#Payday safe house

[paydayunofficial]

Dying because this is an actual thing in the payday safe house

(Does anyone remember what heist Bain said “wolf stay off the dance floor” in?)

[sp0o0kylights]

Eddie was all about desecrating corpses. 

Particularly, the huge ones--and nothing was larger than the burnt out husk of Starcourt. 

Yellow caution tape, muddied and ripped from its time in the weather still decorated parts of the doors. 

The place used to be crawling with security, but that had eased off now, the job returning to a local outfit rather than the smooth and swift guards who previously haunted the joint in pairs. 

It was easy as two days spent camped out in his van, watching the main entrance and a few side doors. In no time at all, Eddie had schedules memorized, points of entry selected and even three possible escape routes should things get dicey.

He didn't expect them to. 

Not when he’d already rolled his checks and came up with a number that, were this an actual D&D game, would make him a happy man. 

It was always a point of contention between him and his Pa. This perception. The natural ability he had that good ‘ol dad just didn’t seem to possess. 

The one that made him patient long enough to get a feel for a gig. 

To know instinctively how hard a job might be, and how to go about doing it safely. 

(Eddie personally doesn't believe much of it is talent. Thinks it is in fact, forcibly learned, due to the nature of his upbringing. 

Grandma and Grandpa Munson, bless their dead, departed souls, had at least given something of a shit. Tried to keep family things family and work things work, even when said work was illegal as it gets. 

They understood things like appearance and public reputation. 

How that kept the pigs off your back and food on your table.)

His Pa had never cared for any of that. 

Eddie didn’t grow up with family meals, or even food in the house let alone on the table. He grew up watchful, forced to learn or take a hit meant for an adult in the process. To weigh the risks against the benefits, and how to charm the pants off an unsuspecting target while doing so. 

It was how he’d escaped his own prison sentence when his Pa finally got eyes too big for his abilities.

Eddi had gotten lucky in that situation. 

Or rather--he’d gotten Wayne. 

Wayne, who gave up his own room, his own bed, for his nephew. Had bought him his sweetheart on his sixteenth birthday and a van on his eighteenth. Both things were used, and a little battered around the edges, and Eddie had almost thrown up the day he accidentally found out Wayne had used his life savings for the damn car, but they were above and beyond anything he had any right too. 

Eddie would be damned without him. 

But he knows his uncle needs help. 

Can't pay for himself and Eddie. Never really could, and so has been giving his nephew literally everything he has in an effort to make up for it until Eddie could help pay his way. 

Not that a singular soul would trust a teenage Munson with such a precious thing as a part time job, and so Eddie had turned to the familiar. 

The mall fire, and the resulting flood of federal agents had really put a damper on his income the past few months. Drugs were risky, and getting riskier with them sniffing about, and things were getting tight again in a way they hadn’t in a long, long time. 

(All it had taken was finding the hidden stack of bills. 

Big ol’ words stamped in red topped every one. Bold letters screaming ‘Overdue’ and ‘Payment Missed’ and ‘Late Fees.’ 

One single letter had panicked Eddie more than any other, the one that clearly said Wayne had been talking to the payday loan place down the street, and he’d be damned if his shortcomings made his Uncle willingly walk into a debt pit so few climbed out of.) 

Growing up like he had, Eddie was trusted in certain circles. Had access to places many didn't as his sole inheritance, because he was known.

 Someone who didn't rat, who could be trusted with given tasks. Who kept to the criminal code, and was good about not backstabbing you if caught.

He’d hit up a few old connections, dropped some hints. Put out “feelers” as one might say. 

Got a nibble and soon enough, Eddie was back in business, getting called up and offered a few small tasks for decent dough. 

Sometimes it was fetching information. 

Sometimes it was ferrying an item.

Today, it was a retrieval.

There was something someone wanted in the ruins of Starcourt--and they were offering an insane amount of money to get it.  

The plans hadn't made sense, not at first. The instructions Eddie had been given sounded outlandish, if not outright total bunk. 

Like the existence of a multi level basement under Starcourt? How the hell had no one caught that being built? 

Or that the security systems down there could possibly still be turned on? After four months? 

Who was even paying for it? 

Eddie had heard stupider things though, and the pay for this little jaunt was good. Too good to pass up. 

"They want a local in case something happens and the rescue squad comes running in. That way, it's just a little trespassing fun. The town deviant getting his kicks in the big scary mall, and not what they think it is." His connection had told him, meeting with Eddie in a Mcdonalds the town over. 

The place had a play palace, big enough to host a number of screaming rugrats. It made for a great cover as they pretended to be just two men in overalls, getting burgers on their lunch. 

Not a soul could hear a sound over the kids screaming, and if a blueprint sat between them then, well, if it looks like a maintenance worker, and it talks like a maintenance worker…

People never did look twice.

"And what else exactly would they think this is?" Eddie asked, munching on the food he got for free as part of even entertaining the offer. 

"A retrieval, Double D." 

Eddie hated that nickname.

"Some rich kid bit it in the fire, and his parents are paying out top dollar to get a few of his things, seein’ as the feds wouldn’t let anybody back in after they condemned the place." The guy, whose name was Mickey said. 

He idly traced a finger along the lines of the blueprint, the path he was wanting Eddie to take. 

(The path Eddie would later ignore, on grounds that it was going to get him caught.) 

 “Specifically a signet ring and car keys.”

“Car keys?” Eddie had asked, mostly in a bid for more information. Mickey was the kind of guy you could breadcrumb into giving more information than he intended to, if one played their cards right.

And Eddie was a damn good poker player. 

“Yup. Goes to a BMW--which they want you to drive to a safe place. Parents think he lost it somewhere around,” Mickey’s finger stopped, before tapping the blueprint twice. “Here.”

Something had niggled in the back of Eddie’s head. The first whispers of recognition, of a fact that he knew something about this--something he couldn’t yet recall. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to ignore it. 

“Who's the kid?” He’d asked. 

Mostly because he was curious, partially because it was a way to ease in the real questions he wanted to ask.

Like what a rich kid was doing four levels down in Starcourt the night of the fire. 

“Does it matter?” Mickey said, but dug into his pockets anyway. Retrieved a little 2 by 3 wallet photo, done in the traditional High School Picture Day style. 

He’d tossed it on the table, and Eddie didn’t react. 

Kept his face perfectly blank, even as his stomach contracted and his breath caught in his chest. 

Carefully pulled the picture to him, to make a show of examining it. 

“Don’t know him.” He lied after a moment, fighting to get his breathing back under control before Mickey figured out what was up. 

“Told you it didn’t matter. What matters is that you get the shit. And hey, while you’re down there…” 

Mickey talked a bit more, and idly, Eddie listened. He knew this little B&E was going to have more components than just retrieving a few things. Had long figured out that this entire front of retrieving “some rich kids keys” was just that--a front. 

Word on the street was that Starcourt was hiding something--something a lot of very powerful people were getting increasingly interested in. He’d rolled his eyes when he caught wind of the first little rumblings, the rumors and whispers that the thing was shrouded in Government secrets and conspiracies, but hadn’t been able to ignore the shit that had come after. 

Likely, the people who had hired him and Mickey understood they had to act now, before someone else did, to see if anything worthwhile was actually down there. 

The real question is why the hell they were using Steve Harrington’s death to do it--when Eddie knew for a fact that Steve Harrington was alive. 

Or alive as anyone could be, at two am at a Shell gas station. 

“Alright.” Eddie said finally, pulling the blueprint towards himself before rolling it up, making sure to casually roll up Harrington’s picture with it. “You got me interested. Half up front and I’m in.”

Mickey grinned at him. “Knew you would be, kid.” 

One hand shake and a hefty envelope later, and Eddie found himself on the way to Starcourt on his very first stakeout. 

It was that first initial look that confirmed it--Harrington’s prized BMW was in fact, still sitting in the parking lot.

Abandoned by rich assholes who absolutely could have paid to have it towed.

Which led to a domino effect of stakeouts, late nights and confrontations, up to and including his present position, counting down the minutes before he could break into Starcourt.

“Ready?” He murmured, and one could be forgiven for thinking he was talking to himself given how quietly he said it.

They would be wrong. 

“Yeah.” The not-so-dead rich kid drawled from the passenger seat.

Eddie tossed a grin at Harrington, who rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Come on, Stevie.” He purred. “Let’s go find out who impersonated your parents, and why they want that ring you supposedly own so badly.” 

“Honestly dude I just want my car back.” 

“That too.” 

Part Two

[honeyryewhiskey]

02. takes one to know one

ᯓ★ story index abt, you join your new friend, outlaw!dean, in a little game of cops and robbers. warnings, robbery, guns, suggestive language, sprinkle of angsty hidden feelings, there's only one bed couch (more of that in prt3!!) 2.7k words

The sheriff had a lot more going on than just civil duties, the vast ranch set picturesque before you can attest for that. The house itself is massive, pure white siding glowing in the moonlight. Beyond that, a sleek brown barn cuts into the night sky. From where you and Dean sit, crouched behind one of the dozen jagged shaped trees that line the outskirts of the property, it looks deceptively peaceful. 

But you know better.

This stash of gold Dean assures you is hidden within those walls, isn’t gonna be an easy swipe. Guards patrol the quiet ranch, a few are pacing the front as you watch and search for a blindspot. 

“You sure about doin’ this, darlin’?” Dean drawls in a hushed whisper, his eyes light and playful, almost daring you to say no. 

Your narrow-eyed gaze goes toe-to-toe with his, your lips curling into a smile. “I was born sure, Winchester.” you quip, not missing a beat. 

