Little Death

imagine jason trying to work up the courage to actually ask you out, because depsite how much of a "bad boy" he looks like, all rough muscles, scars, and loud motorcycles, he actually has very little experience with dating.

imagine him being desperate enough to ask roy for advice. he tried to do it casually, but roy still made fun of him, even if he agreed afterwards. most of his advice was half-baked at best, compliments and presents and all that, but he managed to get something from the man that was somewhat useful.

"....or, y'know, just try to meet her when she's outside work or somerhing"

imagine jason taking this to heart. it's not that hard to find out your schedule. he may not be tim, but he still knew how to track someone, and your life was pretty routine. you had a small apartment a few blocks away, you rode the public bus, you liked to go to a small hole-in-the-wall coffee shop.

all in his territory surrounding crime alley.

imagine him meeting you at the coffee shop "by chance". you looked surprised but not displeased, so jason tried talking you up. you were still such a meek thing, and jason assumed you just didn't have the courage to say no when he asked to sit at the small table you where seated at in the corner.

imagine it becoming a common thing, the two of you enjoying coffee together, disregarding how jason always seemed to know when you were there. or, at least, he never really drew attention to the fact, and you seemed content enough when he spoke about books he read instead.

imagine jason overthinking your little shared routine, wondering if it counted as a date. because, if it was a date, then wouldn't that you two were dating? and if you were dating, could he make things official? you were such the sweet type of girl, you'd probably say yes if he asked.

imagine him coming home late one night from one of these "maybe" dates, seeing that roy had raided his pantry again and left his laptop on the counter.

imagine jason rolling his eyes, mildly annoyed, when he sees the camgirl site roy had left out in the open. the screen was still up, paused and zoomed in on the lower stomach of a woman, her hand dissapearing out of view and drifting lower, her knees spread apart wide and framing the screen.

imagine jason tossing the laptop on his worn couch, accidentally hitting play when it landed.

And playing a familiar sounding voice that he heard just hours ago.

imagine jason's shock at the fact you, the mousy, bookish, glasses wearing lirbarian who could barely speak above a whisper, were a camgirl.

imagine him watching the video in shocked arousal, watching you, naked, reclined on a mountain of pillows and plushies, with your knees pulled back near your shoulders as you played with your soaking wet and trembling folds. as the camera panned up, he could see you weren't wearing your glasses, but it was obviosuly your face. it wasn't an overly obscene expression, like other camgirls likes to pull. you were just flushed, face twisting in such an honest display of pleasure as you bit your lip in that same unconcious habit he knew you had while concentrating.

imagine your eyes, foggy with pleasure, meeting the camera and, subsequently, his gaze.

imagine him scouring the site for every video it had of you. you seemed to be a new comer, having only a handful of videos, but they were gaining traction quickly. only videos of yourself, in what he assumed was your bedroom. the lighting and angles improved with each video, casting a sort of glow on your soft bare skin against the pastel colored sheets of your bed.

imagine jason having trouble looking at you the next day, after spending all night watching your videos. it wasn't that he was disgusted or ashamed, far from it. but it proved hard to look at you when he spent the better half of the night fisting his cock to you pleasuring yourself.

imagine him becoming your biggest subscriber, especially when you begin live streaming. it was a bit embarassing, the amount of money he gave you, but it was all under a screen name so you were still oblivious to the fact he had paid to see your face scrunch up in pain and pleasure as you fucked yourself with an XL dildo, soaking it to the base in your juices along with your hands.

imagine him sending you a dm on the site, asking for a private show. you hesitate at first, of course, but the money he offers isn't something to pass up so you relent. his screen is black when you start the call, and he only types his orders for you to strip, slowly, so he can see everything. jason watches as you pull of your beige turtle neck ot reveal a lacy black bra, shimmying out of your long skirt to reveal a matching thong and thigh high, sheer stockings. he tells you to stop there, he wants you to keep them on the entire time.

Otherwise, it's him pinning you down/using his strength to restrain you, even if you're biting and scratching. Kinda treating you like an angry cat that needs to be wrapped in a blanket, except it's his beefy arms going around you.

Tbh, the pinning you thing might also be him wanting to show some dominance, so you know he could easily do what he wants, but doesn't take advantage of you like others would cuz he loves you.

When it comes to physical contact, yeah, he casually manhandles you, and often, but it's kind of like when a person randomly picks up and bothers their cat. He doesn't ask you to move out of his way, just picks you up under the armpits and sets you down.

