were ever to rank himself in terms of school grades, he would say his computer skills were about a C-.

B+ if it was just coding.

His parents also don't think much of his obsession with his PDA or phones. They thought he waste too many hours on them like the rest of his generation.

It didn't matter that Tucker's technology was about five or more years behind his classmates.

The Foley were hard-working people who barely scraped enough for bills. They were never below the property line, but they danced on it often enough that Tucker knew never to ask for unnecessary purchases.

For as long as he could remember, his parents have always worked long and hard hours. He never blamed them for missing so much of his childhood, in fact he was grateful that they worked so hard to keep the roof over his head, but he did miss them.

That's why Danny's house became a haven for him. He was always at the Fenton's place because the loud, wacky family was much better company than the home silence.

Tucker knew that his family's financial situation didn't change how Danny or Sam viewed him. They had his back through tick and thin just as he did for them, but as they got closer to graduation the difference between them became jarring.

Sam had easy picking of what she wanted to do and where she wanted to go. Her parents were so overjoyed that she wanted to go to a university that they didn't even argue about her wishing to major in botanical biochemistry.

She had started house hunting in Star City midway through senior year. Her parents would gift it to her as a graduation present. Sam would live there for the next eight years to finish her degree.

Danny's parents, while somewhat eccentric, were also certified geniuses. Between the two of them, they had five PHDs and were often freelancing for companies when not doing ghost research. They too could send their two kids to college States away with housing not being a issue.

Jazz went to Metropolis to study Physiology. She lived in a small apartment but was doing well off her scholarships and parent's funding. Last he heard, she had a part-time job at the Daily Planet as a research assistant to gain some independence.

Danny wanted to go to Gotham for their engineering program. He, too, had an apartment of his own, with scholarships and equal funding from his parents. He also worked at Wayne Enterprises, but he was a receptionist. He hoped that once he graduated, he could apply for their engineering program

Not Tucker. His family could only help him get into Community College near Amity. He also couldn't afford to move out so he stayed with them, picking up a part time job to help out when he could.

Tucker is a first-generation college student so even though it wasn't much, he loved to see how his parents glowed when telling others their boy was futhering his education. He wanted to do something that paid well- and after years of patching up Danny- he figured nursing would do the trick.

Tucker would do all his basics in the community College, take a break to save up some money and then move on to the bigger schools.

The day of the graduation felt bittersweet. Team Phantom was finally adults, finally starting out in the real world, but while Danny and Sam moved on to bigger and better things, Tucker knew he would be left behind in little no-where Amity Park.

He never brought it up, but he felt a small dosage of envy the last day of summer before his friends finished packing and left.

Despite both being gone, Tucker had little to no social life even though they called, texted, and emailed often. His days blurred between class, work, and home. Even then, classes were long and tedious, work often ending with one or more customers screaming in his face to try and get free food.

His parents quickly started to nag that he should find a wife as they had married young. They couldn't figure out why he didn't want the same, even though he had no social life again.

Life became dull.

Tucker's only sparks of joy were playing online with Danny and Sam - when they found the time to log in or re-coding his old tech to try and salvage it whenever it broke down.

Soon, it became apparent that Tucker was slowly lacking motivation when he started skipping classes to sleep in and started feeling anxious when he needed to clock in for shifts.

It leads to him barely getting out of bed.

He felt horrible about it, thinking his parents sacrificed so much for him only to have him throw away the opportunities they gave him, and the cycle of not being able to get out of bed would start all over again.

It was Danny who caught on, and all but begged Tucker to come to Gotham for a weekend. He even sent money over for the plane ticket.

Tucker couldn't have gotten on that plane fast enough. He arrived early on Friday since the tickets were cheaper- and Uber over to WE headquarters to pick up Danny's keys as they agreed.

That way, Tucker could sleep and rest in the apartment while Danny worked.

Danny would finish his shift and have the weekend plus Monday and Tuesday off to spend with Tucker. When he arrived, Danny was helping a school check in for a field trip, so Tucker sat down to wait.

Next to him, a kid was growling at his laptop, frankly typing and moving his fingers over the computer's touch mouse. Tucker accidentally glimpsed his screen when the kid started swearing in a different language.

It looked like a shooting game but his lag was bad. By the time the boy pressed the buttons to have his little drone move the other flying things he was chasing were flipping though the air and out of his shooting rage.

It sucked when that happened, and since he was using WE free wifi for guests, it was probably the game. The graphics were badass, though. Seemed almost real.