Dean’s husky voice drops lower, momentarily lacking it’s usual cocky drawl, “you just stick to the plan, alright? You do that for me ‘n we’ll be swimmin’ in gold before sunrise.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t ignore the steady thrum of adrenaline in your veins. The plan—Dean’s plan—was simple enough: get past the guards, crack the safe and get the hell out of dodge. Simple, of course, was a relative term when talking about breaking into the home of a man who probably shot first and asked questions—never. 

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” you tease, tucking your body closer to his. Your chin grazing his leather-clad shoulder as you both keep steady eyes on the ranch. 

Dean gives a quick glance, the moonlight catching in the green of his eyes. That pretty grin of his making a slow return. “Because you couldn’t resist me.”

Playfully hitting his arm, you shoot back at him, “or maybe I couldn’t resist the payday.” His eyes are back on you, lingering as his lashes slowly lift as he takes in your features at this newfound closeness. He merely offers a quiet hum in response, brushing against you as he shifts to hand you a small set of lockpicks. 

“Figure, with the way you work a cue stick,” he mumbles, voice low and as teasing as his eye contact, “you got this part handled.” He places the small box in your hand, clasping his large hands on either side of yours as he smirks, “And I’ve got a knack for getting into trouble. Perfect match, huh?”

Before you could reply, the sound of boots crunching on gravel causes both your heads to snap towards the ranch. A guard passes by, just a few yards away, his rifle glinting in the moonlight. Dean’s playful demeanor is entirely consumed by a sharp alertness that makes you wonder just how many times he’s been in a situation like this. 

The stillness passes as the guard meanders away, the sound of his boots dying out in the quiet of the desert. Your new partner’s shoulders relax at the false alarm. That lopsided smile playing at his lips again as he tugs you closer, his nose brushing your cheekbone.

“Showtime, baby.” Dean whispers, pulling back with a wink as two fingers reach up to tip his hat. 

The two of you slip through the shadows of the ranch like ghosts. A mere step between your bodies as you stick close to the edges of the house where the moonlight doesn’t touch. Dean leads, moving with surprising stealth for someone so broad. Every now and then, he glanced back at you, giving a little nod of reassurance. His focused eyes softened slightly each time he turned back. 

Moving through the property was easier than you thought, but Dean’s uncanny sense for danger has made it so. He pauses just before a light sweeps over your path, his hand shooting out to pull you into the shadow of a nearby tree when he detects movement before you do. The guards are predictable, too. Their routes timed perfectly to give just enough room to duck behind a stack of barrels or hop over a fence. One guard left his post at the backdoor, leaving an opening to slip into the darkened home. 

You follow Dean’s silent lead of avoiding spots of creaky floorboards as you step inside, pulse thrumming with adrenaline. As you move through the dark, Dean peeks through doors with deliberate slowness. You watch between him and the back door, until he’s motioning you over with the flick of a finger. 

The study was just as grand as you’d imagined—dark wood paneling, glass cases displaying expensive weapons and memorabilia. A massive desk cluttered with papers sits before two large windows. In the center space, a portrait of some grim-faced ancestor takes up most of the wall. 

Dean’s already hovering over it, inspecting the frame. The sharp edges of his side profile illuminated by the moonlight spilling in through the window. His eyes finally catch yours, nodding for you to come over, a sly grin on his lips as he leans down over your shoulder. 

“These rich sons of bitches are always so predictable.” He laughs dryly, “go on ‘n tug on that side of the frame for me, Sweetheart.” 

You don’t waste a second, pulling on the frame until it pops open. Swinging like a hidden door, revealing a built in safe on the adjacent wall. Pulling the small box of tools Dean gave you earlier, you get to work on the silver lock. The tumblers click softly as you go, each sound loud in the otherwise silent room. Dean stood behind you, close enough to hear his steady breathing. Keeping an eye on the door, his hand resting lightly on the gun tucked into his waistband.

“Got it,” you whispered after what felt like an eternity. The safe door swung open, revealing stacks of gold bars that gleamed even in the dim light.

Dean let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a sight.”

You quickly began transferring the bars into the canvas bag Dean had brought, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and fear. 

This plan of his had gone so smoothly, too damn smooth to be more accurate. 

Just as you finish zipping the bag, heart still hammering in your chest, a muffled voice barks from the hallway, “check the study!”

Dean’s jaw tightened as he reached for the gun tucked in his belt, but the door burst open before he could draw. Two guards stormed in, their guns trained on you both.

“Drop the bag,” one of them ordered, his eyes narrowing.

Your mind raced as Dean slowly raised his hands, palms out in mock surrender. His smirk returned, cool and steady, as if staring down the barrels of two guns was just a typical Thursday night for him.

“Well,” he drawled, his gaze sliding to you. “Guess now’s a good time to make a confession.”

Your stomach dropped. “Dean—”

“I mean, might as well, right?” he continued, cutting you off. His smirk softened into something maddeningly sincere, his eyes holding yours even as the guards barked for him to shut up. “You’re the prettiest little thing I’ve ever seen. And if I were a better man, I’d have asked you on a proper date. Y’know, steak dinner and all that crap.”

You blinked, completely thrown, but before you could respond, Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing the desk lamp and hurling it at one of the guards. The heavy base struck him square in the face, and chaos erupted.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He ducked under the second guard’s arm, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it until the gun clattered to the floor. “Move!” he shouted at you, his voice sharp.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Snatching the bag, you bolted for the window, Dean hot on your heels. He shoved you ahead of him, glass shattering as you both tumbled through the opening and into the cool night air.

The shouts behind you were nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart. Bullets whirl through the air, but Dean grabbed your hand, dragging you across the open yard and toward the safety of the rugged desert terrain ahead.

You didn’t stop running until the ranch was a distant glow behind you, your legs screaming in protest as you collapsed against a tree.

Dean slid down next to you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. A laugh escaped him, soft and incredulous. “Hell of a night,” he muttered.

A wicked laughing fit hurls out of you through panting breaths, reeling from the cooling adrenaline icing your veins. “You really had me for a second, y’know,” you manage through heavy breathes, “d’you mean any of that? Or was it all just part of your plan?” 

Dean smirked, taking off his stetson to run a hand through his messy hair. “Which part?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you teased, biting your lip in mock-deep thought. “The part about me being the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen? Or the bit about steak dinners?”

Dean chuckled, leaning his head back against the tree trunk, lazily tilting to peek down at you through his lashes, “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, didn’t I?” He’s doing it again—that smug little smirk—a sweet boyish charm that tempts your nerves in the most unfamiliar way. 

You turn away from his gaze, settling your eyes on the bag in your lap and letting your hair fall around your face to cover the blush that’s creeping in. “Mhm,” you hum into the quiet between, “careful now, cowboy. I might just hold you to your word.”

He doesn’t answer, and you pretend there isn’t a slight twist straining your heart for half a beat. Quietly, he places his hat back on. Pressing into the ground, he rises to his feet with a huff. Dean extends a hand, his eyes scanning the distance as you take his offer. 

Boots kick up dirt as you walk side by side down the dusty terrain. And for a moment—in the quiet of the desert, with the bag of stolen gold between you, the danger of the heist morphed with the dawn settling in the horizon. A warm toned thing, burning at the edges of your cold exterior, new nerve endings bleeding light between your thoughts of Dean and the feelings he keeps insighting. 

Trudging on, the sheriff’s ranch is out of sight. The weight of the gold was growing heavier, hanging from your shoulder. But you’d be damned if you let him carry it, not when it felt like grasping some essence of control. 

“So,” you drawl, kicking at a red rock, “you looked like a real professional back there. How long’ve you been sniffing out trouble like this?”

Dean shrugs, burying his hands in his pockets as he considers his words. “Sorta spent my whole life in some type of trouble.” he states plainly, voice quieter as he continues, “Been on my own a couple of years, give or take. Found the type of trouble I like best in all that time.”

You glance up at him, his skin soaking up the orange light peeking over morning clouds. The warmth of the hue makes his eyes impossibly green. Like the cactuses zig zagging your path, sharp and rich in color. “You like it? Being on the road?”

“Yeah,” he sounds unsure, pausing with his lips parted, “Most of the time, I do. It’s… simple.” His hands return, moving with each word, “No strings, no one to answer to.” 

You hum back, nodding in agreement. It’s a sentiment you can agree with, the same idea you've convinced yourself of for much longer than just a couple years. 

“But,” he sighs, eyes flicking across the landscape, “I miss my brother, Sam.” The name makes a smile creep onto his lips as he mutters, mostly to himself, “m’little Sammy.” 

There’s a softness on the name that makes your chest ache, “Why don’t you go see him, then?”

Dean hesitates, jaw tightening, “not that simple.” He let out a low breath, running a hand over his chin. “I don’t even know where I’d start. And if I ever tried to show my face to my old man…” His voice trails off, the words tangling in a wide-eyed huff that says it all in one motion. 

You part your lips to reassure him, daring to give the advice of it’s-never-too-late to a soul you know won’t take it. But, before you could he hummed a low, dismissive note. 

“Anyways,” he quips, a lazy grin returning to his face, “look at me, turning into a regular chatterbox. This your doin’, pretty girl?” His eyes find yours, but the usual playfulness isn’t as prevalent as it has been all night. In its place is something dark, trying desperately to work its way out. 

A look you know better than to pry at. 

Leaning over to nudge his shoulder, you offer a small smile. “Maybe I’m just easy to talk to.”

Dean’s grin shifts into something softer, but he doesn't answer. With a deep inhale his chin is up in the air again, eyes looking at anything but you.