Btw (jason todd kidnapping request) I forgot to add that it is Arkham knight jay because that voice modulator 👉👈 HOO BOY-

Jason is the clingiest motherfucker alive regardless of whether or not he's in the armor. Obviously if he's alone with his Darling he's more comfortable being affectionate, but if his men or anyone else are around he'll likely just keep an arm on their shoulder.

His trauma has left him simultaneously terrified of not having Darling around, but he's also triggered by certain things and is afraid of accidentally hurting Darling with an involuntary response. He'll cling to Darling and hold onto them while he sleeps, only to have a nightmare and wake up gripping them so hard they've got bruises. And seeing those bruises just reminds him of his time being trapped in Arkham, so now he's panicking and holding you even tighter, making it worse and...you get the idea.

The slightest bit of affection from him is overwhelming. The man will moan, whimper, and lean into Darling's hand. He may flinch if he's not expecting to be touched but the instant he realizes he's not being hurt, he melts. Even if he's in the armor and cowl, he hesitates and visibly has to collect himself for a second.

His yandere tendencies stem from a desire to protect, and he's got an entire damn bunker and militia to make sure that's the case when he gets rid of Bruce. Any threat to that will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. However, if it's one of the few people he still cares about like Barbara, Dick, Alfred, or Darling themselves that's objecting, he's going to at least try to reason with them. He knows that this is the wrong way to keep them safe, but he's not capable of doing things the right way anymore whether it's protecting Gotham or protecting Darling. He won't kill anyone in his former family, but if Barbara or Dick tried to intervene and take them by force he's warning them that he won't hold back.

He hates it when he sees Darling look at his brand or any of his scars, and it takes a while for him to let Darling touch them. Once he does he's actually more insistent on Darling touching them. It's a weird psychological thing where them touching his scars gives him a similar sense of security that the cowl does; they're covered up, but instead of cold metal encasing them it's their warm skin. Even them looking at his scars becomes more comforting.

tw - stalking, kidnapping.

this is such a specific scenario but it's also one i've been running into nonstop in college,,, there's no sense of betrayal like getting a look at someone's net worth after covering their tab so many times out of what you thought was class solidarity. like your parents own waterfront property in south florida wdym you can't afford to tip the waitress at a fucking denny's.

personal grievances aside, i think recently-resurrected!jason would be extremely guilty of this. he hasn't fully reconnected with bruce yet, and while he does have a little cash from his various criminal operations, it's not enough to stop him from living on fast food and sleeping on a barely inflated air mattress, sans bedding ofc. you, a kind and similarly unfortunate neighbor, decide to throw him a bone every once in a while. it's not much - a home-cooked meal every now and then, a couch that your sister's boyfriend's coworker's cousin was throwing away, a few battered paperbacks when he expresses an interest in the classics. once, you even offer to mend a tear in his leather jacket (the only one you've seen him wear and, you're fairly sure, the only one he owns) and he looks at you like an angel descending from the heavens. nothing out of the ordinary for a particularly broke, particularly unlucky young adult. the way he follows you around, always lurking just outside of your peripheral is a little unnerving, but nothing you can't live with.

and then, he starts talking to bruce again. and then, his clothes get nicer, his phone newer, his bike significantly more shiny. he doesn't follow you around quite so often, but his lackeys pick up the slack, their pockets lined with monetary incentive to never let you have a moment to yourself. you can't afford to move, so you buy new locks, security cameras, a gun. none of it does you any good. within the month, you're swept away to some high-security luxury apartment, the type where no one can get in or out without a dozen different codes. and jason's there too - already clinging to you, already ranting about how you're too good for a city like this, about how you were one kind act away from a bad fate at the hands of a the wrong stranger. this was the only way he could thank you, the only way he could make sure you weren't being so generous with the wrong type of people.

I’M SORRY I FORGOT TO POST THIS TWO DAYS AGO — here you go :3 hope you enjoy!

notes: explicit, mdni; dubcon, mild knife play? (a knife is present but no bodily harm)

tags: fem(?)reader (can be read as ftm), punishment, humiliation, AK!Jason, gun insertion, degradation, wc: 550 words

It wasn’t often that you found yourself staring down the barrel of Jason’s gun. 

Actually, it was almost always never. 

You swallowed as you looked up at him from where you were kneeling. 

“What was that?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

He didn’t say anything, simply watching before his lips tugs down into a frown. 

“Open.”

