dudeimjustagirll

[dudeimjustagirll]

no, i dont lose hyperfixations. theyre just moved to a different, slightly less used, shelf in my brain.

[dudeimjustagirll]

Winterfell Robb,Bran and Rickon🙂‍↕️

[dudeimjustagirll]

[dudeimjustagirll]

I miss my boyfriend (Dick Grayson)

[dudeimjustagirll]

🦇Jason Todd x Vampire! Reader (HCs)

so guys I just read DC vs. Vampires and I did not know I'm such a sucker (hehehe) for some good vampire x human romance. I gotta watch Twilight frfr anyway i thought jason would be just perfect for this omg bc yk undead but i def wanna do this for more characters later on (ie: dick, roy, conner, idk who else) i did this instead of my damn summer homework guys ac free me it took me like 4 hours to finish bc all the dialogue just kept being unimaginably cringy

Your meeting (and subsequent first date) simply occurred because you were a tad too hungry for your liking. Not ravenous, not feral, but enough that you needed a little taste of something other than the pathetic insect substitute you'd been using. What were you, a mosquito? You wanted something real.

And then you saw him. And God help you, did he look perfect for it. Not in the old-world sense. Not like the vamps who thought pale skin and powdered wigs and dead-eyed stares were still in fashion. You hated that kind of vampire (and man in general)—so theatrical, so boring. Like their blood ran cold with dramatics instead of hunger.

But this one? He wasn’t cold at all.

Every inch of him was so alive. Lean muscle under worn leather. Scarred knuckles and a crooked smile like he knew every bad idea you’d ever had and was about to make it worse. His jaw was sharp, stubbled just enough to shadow the line of his throat, and his hair fell messily across his forehead like it had been styled by gravity and rage.

He didn’t look like a marble statue or a coffin-dwelling prince. God, you absolutely hated those types.

He looked real. Gorgeous in a way that didn’t feel curated.

You could smell the adrenaline under his skin like it was trying to call you closer—fast and hot, like lightning waiting to strike.

And you could taste the difference in him even from across the street.

He didn’t smell like prey. Definitely didn't have the blood for it. Didn’t feel like something you could just drain and forget. No—this one had undead in his blood too. Not like yours, not cursed or turned. But touched by death in a way most mortals never were.

You didn’t even have to be cruel about it. Just a little... persuasion. A little charm. You stepped out of the alleyway with your best slow, predatory smile. The one that always worked. He looked up from his phone, blinked at you once, and raised an eyebrow.

You tilted your head, voice honey-slick, almost purring:

"You look... delicious."

He stared for a second. Almost...confused. And then, he smiled and shook his head. Laughed, even. You were appalled.

"Is that really the best you can do?" he asked, nearly doubling over himself.

You froze. No one had ever said that before. There was supposed to be stammering. Blushing. A fogged-over gaze and a dazed nod as you gently grazed their pulse.

Instead, this man challenged you. You! An immortal vampire! A scary, demon with a thirst for blood! And he was mocking you?

"Seriously, I’ve seen public service announcements with more seductive energy than that."

"Excuse me?"

"You’re either trying to flirt or eat me. Either way, it’s sloppy."

You were so caught off guard that the hunger faded into fascination.

You took a step forward, slow. Not predatory—curious.

"You're not scared of me?"

He tilted his head a little. “Should I be?”

And you had no idea what to do with that.

Your charm wouldn’t work on him the usual way. But that wasn’t a dealbreaker.

If anything, it made him interesting.

And you hadn’t been interested in anyone in a very, very long time.

There was a beat of silence—charged, tense, not unfriendly. You were waiting for him to bolt. He was waiting for... something. You weren’t quite sure what.

Then, he stepped a little closer, just enough to meet your eyes under the streetlight. His mouth twitched—half a smile, half a dare.

"You gonna tell me your name, or should I keep calling you ‘Hot probable vampire’ in my head?"

You blinked. And then, before you could stop yourself, you laughed.

He grinned. Victory.

"Jason," he said, sticking out his hand like you hadn’t just tried to charm his blood out of his body. "Jason Todd."

You stared at his hand.

He wiggled his fingers a little. "C’mon. No claws?"

"…Yet."

''Fair enough."

You took his and. His grip was warm, firm. His pulse beat steady against your palm.

Jason Todd.

You didn’t let go right away. Neither did he.

After that night, you couldn't stop thinking about it. About him.

You replayed it in your head too many times—how he met your gaze and held it. How the question sounded less like fear and more like... curiosity.

Should I be?

You weren’t sure why it echoed so loud in your head. Or why you wanted him to ask it again. Or why you kind of wanted to show him the answer.

Jason hadn't been able to get you off his mind, either.

He told himself it was just the weirdness of the moment. You don’t get flirt-hunted by a vampire every day.

But… it stuck.

The way you moved—not shy, not shy at all. That lilt in your voice that dripped amusement and something darker underneath.

And your eyes.

God, your eyes.

There was hunger in them.

But not just the blood kind.

You had looked at him like he was new. Like he was fun.

And for some reason, that was enough to get the blood flowing to his cheeks. It was mortifying.

But the next night, when he was bruised from patrol and peeling off the Red Hood helmet in his safehouse, he found himself watching the window.

Thinking maybe you’d show up. Maybe you’d sniff him out.

He hated how much he wanted that.

And when you didn’t?

He started hoping you were thinking about him, too.

From that day forth, you both made pretty consistent efforts to "accidentally" bump into eachother.

You started "patrolling" near Crime Alley. Jason started "loitering" near your usual rooftops.

"Wow, you again?"

"Yeah, what a coincidence," he’d say. "Didn’t peg vampires for having routines."

"Didn’t peg mortals for being this obvious."

Your vampire friends gave you hell, so to speak.