 A splotch of brown you both assumed to be more rugged desert hills comes into focus—a vacant ranch tucked between scattered fields of jagged trees and cacti. The barn had collapsed, its frame a shadow of what it once was, but the house stood stubbornly, its roof intact and its windows dark against the rising sun. 

Dean raised his brows, eyes glancing over, “looks cosy.”

You scoff, giving him a worried look, “if your idea of cozy is ‘haunted ranch on the hill’, sure it is.”

“Better than sleepin’ out in the dirt,” he shoots back, already heading for the porch. He spins on the heel of his boots as he walks backwards, “‘sides, darlin’, if there’s a ghost around I’ll keep you safe.” 

With a wink that works a giggle out of you, Dean jogs up the creaky steps and disappears into the run-down house. 

 The inside is covered in a layer of dust and dirt, but there’s furniture scattered around—a worn couch covered by a sheet sits in an otherwise empty space. A creaky dining table in the kitchen, where you plop the heavy bag of gold, a cloud of grey puffing around it. 

“Not too shabby,” Dean coos, coming down a set of weathered stairs. “Just an old mattress on the floor with, uh, minimal stains and a whole lotta dust. Looks like we’ve got options.” He crosses the creaky floor until his boots are inches from yours. A smirk shining down at you, as his voice finds that teasing tone again, “Unless, of course, you’re afraid of ghosts.” 

Your eyes roll at his taunts as you cross your arms. “Please. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Uh, huh,” his brows furrow, lips twisting with contemplation as his eyes dance across the curves of your face.

“Yes, huh. Cross my heart.” You swear with a reassuring nod. 

His eyes fall to the couch, and then back to the stairs before they settle back to you. His thoughts written in the smirk on his lips. “Mattress is kinda gross, actually. Couch could fit two—”

You cut him off, throwing your palm up with a humph. “Look, Cowboy, I may look the type but it takes a whole lot more than a game of pool and stealing gold to get me all cozied up on a dusty ‘ol couch in the middle of the desert.”

Dean barks out a laugh, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, hey—’m not suggesting a thing, little miss.”

You arch your bows with a “mhm,” the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. Dean follows as you walk into the living room, discarding the sheet and plopping onto the cushion with a sigh. The couch dips under Dean’s weight on the opposite end. A quiet set in for a moment, comfortable and as warm as the growing heat of the sunrise. 

“Will say, though,” Dean sighs, his thighs sprawling over the soft surface as he relaxes into the creaky furniture, “I’d be a gentleman—”

“Shut up.” you shoot back, unable to hide the laugh that slips between the words.

hmmmmm should they boink in the next part???? hmm hm hmm

tags <3 @the-fandoms-onceler @a1ecmcdowell @titsout4jackles

[trancylovecraft]

Yandere striker from helluva boss?

• This man as a yandere is not good for you at all. 

• Protective, Manipulative, Possesive and a little sadistic

• Protective in the he views you as delicate, Something that could be easily broken or torn apart. Whether this be emotionally soft or physically weak he views himself as your protector. And he takes pride in that title, too.

• Possessive in the way he also views you as his and only his. He wants your attention on him at all times. He doesn’t view you as a possession per se, Close to it but he still see's you as a living being.

• Sadistic in the way that he loves the chase. He enjoys the way he will get you in his arms. Your reactions are everything. He wants you to feel scared, He wants you to run into his arms because its the only place you’ll feel safe. All while he grins and happily comfort you.

• When you capture his attention you probably wont even know. He could of just saw you one day and he just had to stop and stare. You were so beautiful, The prettiest thing he’d ever seen. Maybe it was the way you looked, Walked, Talked or something else he couldn't place. He didn’t know.

• He started to follow you around wherever you went in hell (This scenario hinges on you being an imp or a succubae. A hellborn demon could work too) You would never know he was there either, He’s a proficient assassin and he knows how to get around without being noticed.

• He watches you for a good few days before making his move. In that time he learns where you work, Sleep. Where you go to get your food or where you go to eat on payday. Your routine is memorised.

• When he does finally make his move, He’s already made up his mind. He wants you.

• When you show up to work you hear the news of a missing co-worker. Despite your good nature Hell wasn't as kind as you, Being only talked about as a passing comment. But according to your bosses they had already found a replacement.

• Soon the talk about your missing colleague quickly turned about gushing over the replacement. Apparently he was extremely attractive, Charming and of course, A hard worker. You thought it’d be good to introduce yourself soon, Try to make a new friend

• And you met him sooner than you thought. As you turned a corner you happened to bump into him, And wow did he live up to his reputation.

• You introduced yourself and he kissed your hand. He complimented your looks and took an interest in you.

• Spite his flirtatious behaviour you figured he did this to all the ladies in the office as you saw the group of jealous girls around the water cooler giving you side eye glances.

• So you moved on, Back to your work. Expecting to only talk to him through email or in passing talk. And that’s how it was.

• But a few days after he started you noticed things in your house seemed wrong. Things started being moved about. Things would get misplaced.

• It was stuff like your lipstick, Your shampoo and your jewellery. You know you didn’t misplace them, you were too careful for that. But there was no evidence of break in.

• The days after you were very paranoid. You looked behind your back for anyone following you. You made sure to get home before the sun even dared to set and you made sure to keep a pocket knife neatly tucked away in your purse.

• You went into work with the same paranoia. And wouldn't you know, Striker was the one approach you to see if you're doing okay. He was busy both with work and literally every co-worker talking to him, Yet he came up and talked to you of all people.

• You saw nothing much wrong with this. He didn't seem dangerous or have any ill intention. Though you do find it strange he noticed you throughout his possy.

• So you explained to Striker your situation while he listened intently. He expressed sympathy and he told you he could come over later to check out your house. It felt amazing, Everyone in hell would either ignore you entirely or mock you for it. But Striker listened, So you accepted his offer of checking around your house.

• He left afterwards, So you went back to work.

• Later after your shift ended you met up with him and walked to your house together. You got to talking and it turns out you have a lot in common with him. You like the same music, Like the same food and enjoy the same activities. You never knew how similar you were.

• When you entered your house you suddenly screamed in terror.

• On your windows, written in blood was “LOCK YOUR WINDOWS NEXT TIME”. Glass was shattered, furniture was knocked over. And worst of all? The corpse of your missing colleague on the table

• You were crying. Having a full blown meltdown at the sight of your house. Striker swoops in and comforts you. Tells you its alright. He says that as long as he’s here it’ll be okay, And you believe him.

• For the next few days he is by your side 24/7. At work, At his home (The one you moved into) and anywhere in the seven circles he was there with you. You would go to the police but unfortunately in hell they don't exist

• Eventually you got into a relationship.

• He’s a perfect gentleman when he gets with you. He buys you expensive gifts to your taste, Boquets every other day. Holds the door for you everywhere you go.

• Of course your not allowed to leave his house after a while, Your stalker is still out there after all.

• He doesn't tell you that he was the one setting up your stalker scenario. He was the one that killed your co-worker, He was the one that broke into your house just to mess shit up. But you wont know that, Not yet at least.

• His petname for you is “Little Lady” or “Sugar” if he’s in the mood

• Any rivals that came up at anytime are instantly taken out. Lovesick co-worker, He doesn't care. A solid chunk of lead is going straight through their skull.

• The only time you do go out of the house is on dates. He takes you out to restaurants in the lust ring, Goes stargazing with you and takes you horse riding with him.

• All the while still planting little hints about your stalker still being there, Driving you closer into his arms.

• If you do find out the truth you’ll be horrified, Absolutely terrified.

• You’ll try to run away, But trust me it will not be easy. He’s adept at tracking and hunting, No matter where you run he’ll catch you. You can't go to anyone too, This is hell. Nobody cares.

• As you run suddenly your swept off your feet and thrown on the back of his horse. He chastises you for trying to get away, About how dangerous the world is and how you need to stay with him to be safe.

• He drags you back to his little cave hideout. And trust me, You will never see the light of day again

• You're his, He will never let you go.

[copperbadge]

Radio Free Monday

Good morning everyone, and welcome to Radio Free Monday!

Ways to Give:

Anon linked to a fundraiser for Andrea, a trans woman, UU minister, and veteran, and her wife Wren, a genderqueer veteran, who are currently homeless along with their three cats. While they are working with the VA to get approval for housing assistance, they're in need of funding to get back on their feet; you can read more and support the fundraiser here.

littleredreadinghood linked to a fundraiser for kirkaut, who was recently diagnosed with an aggressive cancer and is in need of help with medical bills. You can read more, reblog, and find giving information here.

like-the-midnight-sun linked to a fundraiser for a close friend, a queer, trans, and multiply-Disabled writer who has just lost their job and needs to pay a steep phone bill to reactivate their service so they can look for work. You can give via paypal here or via Chime to nachonaco.

Anon linked to a fundraiser for crazywolf828, whose grandfather, one of the household's main income sources, recently suffered a broken hip and is currently in a rehab center; they need help with medical bills among other things. You can read more and reblog here or give via ko-fi here. (The page does pop up a "possible NSFW comment" warning window but there's nothing NSFW on that page.)

Anon linked to a fundraiser for Vinn, a disabled nonbinary person who is raising funds to move away from Utah, where being a queer person is becoming steadily less safe, to Michigan, where they have a place to live with their partner already set up. You can read more and support the fundraiser here.

like-the-midnight-sun and her wife are multiply marginalized people who don't feel safe in the US anymore; they are fundraising to move to somewhere in Europe, probably Norway or Sweden, where they will be less likely to experience violent persecution. You can read more and support the fundraiser here.

like-the-midnight-sun and her wife are also hoping to get temporary assistance with a vet bill before they go out of town; the appointment is the day before payday and they won't be able to cover it until they are paid. They need a loan of $150 that they can pay back; you can give (with repayment on March 30th) via paypal here, via Venmo to ARZinzani (9980), or via Chime at $Nassun-0428.