The Arkham Knight is a liar (and you'll believe every word) ~1.2k Words

The Arkham Knight knows he can beat Batman. He knows he can take Gotham in a matter of hours. He knows his plan is going to work. 

There isn't a soul who can travel the city's alleys and abandoned spaces better than he can. There isn't a person who can stop him, even if they knew the full scope of what he is going to do in a matter of days. Not after months and months of planning. Not after nights and nights of nightmares. 

What The Arkham Knight doesn't know, is what to do with the ache in his chest, the horrible, gut-wrenching yearning, that just won't go away. 

He misses you. He hates it. It haunts him. 

He knows it's wrong. In the back of his mind, his morality objects to his actions. "Don't do this, Jason." The angel on his shoulder says. "You'll scare her." But wasn't that the point? To scare you a little, to get your heart rate up, to make you fear for your life just a bit. He would never hurt you; he'd never dream of it. There was no world, no universe where he would ever desire to lay a hand on you in a way that wasn't meant to bring you pleasure. And yet here he was, looming over you, head cocked to the side as he watched the soft rise and fall of your chest while you slept. So sweet and unassuming, brows furrowing as you stir in your sleep, perplexed by something only you could see. 

He moves around the bed, heavy boots made silent with years of stealth training. The creak of a single floorboard is loud in the quiet, and he knows he could've avoided it—he does it all the time—but he wants to wake you up; he wants you to see him. Head to toe in tactical gear, leather jacket stretched out over his arms, covered with blood and grime after a long night's work. "You should shower." the angel says. "Leave her alone." But he doesn't want to. Not until he's had his fill of you, your body, and the sweet juice it produces.

He steps on the creaky floorboard again, and your hands find your eyes, rubbing them softly. "Hello," you say, still somewhere in a dream. "Jason?" Your voice is so kind and welcoming, just like it always is, and he questions his own motives. It's still not too late for him to kiss you goodnight, but his pants are getting tight, and his breath is getting ragged. You'll hear it through the metallic rasp of the modulator soon if you don't already.

There's a moment of silence after you fully open your eyes. A moment of registering that something is off; something about Jason is off. You want to ask what's wrong, but your words get lost along the way, the intimidation of his demeanor killing them before they have a chance to get out. You try again, a full sentence forming in your brain, but the only thing that comes out is his name. Shaky and uncertain, laced with concern and confusion. He's quiet, standing still, shrouded in the darkness of the room, and you can see only an outline of his body and the glowing eyes of his mask. 

"Are you scared?" He asks. "You seem scared." The words are gravelly, rolling out of the red helmet with tension behind each one. He takes a step forward and drops a knee onto the bed, which causes it to dip with his weight. "Don't be. I won't hurt you…ever." The rough surface of a gloved hand reaches up to your face, caressing it gently. It's such a normal action for him, so mundane it's almost second nature now, But this is different; there's no love hidden in his touch, no adoration in his body language. Beneath the gentle stroke of his fingers against your skin was a perverted desire to see you fear for your life, to see you shake beneath his touch and beg for mercy. 

He leans in, cold metal grazing against your face, touching it just enough to send a chill down your spine. He takes a deep breath, imagining how you smell, knowing your scent won't penetrate his helmet. Clean comes to mind, the remnants of a shower on your skin, soap lathered all over your body. He likes clean; clean is good, clean is nice. But he prefers sweaty; it means he did a good job. The tightness in his pants becomes unbearable as images of your body covered in sweat come to mind, and he can taste the saltiness of his tongue. He needs to have you in his mouth, to taste you as you plead with him to let you cum. 

Your voice is small when you finally speak again, uneasy and fearful of him so omnipresent in the room. "Do you promise? Not to hurt me, I mean…Do you promise not to hurt me?" You make eye contact with the glowing white lenses of his mask, empty and emotionless, indicative of nothing beyond a bone-chilling cold. A modulated voice speaks through the mask, corrupt with desire. "I told you," He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. "I'd never hurt you."

Jason Todd x GN! Reader

Jason already has that fierce, “no one touches what’s mine” instinct, but as a yandere it’s enhanced. A stranger looking at you for a second too long automatically puts a bounty on their head.

If someone insults you, he’s not arguing; he’s already planning how to make them regret breathing, even being born. A black eye? Broken ribs? A warning note? He’ll do it without a second thought, all for you.

He constantly tries to put traces on him as a way to mark you. His jacket hangs on your chair, helmet resting on your table, and his lingering scent on your clothes. You’re constantly surrounded by reminders of him, because it makes him feel like no one else can touch you without realizing you’re his.