"Hey try updating the system" He tells the kid after seeing the boy once again lag so bad he missed his shot.

Green eyes swing to him drenched in rage. Which yeah, Tucker knows how frustrating that could be.

"Did I ask for your help!?" The boy snaps, his words lined with an upper-class accent. Made sense since he was wearing a Gotham Academy uniform like the rest of the large school group. "Why are you even looking this way, peasant?"

"No, sorry. I just noticed the lag." Tucker raised his hand, slightly amused at the peasant insult. "I thought I could fix it for you."

The boy's face spams, "You believe you have the ability?"

"Ugh sure? I can try?"

"Here. Be quick. The fate of this city's air defenses depend on it" the boy turns his lap top to him and Tucker blinks.

Okay. So fix the game. He can do that.

And he does, quickly opening the code, analyzing the control and commands , he gets it running properly in less then twenty minutes. The boy seems utterly shock but he quickly takes control of the game and shoots down all the escaping ninjas from the sky.

"Thank you." The boy says with no more tense in his shoulders. Then he closes his laptop and dissappears with the crowd of students.

Tucker thought the kid was a cute.

Danny hands him the keys not long after and he leaves.

Never was he aware of the Boy being Damian Wayne and that the game was not a game but a actual defensive drone system that was fighting off the League of Assassins.

He only finds out how important those two facts are when Danny gets a call from Tim Drake asking if he could pass along Tucker's information because the CEO wanted him on staff as soon as possible..

Both nineteen-year-olds lost their minds after getting the call, screaming at each other in ghost shrieks of glee. They called Sam to let her know- and have her lawyers look over the contact Tim Drake sent just to make sure it wasn't a big-time company trying to screw him over.

He went to an interview three days later. He faced Tim Drake, the current seventeen-year-old CEO, Leo Noir, the current head of HR, and Jessica War, the current head of computer services. They asked him many questions about himself- some of which he felt he had answered terribly- then had him take a computer test.

Tucker thought it was busy work, so he quickly breezed through it. He fixed the problem in many of the coding for various programs, adding his flare to the final product, and after thanking them for their time, went out into the lobby.

He hadn't even reached the door before Jesssica ran after him, offering him the job. Apparently, the first two problems they had him do was the busy work. Tucker had thought they were the ones to let him get comfortable with the coding program.

Like a tutorial in video games.

The other seven were actual issues; many of their latest cellphone products failed. Tucker had solved them in an hour, which had taken the actual team of coders about a month.

"Nitey one dollar and thirty-five cents an hour," Tim tells him tapping the hiring contact. "It would be eighty hours every paycheck. You can work here or at home. Full Benefits. What do you say?"

Tucker's jaw drops. "When do I start!?"

He calls his parents to tell them he will be staying in Gotham with Danny. He tries to explain what had happened but it was all so fast that he can only babble about certain parts.

They tell him not to worry about explaining because they understand how much this means to him.

His parents help pack everything for him and when he flies back for it they, offer him hugs and support. Tucker is so glad they aren't mad.

"I sort of knew it was coming," His dad laughs. "You and that Fenton boy have always been inseparable."

"I did the same thing, you know," His mom says, wiping tears from her eyes but smiling all the same. "I moved with your father states away with little to no plan when I turned twenty too. Drove your grandfather mad."

He loves them both so much. He promises to send money- disregarding their denials- and flies back to Gotham, where Danny has opened his apartment until he gets enough for his own place.

He plans on renting a house with three bedrooms, one for him, one for his office, and another for Danny, as soon as he can. He wants to pay his friend back for everything he did and Danny deserves a bigger living space.

And for once, he'll not have to worry about money!

For once, life is looking up!

(What Tucker is unaware of, is that his parents think he moved to the big city to be with his childhood best friend turned recent lover. They don't know that the money he is sending home is from his own payroll and not Danny's. They think he's a stay-at-home husband.

Tucker is also unaware that the Bats are closely watching him in case he goes rogue. They have been slowly "causally" running into him in the city and breaking into his place to check for supervillain activity.)