Recurring Needs:

thelastpyler is raising funds to help with food, transportation, and replacement IDs after being robbed; you can read more, reblog, and find giving information here.

And this has been Radio Free Monday! Thank you for your time. You can post items for my attention at the Radio Free Monday submissions form. If you're new to fundraising, you may want to check out my guide to fundraising here.

[bullet-prooflove]

Set Up To Fail: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader

Tagging: @shanimallina87 @malindacath @@djs8891 @dempy @words-and-seeds @cosmic-psychickitty @xoxabs88xox @hardballoonlove @@ssa-sadboi @iwannabeinthesequalmrghostface @queenslandlover-93 @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond 

It’s been a long time since Jake has had a flashback, he used to have them occasionally in his early twenties after he received his care file, but he hasn’t had one in a couple of years. However, there’s a moment when he’s slipping out of the door of the locker room that Rooster puts his hand on his shoulder to tell him something and it hits him. It feels like someone has put a filter over his vision, the past and the present flickering and merging into one. For a second, he’s back in the trailer of his parent’s dealer, trying to slip away because the fumes, they’re choking him. He sees the gap in the door a sliver of light in the haze and he dives for it, but there’s a hand on his shoulder, a grip he can’t shake off pulling him back. He doesn’t escape that night; he’s forced to sit there as his parents’ barter meth for their only son. They leave the trailer without him.

His reaction in the present is unwarranted. He tears himself away from the other man and hurtles through the door, letting it slam behind him.  It’s only when he sits in his car, both hands gripping the steering wheel and his heart pounding in his chest that he realises that Rooster was only trying to return his keys.

He ends up walking to your place, it’s not far only a couple of clicks but every step feels like it’s agony because his nerves are flayed raw, and he keeps thinking about all of other shit he read in that file.

About how his family was known to social services already before he was picked up for trying to sling meth. About how going back to that trailer emptyhanded had meant earning it some other way, he’d seen it happen with other kids and he refused to be one of them. When he was caught it was almost a relief because it turns out he was pretty shit at hawking meth and Crispin, his parent’s dealer had already been making noises about how a good-looking kid like him can fetch a decent payday.

He ends up in a group home with no hope of getting fostered or adopted. The problem is he’s seven years old and feral because meth heads don’t make good parents and he’s been forced to fend for himself ever since he can remember. It takes him a while to realise that only the good kids get to leave that place, so he tries to moderate his behaviour, become one of them. He tidies himself up and works his ass off but by then it’s too little, too late because by that point he’s entering his teenage years and he learns that boys have a lower chance of being selected than girls.

Looking back, from the very beginning he’d been set up to fail.

When he gets to your house, he can’t bring himself to knock. There’s such turmoil inside of him, it wrenches at his insides, and he isn’t sure that he wants you to see this, that he wants anyone to see this. The choice is taken out of his hands when you pull the door open, Cujo’s lead in your hand, and you see the look on his face.

The problem is he’s never had a home until he met you, you’re a safe space in a sea of chaos. He knows that instinctively and his instincts, they haven’t failed him yet. You usher him inside, Cujo pressing against his legs because that dog, he knows how to read a room and he knows when one of his people are hurting.

It’s on the couch that he tells you what happened, with Cujo’s face in his lap, his palm smoothing over the dog’s head as he looks up at Jake with the most empathetic expression he’s ever seen. It’s grounding the feel of his fingers combing through Cujo’s fur, somehow it makes it easier to vocalise the messiness inside of his head. The most debilitating part is that he thought he was over it, that the past was in the past but he’s coming to learn that the foundations of his early life still bleed into his every day. He can’t understand what triggered it, he’s been clasped on the shoulder a thousand times before and he’s never felt anything this visceral.

Your fingers thread through his, your thumb caressing over the outline of his hand and he feels the tension starting to ebb from his body.

“Sometimes it can be a something as simple as a sound, a sight, a smell, even a sensation…”

It’s then that it clicks. An echo in his mind. The ghost of a memory. A hand clasping his shoulder, the door closing and that scent, the sharp tang of aftershave on his tongue as he’s drawn back. It’s a moment of clarity because he remembers now, Rooster mentioning the new cologne he’d bought, him spraying it into the air after he changed out of his flight suit. It’s not the same, but it’s similar enough. Those actions and that smell at the same time…

“Fuck.” He mutters before tipping his head towards you, his eyebrows furrowing. “What the fuck am I supposed to tell him?”

“How about the truth?” You suggest. “He’s your friend, he’s going to want to know what happened, how he can help.”

You see his jaw clench as he averts his gaze back to Cujo.

“Jake,” You say softly. “The thing about PTSD is it’s insidious, it feels like it’s this shameful, terrible secret but it’s not, it’s a part of you. What happened tonight was horrible, it took you back to some dark fucking places, but it doesn’t change the progress you’ve made, how far you’ve come. You’re still you, you’re still one of the strongest people I know.”

He gives you a look and you squeeze his hand gently.

“I mean it.” You say forcefully. “I’m proud of you.”

There are so many ways a man with his history could have turned out, but he’s managed to circumvent them all and instead he’s here, making something of himself, a lieutenant in one of the most prestigious programs in the Navy.

“I didn’t realise how much I needed to hear that.” He admits quietly, his arm coming to rest across your shoulders before he draws you close, his lips brushing over your hairline.

“Thank you.” He whispers. “Thank you for being there when I need you, thank you for loving me.”

Love Hangman? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[whereisyourstar]

That's Me

Part 4 of the Stand By, Hold Back, Be Patient series

Part 3, Part 5

Rating: SFW with mild and minimal explicitness at the end

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: Brief mention of talking with an abusive family member, brief mentions of blood, murder, etc., awkward walks, the slow burn is starting to kindle

Life goes on. Payday comes and goes, May starts in a cool, rainy earnest, and you begin to settle in.

You make some adjustments to your living room's layout, adding an ugly, overstuffed yellow-green ottoman that goes with nothing else in the room, because it was free on the side of the road and you liked it. Heracles gets a dog bed that he never uses save as a convenient place to put his toys, the favorite of which is a stuffed lamb he whined over at the store. He worries over it constantly, and you have to stop him from taking it with him when you go for walks in the forest, which has gotten you thinking, however hesitantly, that perhaps Heracles could do with a friend. You remind yourself that you're a long way off from being able to take care of two dogs, but you do keep an eye on the various animal shelters around Crystal Lake.

The locks on every single one of your doors has been replaced, and you've even added a latch to the porch's screen door, which you're devastatingly proud of. It took days of on-and-off labor, half of which you spent sure that you'd ruined your good, strong doors, but the end result is a cabin that just feels safe again. That's the important thing.

You got around to answering some of those piling up messages on your phone, too. Some lie about having to wait until payday to reconnect your phone gets you out of most of the vitriol, but it brings up a whole slew of lectures about how you've always been awful with money, and what were you thinking buying that cabin, and what are you going to do when you need to get a real job out there in the sticks, and when are you coming home? You add answering at least two messages a day to your schedule, but do nothing about the calls. She's your mother, but there's limits.

The truce with Jason holds. You've seen him twice in the week since coming to an agreement. The first was just as a glimpse in the forest while Heracles forged a trail up ahead, heading the opposite direction to do…whatever it is he does when he's not terrorizing you. The second time when you were switching the lock on the front door and he rounded the corner of your house, completely casual, like he owned the place just as much as you. Heracles, who had been idly sniffing around the trees while you worked, launched himself like a rocket directly into Jason's arms, surprising you both, and you'd been left apologizing for him between laughter. You'd tried to explain what you were doing with the locks, that it made you feel better to have something sturdier on your doors, and you still couldn't tell if he actually understood. He'd shown no interest in going into your home again anyway, so you supposed it didn't matter.

It's a bleary day when you see him again. The rain hasn't let up all morning, lending a little extra lifelessness to your daily scrolling and reporting, but right as you break for lunch and get a day-old croissant in you—you got a box of six half off at the store because they're slightly too brown, and they're the most delicious thing you've had in weeks—the patter on the windows abruptly stops. It surprises you enough to pull back the curtain on the window over your kitchen sink and, like a beacon, a patch of sun burns through the cloud cover.

You turn to Heracles, who has been watching the final crumb of croissant like with complete focus, and ask, "Wanna go?"

It's a win-win-win. He gets to pee without getting drenched, you get to finish your croissant without judgement, and you both have a chance to stretch your legs. There's just something extra intolerable about being inside when you have to be, and extra freeing when you pull in that first lungful of rainsoaked, cool, green-smelling air.

The forest is waterlogged after so much rain and within minutes of walking you realize that your comfy hoodie isn't going to cut it against the drops still sliding down the tallest trees. Looking up is an exercise in getting errant water in your eye, but you keep craning your neck backward to watch the tops of the trees while Heracles leads you around. It's dizzying how tall some of these trees are, and you're not even in a particularly old part of the forest. Far east of your cabin, caught between the lake and the town, is where the vacationers and residents alike don't go, the forest thick and dark and old out that way. You heard someone mention bears and mountain lions who make that part of the Crystal Lake woods their home and decided you had no business over there.