He can act casual while asking, “Where you going?” but his eyes sharpen when your answer doesn’t satisfy him. He’ll offer to tag along “just for fun”, but really, it’s surveillance.

He’ll play the “protective boyfriend” role to others, but in private, he subtly encourages your reliance on him. "You don’t need to hang out with them, babe. They don’t really care about you like I do."

You’re never in danger when he’s around or even when he's not around. Actually, you're never alone. Even if you think you’re alone, he’s watching from a rooftop, following you on his bike, or lurking in the shadows with a gun ready to shoot anyone that makes you grimace even slightly.

Jason doesn’t just want you safe. He just wants you to be safe because of him. The idea of you trusting anyone else with your wellbeing burns him inside. That's why he doesn't want to introduce you to his adoptive father, or family. He's the only that can protect you - the only one worthy.

He’ll bring you breakfast in bed, patch up your cuts with surprising gentleness, or sit with you until you fall asleep. But the same hands that caressed your skin gently have another purpose, a dark one you shouldn't know. From breaking someone’s jaw for getting too close to you to suffocating someone to death just because they said something wrong to you... it's all a dark secret.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a friend, coworker, or random stranger. If someone takes up too much of your attention, Jason doesn't like it. He's making snarky comments, giving a cold silence, or straight-up confrontation. He'll try to find dirt on them to tell you and shove them off their pedestal and place himself on it.

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Mentions of Murder, Blood, Crying. YEARNINGGGG

God, you're so fucking cute when you cry. Jason hadn’t planned on stopping tonight. Not until every loose end was tied and he was sure you were finally safe, away from every variable keeping you away from him. But then you looked at him with those wide, trembling eyes, bottom lip quivering, fingers curled into the front of his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you from crumbling to the floor.

And that stopped him cold. Didn’t matter that there was blood on his gloves or that his gun was still warm or even that you were crying because of him.

Because fuck, look at you.

He can’t help it. Tilts his red helmet off slow, like showing you his face will somehow makes this something softer. More honest. His sweat-damp hair’s flattened from the fit, black streaks curling messily over that furrowed brow. There’s a smudge of soot across his cheek, a cut splitting his bottom lip, where you knocked him good, but none of it hurts. Not really. Not when you’re looking at him like that.

So scared and pretty. So his to hunt down like prey in a city that could eat you whole.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, crouching slightly to get on your level. Blood squelching beneath his feet. His voice is gravel-low, tinged with something thick and warm. “You’re gonna kill me with those tears, baby.”

Your eyes flinch away. His gloved fingers tilt your chin back up. “Hey. Look at me.” You do.

“Thought you’d scream,” he says quietly, thumb brushing just under your damp lashes. “Thought you’d hate me after what I did.” He laughs, just once, dry and cracked. “Guess I’m worse than I thought, ‘cause part of me was hoping you'd cry. So you’d need me.” His voice grows softer. Intimate. “Feels kinda good, doesn’t it? Letting go. Letting me hold the weight for once.”

Jason leans in close, forehead pressing against yours, the cool edge of his Kevlar suit brushing your thin shirt. You can feel the heat of his body radiating off him, smell the smoke, the leather, the city still clinging to his skin. His blue, almost green eye, stormy, bloodshot, aching, stare right through you.

“I told you not to run,” he murmurs. “Told you I’d find you.”

And he did. Always would. Always will.

“Your folks. They were lying to you. Filling your head with shit, telling you I’m dangerous, that I’m bad for you. Maybe I am.” His voice darkens, but his hand stays gentle. Not pressing. Not forcing. “But I’m the only one who’ll love you like this. The only one who’ll burn down the world just to make sure you’re okay.”

The gun clatters to the ground at your feet. You sob. His jaw clenches, eyes softening as he pulls you close. “Shhh,” Jason soothes, cradling your face in his big, calloused hands. “No more running. No more lies. Just me. Just us.”

His lips - rough and dry from windburn, from too many nights on his bike, from biting them bloody every time you ran - press against your forehead like a brand. It’s not soft. Not really. There’s a tremble in it, like he’s fighting something off, something bigger than just want. It’s the need for you.

He lingers there too long. Breath hitching. Eyes shut so tight his lashes graze your skin.

You feel it. The way his body shudders, like he’s been holding it all in too long. Like the second he kissed you, really kissed you, even if just your forehead, something in him came undone.