[vanessagillings]

I’m posting the ever-so-rare photo of myself alongside one of my characters based on my childhood because today is World Autism Acceptance Day, and I wanted to show my little corner of the internet who this particular autistic person is:  

I was officially diagnosed in February, at age 38 (I’m now 39). A lot of people thought I couldn’t be autistic.  Some people who know me in real life still don’t.  And until around 10 years ago, I didn’t think I could be either, because I was nothing like the stereotype media portrays. I was told that autistics lacked empathy (untrue), and never played make-believe (also often untrue) and only enjoyed STEM.  I was — and am — an empathetic artist -- and make believe?  I can spend days sketching finely bedecked bears brewing tea or carefully choosing the right words to weave tapestries of fiction — though perhaps my hyper focus was a bit of a red flag.  Even so, how could autism describe me?  I was a good student.  I got straight A's. I didn’t act out in class.  I can make eye contact…if I must.  And lots of girls hate having their hair brushed with an unholy passion, right?  Clearly I swim in sarcasm like a fish, so autism couldn't be why I was so anxious all the time, could it?

If someone had told me when I was younger what autism ACTUALLY is — instead of the nonsense I’d seen on screens — I would have seen myself in it.  I didn’t hear that autistics have sensory issues until I was in my mid-twenties, which is when I first began to really research autism symptoms, and I had almost all of them:  sensitivity to light, smells, fabrics, temperatures, textures, and certain touches, all of which make me feel anxious, I fidget (stim), I never know what the hell to do with my hands or where to look, I talk too little or too much, I have special interests, I have entire animated movies memorized shot-by-shot and can remember the first time and place I saw every movie I've ever seen but I often forget what I'm trying to say mid-sentence, I echo movies and tv shows (my husband and I have a whole repertoire of shared echolalias, making up about 20% of our conversations), I was in speech therapy as a kid, I have issues with dysnomia and verbal fluency, I toe-walk, I can't multitask to save my life, I like things just-so, I’m deeply introverted but not shy, I need to recover from all social interaction — even social interaction I enjoy — and I find stupid, every day things like grocery shopping, driving and making appointments overwhelming and intensely stressful, sometimes to the point where I struggle to speak.  It turns out, I am definitely autistic. My results weren't borderline. Not even close. And while these aren’t all of my challenges, and not everyone with these symptoms is autistic, it’s definitely something to look into if you present with all of these things at once. 

So why did it take me so long to get diagnosed? The same bias that exists in media threads through the medical community as well, and because I'm a woman who can discuss the weather while smiling on cue, few people thought I was worth looking into. Even after I was fairly certain I was autistic, receiving an official diagnosis in the US is unnecessarily difficult and expensive, and in my case, completely uncovered by my insurance.  It cost me over $4000, and I could only afford it because my husband makes more money than I do as a freelance illustrator — a job I fell into largely because it didn’t require in-person work; like many autists, I have been chronically underemployed and underpaid, in part due to physical illness in my twenties, which is a topic for another day.  But it shouldn’t be like this.  It shouldn’t be so hard for adults to receive diagnoses and it shouldn’t be so hard for people to see themselves in this condition to begin with due to misinformation and stereotypes. Like many issues in America, these barriers are even higher for marginalized groups with multiple intersectionalities. 

It’s commonly said that if you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person.  This is why it’s called a spectrum, not because there’s a linear progression of severity (someone who appears to have low support needs like myself might need more than it seems, and vice versa), but because every autistic person has their own strengths and weaknesses, challenges and experiences, opinions and needs.  No two people on the spectrum present in the same way.  And that’s a good thing!  No way of being autistic is inherently any better than any other, and even if someone on the spectrum struggles with things I don’t — or can do things I can’t — doesn’t make them more or less deserving of respect and human dignity.

But speaking solely for myself, the more I learn about autism, the happier I am to be autistic.  I struggle to find words and exert fine motor control, but my deep passion and fixation has made me good at art and storytelling anyway.  I find more joy watching dogs and studying leaf shapes on my walks than most people do in an entire day.  More often than not, the barriers I’ve faced weren’t due to my autism directly, but due to society being overly rigid about what it considers a valid way of existing.  My hope in writing this today is that maybe one person will realize that autism isn’t what they thought — and that being different is not the same as being less than. My hope with my fiction is to give autistic children mirrors with which to see themselves, and everyone else windows through which to see us as we actually are.

If you’re interested in learning more about autism or think you might be autistic, too, I recommend the Autism Self Advocacy Network  autisticadvocacy.org and the following books:

What I Mean When I Say I’m Autistic by Annie Kotowicz

We're Not Broken by Eric Garcia

Knowing Why edited by Elizabeth Bartmess

Unmasking Autism by Devon Price, PhD

Loud Hands edited by Julia Bascom

Neurotribes by Steve Silberman

(trigger warning: the last two contain quite a lot of upsetting material involving institutionalized child abuse, but I think it’s important for people to know how often autistic children were — and are — abused simply for being neurodivergent).

Thanks for reading 💛