You're staring at sky between layers of branch and leaf and twig, idly fascinated with how quickly the silver clouds pass by while Heracles sniffs the base of a tree with gusto, when a branch snaps to your left. There's a moment where you don't recognize him as he ducks under a low bough a few feet away—so he does own other clothes, this ratty grey-brown jacket making a stunning debut with the usual outfit—and your heart does an odd flip when you take in the hockey mask. Instant relief, because it's just Jason, not some stranger. A stranger catching you in the woods opens up an entire gamut of possible outcomes that you're not prepared to deal with, but Jason? He's a known quantity, as much as someone like him can be known. Just here to catch up with Heracles and maybe check that you're not making a nuisance of yourself on his land.

The relief and a small helping of embarrassment at being caught quite literally watching the clouds translates into being downright friendly on reflex. "Hey!" you sign hello, muscle memory pulling your lips into a smile. "Here to—"

The rest hardly matters, because Heracles finally tears himself away from the tree long enough to run to Jason, pulling you right along with him. You stop just short of him while Heracles makes quick work of jumping up and scrabbling muddy paws all over Jason's legs. You wince and suck a breath in through your teeth at the twin trails of newly wet muck on the pants despite all the filth already encrusted on them. "Ahhhh…" you say half behind your hand, watching Jason's reaction carefully. He pays the paws and the mud no mind, even squelches onto one knee on the drenched forest floor to rub at Heracles' ears. Still— "We've been working on that. I like his enthusiasm, but he nearly bowled over a kid with a burger in town yesterday, so…anyway, sorry about the muddy hello."

Jason makes a noncommittal gesture before going right back to lavishing Heracles in attention. He has, however, caught your dog doing the only thing he loves more than receiving undivided attention—exploring and sniffing to his heart's content. Much sooner than normal, Heracles pulls away from Jason and starts tugging on the leash, harness straining. A thought you're not sure what to do with immediately pops into your mind—spending time with your dog is the only thing keeping you breathing at the moment, so what happens if Heracles can't meet that quota? So far these visits have stretched anywhere from an hour to fifteen minutes, and granted, you don't have the best data considering how new this all is, but you're certain a minute isn't anywhere near enough.

So you make an invitation of it. Arm straining against Heracles' impressive resolve to drag you with him, you look to Jason and say, "Ah, you actually caught us in the middle of a walk, and he's not going to want to stop for at least another hour. If you're not busy, would you like to…come with us? For a bit?"

He surprises you by agreeing once he's stood—that same careful slowness in his movements that you just can't figure out—with a yes. And then you're off, Heracles' tail high and wagging to have his two favorite people walking behind him.

It's…awkward. Awkward in the way that you don't want it to be awkward, but you're the one that created the situation in the first place, so you kind of just have to deal with it. Jason chooses to walk with you, not up with Heracles like you thought he would, and puts roughly four feet of space between himself and you wherever the forest allows. It's the kind of room that would insult you if you thought he was doing this for any other reason but to hang out with Heracles. As it is, you just do your best not to veer too closely to him while Heracles chooses his path.

The silence is expected, and even kind of nice once you get used to another person being there to share it. There's a good rumbling in the distance that says the storm isn't done with Crystal Lake just yet, but it sounds far enough off that you're not too worried about it yet. Birds chirp and flit around in the trees, sometimes accompanied by much heavier wildlife that you can't see, and it doesn't take too long for you to become absorbed in the forest again. And you take a few extra glances at the clouds and their silver-gold interplay with the hidden sun, because it's still gorgeous out here even with a serial killer on your left. It's enough to make a person nearly forget to be afraid.

What you don't expect is for Jason to be the one to break that silence. He draws your attention back by plucking the leash in your hand like a guitar string, pulling you back from admiring a brown bird that seems common for the area. You try not to let your sudden spike in fear show on your face when you turn back to him.

Dog, he signs, then points up ahead where Heracles scratches at a spot in the mud. Dog.

Your brain whirls to try and figure this one out. The two of you haven't communicated at all, really, since the day he forced you to take ASL off one of your brain's shelves. He hasn't seemed interested, despite you continuing to sign all the words you know when you talk at him. This comes out of left field and you have to kick your brain out of nature-appreciation mode to answer. "Heracles? Oh, he's fine, he'll start walking again in a—no?" Dog, he signs, then points at Heracles again. "Y…yeah, Heracles. Did you forget his name?" And you slip the leash's handle around your wrist so you can sign name, two fingers tapped to two fingers. Jason jolts, leaves making wet noises under his shoes when he half-turns to sign yes while pointing at your hands.

Lightbulb. "Name!" you exclaim, spurred on by his enthusiastic yes. "You wanted to know the sign for name! Do you want to know why Heracles is named that—" and you sign why, intent on making good on your self promise to teach him question words "—or maybe you go by something else? Or—"

Jason points to you and signs name.

What a way to realize you never introduced yourself to him. A mix of mortification and confusion no doubt colors your cheeks, because yes, you never thought to tell the mass murderer your name, but you also didn't think he'd be interested. He's here for your dog, not you—you're just a conduit through which the dog can be experienced. But he did ask.

When you tell him, you watch his mask very closely, try to get a better look at that very brown eye you saw before. There's not enough light in the forest to illuminate the deep eyeholes of the mask, but you do get to watch in quiet awe as Jason perfectly fingerspells your name, just as you did. There's something about watching his big, gloved hands work so delicately around the movements of your name that you feel…something. Maybe pleased? Impressed that he picked it up so quickly?

"You got it," you tell him, and you can't stop the little smile that comes upon you when he signs it again. Like he's trying to commit it to memory. "That's me."

Heracles has less patience for this interlude than you do, but the dam's been broken now, you're pretty sure you won't annoy Jason by talking to him, so you try to keep the conversation going when the walk starts up again. "You know," you start after a moment, catching him turning his mask nearly over his right shoulder to better look at you. So that sagging eye is mostly or completely sightless, then. He's going to hurt his neck like this, craning it over and down to see you, and you make a mental note to walk on his left next time. "It's kind of funny. You're Jason, he's Heracles…we've got an Argonaut theme going. Maybe if I get another dog I'll name it Orpheus…or Nestor, I always liked Nestor." You glance up to find Jason staring down at you, and you say, a little meekly, "Like…the Golden Fleece? The myth?"

And, so deliberately that it's almost comical, Jason signs yes-no. Maybe, or I don't know.

While Heracles pulls the two of you along, you tell him. It's a barebones overview of the Golden Fleece tale—neither of you have the kind of time required for the full myth—that you have to look into the furthest pits of your childhood Greek myth obsession to scrape together, but before you've hit on the even-more-mythical Jason and his Argonauts departing Iolcus, the present-Jason has stopped you over a dozen times. With a bit of work on both your parts, including finally getting those who, what, where, and why signs into play, he's got a working understanding of the main characters and the meddling gods before too long. You're fully warmed to the topic by then, using your hands not to sign, but to just gesture as you put together biographies of ancient heroes, and you can feel how much you're smiling. Every question is more than welcome, bringing with it the validation of poring over dense, flimsy-papered tomes of myth as a kid, and you're more than happy to explain what you can. It's clear Jason's getting into it, too—his stiff body language shifts the longer you talk, the more readily you answer his questions. He trips over his own fingers more than once trying to sign who or where and you have to bite your cheek to keep from thinking out loud about how nice this is. It doesn't feel like something you're doing to placate him, and you don't think he's the type to indulge you, so it's truly just…talking. Talking with someone who wants to know what you have to say.

Jason's hands are literally and metaphorically stained with the blood of innocent people, good people, and he's also the most engaging person you've spoken with in years. An ethics scholar would have a field day with the way you're feeling right now.

It gets to a point that, when Heracles abruptly yawns and starts to turn back, you actually feel your heart sink a little. He stops for a pat from Jason when he passes between the two of you, but he's clearly finished with his explorations for the day. You try to keep your expression and tone neutral when you say, "Looks like he's done out here. It's been…what, an hour? Hour and a half since we left?" You check your phone and wince—closer to two, but then, Jason did join on about thirty minutes into the walk. The energy of seeing him probably kept Heracles going longer than normal. Still, you look up at the sliver of sky you can see from here and bite your lip. Jason's signing what when you pull yourself back. "Heracles'll just take us the way we came, which wouldn't normally be a problem, but there's no way we're beating that storm."

As if on cue, a huge clap of thunder rings out somewhere nearby, and both you and Heracles jump. Jason just lifts his head to stare at the same patch of sky you did—lots of neck on display, all of it sparking that unnatural-discomfort-wrong part of your brain—before tapping his chest and pointing a direction perpendicular to Heracles. Then he takes off in that direction using these long, purposeful strides, and you have to run with Heracles just to follow behind. He checks over his shoulder only once and slightly readjusts his speed, which means you were right to follow and he isn't just attempting the world's rudest Irish exit. "Come on, follow Jason, buddy," you tell Heracles needlessly. He finds it fun trying to keep up with Jason, meaning you're dragged behind at a half-jog for who knows how many miles.

The sky threatens to break open for the entire twenty minute jog back, but it holds out just long enough for Jason to deposit you and Heracles back to to the awning-side of your cabin. You knew Heracles didn't take you too far into the forest on these walks, but being so close this whole time surprises you, and you let out a surprised "Oh!" as you step out of the woods. A glance at the sky shows it dark, the sun on its descent making for an eerie ambiance, but you're grinning when you turn to Jason. "Thank you! That was so much faster, thank you so much!" You're panting around the words, but you do mean them. He just makes that same noncommittal gesture from before, then turns to go.