"Y’know how hard it is for me when you pull that shit?” he murmurs, lips brushing against you with every word. "When you run? When you look at me like I'm the villain? Like I didn’t do all this for you?”

His hands grip your face tighter. Not to hurt. Just to anchor, the rough pads of his thumbs dragging against your cheek. To remind himself you’re real. That you’re here. That he won.

“Every time you disappear, I lose my fucking mind. I tear the city apart looking for you. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I bite through my goddamn lip thinking about what they’re doing to you. What you think I’d do if I found you again.”

He pulls back just an inch, eyes wide and glassy, jaw tight.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, baby. I’m not. I just…” His throat works around the words. “I need you to stop running. I need you to let me love you. I’m not good at this soft shit, but I swear to God, I’ll try if it means you stay.”

Then, softer: “You make me better. Just, please. Let me be yours. I don't want to be alone.”

For a moment, he looks like he might kiss you again. Really kiss you. Mouth trembling, eyes flicking to your lips with a desperation he can’t hide.

But he doesn’t, instead he’s waiting. Hoping. That maybe this time… you’ll kiss him back. Willingly.

You only meant to be gone five minutes. Ten if you count the walk there and back.

The corner store was quiet for once, fluorescent lights humming, a half-asleep cashier tapping on their phone behind the counter. You didn’t even grab your keys, just slipped your phone into the pocket of Jason’s jacket and stepped into the night. The air outside was cool and damp, asphalt still holding onto the heat from the day. You had a craving for something sweet. Something simple and soft on the tongue.

You didn’t think he’d notice or care.

But the apartment is too quiet when you come back. And eerie feeling licking up your spine as your hand wraps around the doorknob, still slightly warm from earlier. You turn it slowly, the plastic bag rustling at your wrist. Candy bar. A cool drink to beat the summer heat. The door creaks open.

And there he is. Jason stands in the hallway like a shadow carved from flesh, broad shoulders rigid beneath the thin stretch of a gray t-shirt, sweatpants slung low on his hips. Bare feet against the cold tile, nails still painted from so bet he lost. The low kitchen light behind him casts his face in partial glow, the soft amber catching on the line of his jaw, the narrow flare of his nose, the mess of dark hair falling into those eyes - eyes that look right through you.

“Where were you?”

His voice is low, quiet. But there’s something under it. Something coiled. His arms are crossed, muscle straining beneath inked skin, and his jaw twitches, just once, before going still again.

You blink, raising the bag like it's proof of your innocence. “Just went to the store,” you say, too soft, words nearly dying on your tongue. “I wanted - ”

“Something sweet,” he finishes for you. His voice is flat, but not cold. Never cold. He walks toward you, slow, measured steps on the cool tile. You can almost hear the tap of each heel. “And you didn’t wake me.”

You step back instinctively. Only a little. But it’s enough.

Enough for his gaze to darken. Enough for him to press forward until your back hits the wall, the air between you gone thin. The scent of him sinks into your lungs, as scent you’ve smelled it a thousand times before. Tonight it feels heavier.

“I didn’t think you’d mind,” you whisper, breath caught.

Jason exhales through his nose, slow and steady. “You left,” he says, quietly, stern for once, “I woke up, and you weren’t there.”

He leans in. Invading your space. His hand slides up, palm warm as it cradles your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. His lips find yours before you can speak again, and it’s not soft this time, it’s claiming. Desperate without being rushed, kissing you back into place, like you’ve made some mistake that he needs to fix.

You taste the sleep on him. Salt. The ghost of tension he’s not saying out loud. His body crowds yours against the wall, one arm braced beside your head while the other curls around your waist, dragging you in like he can fold you back into him.

Your breath stutters.

He pulls back only slightly, resting his forehead against yours. His voice is a murmur now, thick and low, curling like smoke. “You don’t leave me like that,” he whispers. “Not even for five minutes.”

His thumb strokes your cheek, slow. Loving. Possessive.

You nod, because what else can you do?

Jst like that, he presses a kiss to your temple, featherlight and familiar. His usual type of kiss. Soft and adoring. Though he's acting like he hasn’t cornered you. As if he hadn't just burned the shape of his mouth into yours. He plucks the plastic bag from your hand, gaze never leaving your face.

“C’mon, baby,” he says softly. “Let’s go back to bed.”

An arm wraps around your waist again. His touch is gentle now, but you can feel the strength in it. The insistence. You walk with him. What other choice do you have? The door clicks shut behind you.