Something in you can't accept him just walking off like that. You should be glad to see him go, and a part of you is, but still…you enjoyed yourself this afternoon, however improbably. He didn't have to listen to you like he did, and he certainly didn't have to show you this more direct route to the house. So you shout, "Wait!" after him and before he's turned round again, you ask, "Do you eat?"

Over his shoulder, still mostly pointed away, the mask dips down. Yes.

"Okay, stay right here for just a minute, I have something for you." And you don't check that he's staying behind as you get your door unlocked, taking it on trust that he's not about to let you embarrass yourself. Where that trust comes from is anyone's guess, but it urges you to ignore the mud Heracles tracks inside while you take a day-old croissant from the box and hurriedly wrap it in a clean yellow gingham patterned kitchen towel. You're back outside in an instant and your heart does a curious little leap to see him still standing there, waiting for you. You run right up to him, fear completely forgotten, and hold the parcel out in the space between. "Here, it's just a croissant, but it's genuinely the most incredible thing I've had since I got here. You have to try one."

Jason eyes you, then the wrapped up croissant, then you again. Pointedly does not take it when he signs why?

"Because I had a lot of fun today," you say, entirely too honest. "No one's let me go on like that for…I don't know, years? It was nice, and I appreciate it, so…here. There's no poison in it, promise."

You're close enough that you can see the shape of Jason's working eye scrunch a little, and his shoulders lift, like you've said something funny. But he does take the croissant, all careful, tentative movements, and you shudder at the feeling of his gloves against your bare knuckles. There's a moment where he just holds it in his huge hands, staring at it, then he looks up at you and nods once. A thank you, you think.

The sky ruptures into a torrent of cold, harsh rain, so you don't linger. Still, from the safety of your front door, you watch as Jason tucks the croissant into some interior pocket on his jacket, which is just extremely gratifying.

You wonder if you should have invited him in as you're wiping off Heracles' muddy paws, the dog in question collapsed into a puddle of sleepy bliss. He got you home in time to avoid the rain, but you assume he lives somewhere in the denser, older part of the forest with all the other dangerous creatures. That's a long walk, even for someone with his stride.

It would have been polite to invite him in, but even if he'd said yes, you don't think there's any getting around the fact that the last time he was in your house it was with the intention of killing you. (And you do want to know, more than ever now, why he chose not to that first time. And the second. But that requires a level of communication that will take a lot more than just a walk or two to achieve, you're sure.) Then there's the fact that, the time before that, he killed an entire shift of construction workers in here. You could ask what he did with the heads, probably, but do you really want him to show you? What if he decides to add yours to whatever nefarious skull pile he's building?

One nice, mostly one-sided conversation doesn't change what Jason is. It's good to remember that. But even still, you find yourself tucked up on the sofa for the requisite pre-dinner nap, Heracles already passed out and kicking in his sleep, and reading a retelling of the Golden Fleece myth. At the very least, if these random Jason appearances keep happening, you can make them interesting for him. And if you happen to enjoy it too, well. You'll leave that one to the ethics scholars.

Jason sits against the wall of his house and rips the bundle out of his pocket. He's dripping with rain that still hasn't let up despite the long walk, but what's important is that it's mostly dry here, and he can think. He thought plenty on the way over, he always thinks best while walking, but he needed to see this thing while poring over his own thoughts, and for some reason he just…hadn't been able to let the thing you'd given him be ruined by the downpour.

He unwraps the yellow cloth—clean, smelling faintly of soap and the bread it conceals—and finds you were telling the truth. You said it was a croissant like he was supposed to know what that is, but it's obviously just a cold, very brown, curved roll of some kind. It crackles under his fingers when he squeezes it, flakes fluttering from the cloth and onto his lap. Not like any bread he's ever encountered, in this life or his first, but it seems, for all intents and purposes, completely mundane. There's no poison in it, promise.

So what is your angle. You're not the typical trespasser, he knew that after his first encounter with you. You're fast, having taken him by surprise twice now with just how quickly you've been able to run when he's close by, but you're also smart. Anyone who recognized his sign—and he still doesn't know why that particular memory unburied itself that day, of his mother sitting across from him at the table and showing him the peculiar gesture for dog after she'd had success in teaching him mommy, trying to build his vocabulary with all his favorite things first—and was able to answer in kind had to be, but to then use those signs to give him the ability to answer questions, and ask his permission to stay…it puts him on the defensive just as surely as any weapon. He had thought he was dealing with a deer, all freeze instinct or breakneck speed when startled, and approached you with that idea in mind. No sudden movements, not while he was still making up his mind about what to do with you, in case you decided to run.

He kept the tactic after coming to the agreement with you, but after today…you're not the trembling doe he thought you were.

You're scared of him. You should be, he's intentionally terrifying, but that fear needs someplace to go when your life isn't in danger. A deer will run when it is scared and will bleat when it's caught, but a deer isn't as smart as you are, nor is it as protective. No prey animal he knows would go to such lengths as you have to protect Heracles, which means he has badly miscalculated, because you aren't prey at all. You're a predator, just like him. Intelligent, quick, and loyal—he thinks of your eyes, how you watch him just as intently as he watches you, and thinks hawk.

He puts together what he knows. You're dangerous, and he needs to understand how. Not in the same way as him, you were so easy to hold down—and he lingers, not for the first time, on the way your exposed throat had curved up, just daring him to touch it, when you screamed for Heracles to run—and the singular hit you've gotten on him was completely ineffectual. He could overpower you in an instant, but he hasn't, in part because of the way you speak to him. You know the signed language he learned pieces of as a boy and wasted no time in communicating with him. He wanted to answer your questions.

It strikes him that every single time you have demanded he wait, he did it without question.

You wouldn't be the first to manipulate him—there are still stains of blood on the floor here from the last time a victim deceived him, desecrating his mother's memory in the process—but you are the first to have the opportunity to do it over a span of time. If manipulating him is what you're doing at all. He can't tell, which is the point, and it frustrates him. How could it be anything else, though? Because just like with the questions, with the waiting, he wants to hear you continue that story. He wants to talk to you. He wants to see you again.

From where he sits, miles and miles away from where he left you, he can feel your presence. It's a sense gifted to him by this second life, this ability to know when his territory has been invaded. He tracks his victims by it, honing in on each individual presence until they are snuffed out. At this distance, he is aware of you, but passively. A caress on the back of his mind that is becoming all too familiar. His sense of you draws him in a different way than the others—he just wants to be closer.

Are you aware of what you're doing to him? Talking kindly to him, giving him gifts, in the hopes that he will care enough to continue to spare your life? And, worse than that, are you aware that it's working?

Jason lifts his mask and tears into the bread-croissant with his teeth and swallows it. It's harder than he remembers bread being, but the softer inside melts where it touches his tongue, tasting of butter. He prefers meat, but even in the midst of this newest crisis, he has to admit that it does taste…good. The most incredible thing you've had since you got here, though? You clearly haven't had the long, sweet berries that grow on the trees in his woods. They will be in season soon, maybe you would like—

He tamps down on the impulse with another bite, then a final one until all that's left is a million crumbling flakes in his lap and the towel the bread was wrapped in. He brushes the flakes off and he tries, he tries very hard, not to care that he's holding something you touched. He'll just put it in his pocket and leave it outside your door the next time he's in the area. He'll just put it in his pocket and leave it outside your door, and then he'll pet Heracles, and then you will say something new that draws him in, and he will stay longer than he meant to, and you'll get your talons further in, and—

The smart thing to do is throw the rag into a corner of his house and leave it to rot. Or maybe he can tear it into strips to make new wicks for the candles on mother's shrine. Maybe he'll carry it on him for a while longer, so he can shove it into a victim's mouth when their screaming can't be silenced by his machete quick enough.

But rather than do any of that, Jason carefully spreads the cloth over his palm. Then he removes the glove on his other hand, lets it fall to the ground while he touches his fingertips to the soft, clean material. His stomach feels tight, and his jaw clenches. He brings the material to his mouth and presses it to his lips, bunched up under his nose, and he breathes it in. Your hands were on this, however briefly, and through the scent of bread and soap, he tries to get the scent that is just yours. His tongue drags against the cloth, just once, as if he could taste you.

He feels himself stirring, stiffening, and he tears the cloth away, frustrated and disgusted with himself. None of that, not because of you, not because of anyone. He'll return the towel and stand in the rain and remove all vestiges of your influence on him.

Jason stands, his breathing the loudest thing within the walls of the house, and shoves the cloth into his pocket. But not before he rubs it between his bare fingers, just one last time, and spells the letters of your name against it.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

This morning I woke up, 4 days after payday, with my bank account fully in the negative, little to now grocery shopping done in the past 6 weeks due to finances, and exhausted. I drove to the food pantry (because there's not a busline from the house to it, and I wouldn't have had money for a ticket even if there was) and even though it's named for a Jewish concept using a Hebrew word with Jewish religious significance, I pulled up to a Methodist Church. I sat in their sanctuary surrounded by pride flags and other people in need of food, and waited 90minutes to be called into the distro space. There, a woman sat with me and stared for a moment at my listed income on my application sheet and asked three times if it was right before slowly entering the information she knew would disqualify me from the program and quietly told me I could not pick up an allotment. I told her I understood and made a joke about never imagining I could make this much money in my life, let alone make it and still not afford groceries, and she told me I couldn't pick up an allotment but if I spoke with her supervisor they'd make sure I didn't leave empty handed. I said I was grateful and that if they had rice and sugar I could make do for a month. The program director told me they don't have sugar, but packed me a small bag of rice and canned veggies and some apples and frozen blueberries, and I told them again that I was grateful and it was true.

I don't know why I'm typing this out. I feel so weird and have been wrestling with this since leaving the food pantry. I don't really have a point here. I *am* grateful they helped me when they had no need to. I *am* grateful they're here to be asked for help. They were kind and treated all of us (not just me) as human, and it's clear they knew many of the people there with me as regulars. I walked by a staff person praising an elderly woman's new haircut since her last visit, saying she looked beautiful, and the woman glowed! Everyone was talking and having a lovely time and clearly felt welcome and safe there.

But I saw how everyone treated the children. They were happy, well loved children, visibly. They smiled and waved at me when I walked by, and they were full of play and energy. Which is maybe part of why they were confused and slow to recall when their parents tried to keep them calm and still. It was maybe why they were delighted that I smiled and waved and sat with them, since no other adult was doing it. No one was even looking at them except to "keep them out of trouble". I remember places like that when I was young. I remember the ones who could see my mom as human enough to give her boxes of fruit and current-day sell date foods in the back of a store or church house. But who couldn't see me, her child, as human enough to even say hello to me or ask my name. It taught me that begging was something you do carefully, a dance of placation, pitifulness, and humble pride, all carefully added in drops until the person who can keep you from starving decides if and how to do that. As a child, my clumsy social graces weren't up to the challenge of keeping the steps of the dance, so it was better I stay silent than risk destabilizing my mother's work. I found myself dancing her steps this morning, and hating myself for the way I framed and shared my truth, regretful and brought low instead of asserting my humanity not be pinned upon my financial status. I didn't lie to anyone. Nothing I said was untrue or even eliding of truth. But I knew that the truth only mattered as it fit a particular story of need, and so I made sure it did.

This is charity, I think. Earning the gifts from your benefactors that will allow you to survive, all while remaining just pitiable enough, just small enough, not to threaten their sense of distance from you. They're here to aid the needy. It helps remind them that they are not us. But I am. In every way. So what has gone wrong? How could this be? It disrupts the reassurance.

It's why they had no sugar you see. No chips, no snacks, no sweets for the children, and no sugars. Sugars are a luxury. Not a basic staple of cooking. At least not to them. Sugars are used for cakes and candies, not for marinades and cooking oils. So why should we need them? It would just hurt our health anyway.

I've decided what this post is I think. It's a recipe.

Sin-free Simple Syrup Recipe

Live in economic freefall? Rely on church run food donations to eat? Really tired of someone trying to suggest that fruit serves the same role as fucking sugar in your efforts to feed yourself?

Me too, bitch, me too.

Reinvigorate your sense of self after having it ripped apart to appease the charity staff with this 4 ingredient fruit-flavored simple syrup that can be used as liquid sugar in many recipes (as long as you don't mind fruity sugar in your recipe!)

4 cups frozen fruit (blueberries, in my case)

1 cup room temp water

A squeeze of citrus juice or crushed ginger root if you have it (to taste)

1-2 tablespoons of sugar-sap product (maple syrup, honey, molasses, etc) or 1-2 tablespoons of sugar (any kind) depending on what's available

Throw all together with any other flavors you may care for (spices, etc) in a heavy saucepot, and simmer on low/medium-low until reduced to your preferred syrup texture, then transfer to an airtight container and chill. It can store for 2weeks, so cut the batch in half or quarters if you expect to not use much in that timeframe.

I use simple syrup in ratios of about 1tbs simple syrup for every 3-4 tablespoons of dry cane sugar, and about 1tbs simple syrup for every ¼cup of sugar-sap product. Feel free to experiment and find your own substitute ratios.

[biframes]

Do you plan on making any more payday fics on AO3? I loved the ones you made and hope you work on more

Thank you so much!! That makes me so happy. I worry that my writing is not so good, so your praise is encouraging.

I have several Payday stories that have been unfinished for a while. Unfortunately inspiration to write is more difficult than inspiration to draw...

The closest to completion is a story I wanted to write about Jimmy, Jacket, Sydney and Wolf and their friendship. They are my favourite characters so I like to imagine them hanging out together at the safe house. I hope that people will enjoy it when it's done. I also have sequels to my Jimmy/Duke and Sokol/Jacket stories, but they are not as close to finished.

Thank you again for your kind message. I truly appreciate it.

[fistfuloftarenths]

rugan headcanons pt 2

firstly realized what i thought was his shirt are yellow sleeves laced onto his armor so i guess they're some heavier canvas material to provide some protection. underneath looks like he's wearing a blue shirt. still maintain he patched the elbows himself.

can read better than he can write but not that good at either. counts on his fingers. can't count on paper or with an abacus, which is one of the reasons zarys outranks him.

has no money saved. figured his luck would run out at some point and his corpse'd get rolled into the ditch same way he's rolled some poor other bastards, and there's no point in giving them a payday when they turn out his pockets.

on the road is relentlessly tidy. has to know everything is well maintained and in the right place. doesn't have to look where fire flasks are when leaving caravan, just puts hand out and grabs the bandoliers/basket/whatever because he's checked and rechecked it multiples times.

has a room in a guild-owned boarding house. sparse, empty. a little lonely. not much personality on display. safe and clean place to sleep and store whatever gear he's not taking with him. not much more - some bottles of (smuggled) top shelf liquor, an expensive map of the sword coast. not somewhere he'll bring people, as a rule.

is acknowledged as lucky by most of the rest of the caravan and gate crew. in cards, in not stepping in horseshit, in not getting rained on, in finding attractive drinking partners, in getting rescued from by becoming gnoll food by - bellar brem and zarys assumed he was talking up tav because it was better story but then tav actually turns up and he wasn't.

only rugan would get rescued by a hero that looks like that and who would then walk into a a zhent hideout. jammy bastard.

he's beginning to push his luck too far for zarys liking. he knows his stuff and for all he's lucky he's canny and careful too. or he used to be.

after a probation period, had a flying serpent branded into his hip, and ash rubbed into it. no way to get rid of that mark, even if he wanted to leave the zhents.

may or may not have had a black hand tattooed on his ass while drunk. definitely has had at least one nicer tattoo done when he was flush with gold. fewer scars than you'd expect given his age, and most have healed cleanly.

[yanderes-galore]

Alright, I sent them in! This will be the last request, a concept of Jacket from Payday 2, perhaps? -🐈

Finally, Payday content! It gets a masterlist now! This is me heavily speculating as the most Jacket's personality is described as is "Sociopath"... which doesn't help much.

Yandere! Jacket Concept

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Violence, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Murder, Kidnapping, Isolation, Blood, Sociopathic tendencies mentioned (according to WebMD), Forced companionship/relationship.

First off, Jacket is a sociopath.

According to online, he'd have low empathy, impulsive behavior, controls with threats, manipulative, doesn't learn from punishment, lies for personal gain, and tends to be violent.

Another curious detail about Jacket is he only communicates through tape recorder lines.

This isn't all cases I'm sure but this is what I found on WebMD.

He appears mute and would only communicate through tapes.

Which only makes him more unnerving.

I imagine when not on heists with the gang he's in his space of the hideout recording new lines and playing arcade games.

If you think about it he'd be terrifying if he was obsessively attached to you.

He'd have no remorse and little empathy towards the pain he causes you and those around you.

All he really cares about is having you.

Jacket most likely gets attached to another member of the gang.

This would allow you two to speak more often in the safe house.

Well... not entirely "speak" but you get my point.

Jacket may act like a team player to the gang but he can be selfish.

I imagine once he has his eyes on you he fixates intensely.

He's impulsive around you.

Jacket would stick around you during heists and down time.

During heists he tends to get more violent towards cops and works hard to protect you.

Something that scares you about Jacket is how into it he gets when he's violent.

You can't tell if he enjoys it or not but he certainly gets repetitive when you're nearly hurt.

It's more like he's venting pent up rage to you.

He doesn't care about the blood on his clothes.

Jacket may be touchy so when he hugs you he doesn't care if the blood stains you either.

Jacket most certainly controls others through violence and threats.

He's rough with hostages and sometimes threatening to you.

Although when you bring up your discomfort he tries to tone it back.

He isn't really sympathetic but he has some sort of care for you.

A care no one else really understands... including you.

Jacket may also be manipulative towards his obsession.

He mixes together tapes specifically to refer to you with.

Things that tell you to stay a little longer, that he knows best, that he can protect you.

All sorts of manipulative behavior.

It's both caring yet eerie to you because he makes eye contact while clicking his tape to speak.

Jacket also doesn't learn from his mistakes or just doesn't seem to care.

If he's caught being violent towards someone you know of being a bit too clingy, he'll pause but do it again later.

You can't correct him.

Jacket does what he wants.

His obsession tends to be manipulative and violent.

He's volatile.

While around you he can be softer, he can also come off as rough.

You can not tell me he wouldn't kidnap.

Jacket is a yandere who goes into extreme territory.

He has no guilt, he only thinks about himself.

He'll gladly zip tie your wrists to a chair in a dark room to keep you to himself.

He will even brutally harm those around you until he's covered in residue.

Even if you scold him of show fear, he doesn't care.

That's another of the many things that makes him terrifying.

He has no guilt, he thinks of just himself.

If he wants you, he'll have you.

You can fight him but it will not deter him.

No, instead Jacket will drop his bloody bat and crouch in front of you, just to touch your cheek.

When he is covered in the proof of his brutality and sees you restrained before him... Jacket feels complete.

This is exactly where he wants you to be... all his... the best treasure that no heist can beat.