You never thought it would happen to you, because really, who accidentally stabs themselves while opening a box?

Apparently, you.

The box cutter had been pointed toward you because it was easier to glide down the box, and you’d always rolled your eyes at Jason’s lectures about knife safety. He was overbearing to a fault, hovering over your shoulder, quick to snatch anything sharp from your hands. You thought he was just being strict for no reason.

Well. Here you were, standing in the middle of your shared kitchen, blood dripping onto the brand-new tile. Cursing to yourself quietly under your breath.

The metallic splatter was loud in the stillness, followed by the clatter of the blade hitting the floor. Your breath hitched as you clutched your palm to your shirt, trying to press the wound shut.

“Lover, what - ” Jason’s voice came from the hallway, working on one of the bedrooms you weren't allowed to see yet, heavy bootsteps echoing on the cool tile. He stopped in the doorway, blue-green eyes locking on the blood trailing down your wrist.

“Love,” he said, tone deceptively calm, “what the hell did I tell you about knives?”

You gave him a shaky smile - the wrong move. His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking as he strode toward you. Already sliding up his dark sleeves, revealing his strong forearms as he searched for the first aid kit. Once found, two warm, steady hands took yours before you could protest, and then he was steering you toward the counter. “Sit,” he ordered. His grumbling was quiet but sharp, muttering about how he knew this would happen, how you never listened, and maybe how he’d been too damn soft on you.

The sting of antiseptic barely registered under the weight of his presence. His hands were big and careful as he wrapped the gauze around your palm, his touch paradoxically gentle for someone so broad and dangerous. When he finished, he pressed a slow kiss to the bandaged wound.

Then, with both palms cupping your face, he tilted your face until you had no choice but to look at him. His eyes were steady, that stormy blue-green holding you in place.

“Do it again,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “and I’ll take every sharp object out of this damn place. And if that still doesn’t keep you safe…” His thumbs smoothed over your cheekbones, tender as always. “I’ll lock you in a room with nothing, so I don't have to worry every second of the day that you're going to hurt yourself.”

You nodded quickly, the warmth of his hands almost enough to drown out the unease curling in your stomach.

By the next morning, the safe code had been changed, every kitchen drawer emptied, and even the butter knives were gone. You suppose he is a man of his word.

A few days later, while still unpacking boxes, you tried to open one of the side doors in the apartment - a room you’d never noticed before. The handle didn’t turn. The lock clicked once.

Somewhere, down the hall, you heard Jason’s voice calling out. “Don’t worry about that one, love. You’ll see it if you ever need to.”

Because, see, he doesn’t exactly have the gentlest delivery. Bruce never really carved out time in his bat-schedule to teach his kids how to be soft. And to be fair, you're talking to a man who’s legally dead, so nuance might not be in his current skillset.

So you give him a tight, nervous smile, palms already sweating, and ask if he wants money. Or your phone. Or maybe just to kill you cleanly. And that throws him. Because now Jason’s standing there like, “No, no, I - I wanna take you out,” and your brain promptly goes: Okay. So he wants to kill me. Got it.

Coolcoolcool.

Cue your mild breakdown, which includes a panicked confession about how you accidentally shorted someone, a very nice old lady, fifty cents in change at the café yesterday, and you really didn’t mean to, and if this is vengeance, you get it, you respect it, but you would like to at least clock out first.

Meanwhile, Jason, who's voice like gravel and probably packing at least ten weapons - is just trying to figure out how to say “you’re cute” without making it sound like he's threatening to pimp you out or murder you. He doesn’t know what went wrong. He thought that was flirting.

Let’s just say… he finally gets your number. Maybe some intimidation was used.

And you don’t expect him to actually text. In fact, you spend the next twenty-four hours spiraling, half-convinced he just wanted your number to track you, maybe plant a tracker in your phone, maybe frame you for something. You even googled “how to tell if your phone is bugged” during your break.

But then - right around midnight - your screen lights up:

Unknown Number: hey. it’s jason. not here to kill you. unless you ghost me. then we’ll see.

You stare at it. Read it again. And again. There’s no emoji. No punctuation except for that one, terrifying period after your potential murder threat.

So you do what any sane person would do. You type out “lol” and then delete it. Then you type “haha that’s funny” and delete that too. You sit there for six whole minutes until finally you send:

Oh. Cool. Hi Jason.

And within seconds, he responds:

you free friday the thirteenth? I'll pick you up at 8. Dress nice.

Okay. Cool. So he is going to kill you.

Neat 🩷