[agentleem]

The secret ending to payday 2 will always be the secret ending of all time to me just because of how ludicrous the path to get it is.

Firstly, you need to have done a few specific heists in order to get the goods for them. This’ll unlock them for display in your safe house. Once you finish with that, you need to take a medallion from one of the heister’s rooms and put it near them, putting together an apparatus of sorts with the objects.

Once you’re done, you can then proceed to go into the room of Scarface from the hit movie Scarface, and use a gun to play a tune on the piano. Afterwards, the apparatus thing will stop spinning and can be interacted with.

You gotta remember (or take a picture) of the 20 different messages that show up from there, because they are in a makeup language with unique symbols, no spaces/punctuation, and backwards. Translating them hints at a list of 20 achievements randomly selected from a list of 57 that you have to complete.

Then, you have to get on a slightly harder than average White House heist with 3 other people who did the previous steps with you, where you play it as normal until you enter the underground area and have to find a glowing painting. It only glows when everyone is able to do it.

After blowing up the wall behind it, you have to reach a vault with the same language on it. From there, you have to translate the outer ring of text and put in a password that answers it. While hordes of reskinned cloaker (enemies that insta-down players) swarm you. A total of 4 times, with a single incorrect one resetting everything.

Once you enter, you have to go back to the door after a while to confront the guy from breaking bad, and make sure to shoot him before he shoots your buddy. Finally, you have to plug Mayan gold into several holes in the ground for you to finally unlock the ending

That’s a fucking secret ending if I’ve ever seen one

[banditherobot]

Payday reddit compared to Payday tumblr is hilarious. Payday Reddit is over there discussing builds and updates and gameplay while Payday tumblr is just like hey what if all of the gang were being all cute and gay in the safe house all the time :)

[happy-ratta]

YO YO yo hey any more payday headcannons? I see you’re a man of culture… Bain enjoyer…

I got more headcannons for Bain and other!

-Bain likes candy, a lot.

-Bain had a single father

-Bain has three siblings, he's the oldest with twin middle sisters and a younger sister.

-Bile is the youngest sisters kid, making him Bains nephew

-Houston admired Hoxton, and wanted to continue his legacy till he was out of prison.

- The admiration stopped once he met Hoxton

-It took years to pay off Dallas's debt

-Dallas doesn't understand why Houston hates him.

-Chains was the one to recommend Wick get a dog.

- Jimmy thought that he was the last body left, until he got drunk and ungodly high one day and woke up in another Jimmy's body

-He's been looking for 3+ years by now.

- Bain has two cats, he loves them.

- There's two bodyguards that live in Bains safe house

-They were both tortured for information like. Their dead now

- Wolf worries for Houstons mental health.

Less headcannons then last, but I got a shity migraine right now.

[crispy-bonnie]

Hi hi!!! Hopefully requests are open!!

I was wondering if you could write for a platonic!payday gang with an adopted teen!reader??

I was thinking that bain ended up adopting teen!reader and now the gang just coddles them. You can write for whoever for this request!! :DD

- have a nice day/night!!!

yeah no problem ! i'm not too experienced with writing platonic things , let alone teenage/child reader situations , but i can most definitely try !

You're adopted by the Payday gang

The gang literally has no fucking clue what to do with you when they find you in front of the safe house

You were dropped off by Twitch at the safe house and Duke was the one to meet with you first

Litearally has no clue what's going on, and the rest of the crew ends up gathering as well to see what was happening

Dallas eventually got a call from Bain, explaining the entire situation

You were adopted by Bain for reasons unknown, and now you kinda just live there

It takes a bit of time for the gang to warm up to you, but once they do, it's pure fun from then on out

Jiro is like the calm parental figure that teaches you coping mechanisms for things like anxiety, depression, or other issues

He's the first one to notice if something's wrong, and he would be the first one you would go to

Duke is like that really cool relative that can and will blabber on about ancient shit

He'll offer to take you to a museum of your choice on his days off, and if you take a real interest in something you see, then he'll probably steal it during a heist just to make you happpy

Sydney, Joy, and Wolf are basically your chaotic family

Joy will teach you the ropes on tech and hacking, Sydney would let you go ham on designing masks, and Wolf would help you try to make your own contraption in his workshop

These situations typically get you and the gang in some trouble [Making a mess with paint, making the most dangerous fucking contraption in humanity, accidentally hacking into some really dangerous/important database, etc]

That's where Aldsotne, Dallas, and Hoxton come in

They're like the calm and tired parents of the gang like oml give them a fucking break

If chaos ensues and it involves you, Dallas will be the first one to hear about it and immediately try to diffuse the situation

Hoxton would be the one to give you a good scolding about it, and Aldstone would be the one cleaning and teen-proofing the place where it happened

Sokol and Bonnie are the more chill ones and often like to teach you how to play games

Sokol will teach you how to play hockey, and he might even take you to an ice skating rink to teach you how to skate [if you don't know how to that is]

Bonnie would teach you the tricks behind gambling. Obviously she won't use real money when playing with you, but she'll use fake chips to demonstrate the stakes that are put on the table when in such situation

Jacket is like that weird and quiet relative that you are a little uncomfortable with but manage to get along with him after a few hours

He'll let you record your own lines for his tape recorder and might even use them during heists

Jacket also likes to offer to play video games with you, and you often beat him in them. Of course, he doesn't complain or anything because if he did, he knew he'd probably be mauled

Ethan and Hila like to invite you to record videos with them

Whether it be a vlog about daily life, a YouTube challenge, or a talent showoff, they always wanna make sure you feel included

Hell, when they post their vlogs, they'll often brag about how epic you are and make sure that you get a nice amount of attention on social media. If you're okay with it that is

All in all, the Payday gang is a pretty good family considering your whole orphan situation

You honestly wouldn't trade them for a different family

[xxgremlinleexx]

More info on our situation.

This will be posted to the GoFundMe as well.

I feel that it is incredibly important to express just how last resort this is. It has come to my understanding that if people are to come across this, they are likely to believe I haven't exhausted all of my options.

This, unfortunately, isn't the case.

Mississippi has never been safe for us as black, queer people. And having neighbors turned against us for something orchestrated by pur landlord has made it even less so for us to continue being here.

There is absolutely nothing left for us here.

Lemme explain. As of now, both my partner and I are employed. However, our pay and hours are nowhere near enough to cover the cost of rent without outside assistance from friends and family who are all also struggling at this time. This includes our other partner who has their own shit to deal with. I work at Dominos and am paid a flat $9.00/hr as a CSR. I'm only granted NINE (9) hours a week. Yes. You read that correctly. Only 9 hours a week. 18 every two. 36 a month. Which is why I started doing commissions. To make ends meet.

Because Void (our cat) would genuinely have nowhere to go if we didn't make things work somehow. We've had him since he was a kitten, and he would be even more devastated than us.

Friends can't take him. Not anyone nearby. And with the lack of proper shelters, surrendering him would likely spell death.

Just know, while things weren't perfect, they were not always like this. We started falling behind after a technological error on the Apartment's end (More on that later) where two months' worth of rent was never posted. And once we made the error known, it came with fees stacked from both months and then some. In the middle of March. After I'd been dropped from my internship at a super Christian-run food bank. Where I was the only openly queer one there. 🙃

And it's truly only been downhill from there.

My nesting partner is paid slightly more than me at 9.75/hr, but they haven't been given a full 40 hour week since September of last year. This is after asking for all that can be given at their job despite dealing with chronic pain and being immunocompromised. They've been working without any sort of proper accommodation aside from being offered brief breaks in the store's beer cooler.

We've taken out payday loans out of sheer desperation not to lose our home, two of which almost crippled us.

We do not have a car. Mississippi's public transportation system is absolutely abysmal. I used the bus to go to work during my internship. I was left stranded twice and was s3xually harrassed during my rides on several occasions. The system is horrendously underfunded, so the drivers just don't care.

We have tried various programs including section 8. The wait lists are endless.

The property manager has explicitly expressed that they do not accept vouchers from any of the most prevelant housing assistance programs in our area. Which was one of the reasons why we almost weren't allowed to move here (Making a video on that soon.) during a time where we were, in fact, homeless and running out of time at the hotel we were staying at. The only assistance we have is for electric. And that's only because that bill is not processed directly through the complex itself.

I've been permanently flagged by the unemployed office. Why? Because one of my employers (the most transphobic experience I've ever had. More on that later.) claimed that nobody under my legal name, SS, or anything had ever worked there before. Every other experience listed was verified, but due to that one instance, even when I provided my old work badge and my W2, I was (and still am) no longer able to apply for unemployment without being stuck in a neverending wait list for an investigation that will never come. It will remain stuck in pending for months and then the case number will magically close without notice.

We have Food Stamps, but due to the sudden dip in income and hours, MDHS has pretty much flagged that I'm able-bodied but just choosing not to work. Which has resulted in the amount we're given monthly to harshly decrease.

What I'm trying to say is that the truly needy and unfortunate are treated like rats and scammers. Pests. These programs put in place to help us aren't funded enough to make the people tasked with running them truly care. So they turn us away.

This has been a problem in Mississippi for years. The state government is given money to help and distribute as needed, but those funds are withheld. Millions of dollars every year are kept away from the families who need it most, and nobody here can answer why.

And if you're queer or a person of color? Good luck.

I explain all of this to say that we genuinely need help wherever we can get it.

We need to get out of Mississippi.

Please help in any way you can. Spread this and my GoFundMe wherever you can. It is us the link above. Share it wherever, whether you can donate or not.

My commissions are open. All three slots are available. I will gladly work for the money.

Thank you for your reading.