"A mortal?"

"A human vigilante mortal?"

"The guy with the guns?"

"He’s pretty," you said. "And stubborn. And he called me hot instead of unholy."

Post getting together, things were pretty chill, all things considered.

Still, there were things Jason had to get used to.

First, you were always cold. Not chilly, not even icy. No, you were always freezing. At first, Jason thought it might weird him out. He’d never dated someone who felt like the inside of a crypt. But then came the late nights. The quiet ones, after patrol. You curled into his side without a word, bone-cold, and he just… adjusted. He started sleeping in thicker hoodies. Brought extra layers for you in case you forgot. Not because you needed them, your body didn’t register temperature the same, but because you looked really cute in his sweaters.

He still held your hand like you were warm.

Still touched you like you weren’t anything other than his.

Still told you you looked beautiful, even when you were hovering upside down near the ceiling because you "didn’t feel like walkin' today"

What's more: he had to give up silver entirely. Bracelets. Chains. It was kind of his whole post-resurrection aesthetic (gritty, sharp-edged, etc.)

But when you leaned close to admire a pendant and casually said, "Old wives' tale or not, that could burn a hole through my chest if it’s real,"

He panicked.

Quietly.

Internally.

The next day, he replaced every piece with stainless steel or black titanium.

"You didn’t have to do that," you’d said, raising a brow.

"Yeah, well, I like you not on fire," he grumbled, pretending it wasn’t a big deal.

You’d kissed his cheek and called him "sweet." He’d groaned initially but ended up smiling like an idiot.

Lastly, he had to get used to you not eating. Or just eating things he personally wouldn't touch with a 10-foot-pole. One time, he saw you drinking from a mug with a look of pure, serene, bliss on your face. He thought nothing of it... until you told him it was just type O blood.

It also was just easy for you both to bond over being undead.

In different ways, of course.

You were the classic kind. You could hang upside down without discomfort, turn into a bat on a whim, and knew how to disappear in the blink of an eye.

Jason was a quieter kind of undead. The kind that crawled out of a grave with a scream lodged in his chest and vengeance braided into his spine.

Still, there was a recognition there. You’d both had to learn what it meant to keep going when you weren’t supposed to.And neither of you liked being pitied for it. You joked about it, sometimes.

You just… got it. You were both a little too alive for people who shouldn’t be. And maybe that was why you held on so tightly to one another. Because nothing felt quite as alive as him kissing your cold knuckles, or you just...chilling. With him, it hardly felt likeanything mattered at all.

He tended to bring you things you'd never actually asked for but needed, in hindsight. Blood bags from a very black market, a replacement cloak because yours was torn during that vampire turf war last week. Also, gold jewelery!! all warm-toned, carefully sourced, and very you.

"Silver’s off the table," he said once. "But I’m not letting that stop me." One of your favorites was a delicate chain with a little fang charm on it. "It’s not creepy, it’s thematic," he argued. You wore it everywhere. Even to bite people. He pretended to be horrified. Really, though, he wasn't.

Tl;Dr: Loving each other made you feel more alive than either of you ever had. Forever didn’t seem so long, not when he was holding your hand.

sorry the ending is so abrupt i lowk just ran out of ideas gng

[dudeimjustagirll]

okay i literally NEVER interact with people on here but i just found your blog and i wanted to say I LOVE UR WRITING SM.

like seriously you're so talented and i've been binging ur dick grayson stories like there's NO tomorrow.

Omg so ur saying my stuff is so goated that it made you break ur vow of silence 😎😎

Jkjk

THANKS SO MUCH THO THIS IS AC SO SWEET😭😭❤️

[dudeimjustagirll]

omg so i ac love how you write dick grayson

please im a bored and lonely asexual and i physically NEED like dick grayson x asexual! reader headcanons

this is so CUTEEEEE omg. also happy pride month!!

may i present to u:

🖤🩶🤍💜

Dick Grayson x Asexual!Reader (HCs)

🖤🩶🤍💜

(note: I'm going w the assumption that the reader is more on the sex repulsed end of the spectrum, b/c the request did not specify where on the spectrum they are.

Also going with the idea that Dick is decidedly NOT asexual for the purpose of this hc.)

Dick hadn’t meant to fall for you. Not in the full-chest, shaky-thumbs, I-hope-you-text-me-back-in-less-than-five-minutes kind of way.

But you just made it so terribly easy

You were funny without trying, gentle without flinching, and for all your sharpness when annoyed, your affection was warm. Steady. Intentional.

He liked that about you.

He also liked your laugh, the way you stirred your drinks in spirals, and how you always made room for him without asking if he needed it.

And somewhere between rooftop patrols and shared playlists, he realized he liked you too much to pretend it wasn’t happening.

When he started thinking about what it would mean to date you—really date you—he hesitated.

You were asexual. He knew that. You hadn’t made it a big deal; you just existed, confidently, without apology.

And he was... not that. Dick had spent years navigating attraction like second nature. He was a flirt by blood and a romantic by heart, and yeah, sex had always been part of the picture. A language he understood. A place where he felt seen.

So he worried—not because he doubted you, but because he didn’t want to walk into something only to let you down. Or worse, let himself down.

He didn’t want to be selfish.

What surprised him was how alive it felt, being with you.

Because people always talked like love without sex was muted—like the colors faded, like the spark dulled. But with you?

God. It was electric.

From the moment you grabbed his hand during an argument with fire in your eyes and didn’t let go—he knew he was done for.

From the way you leaned in just to whisper an insult and stayed close way too long afterward.

From the way you kissed him like it was a dare, then turned on your heel, smirking.

It wasn’t like anything was missing.

In fact, it was overwhelming sometimes—how much you could make his pulse stutter with just a look.

He remembered once, walking home in the rain, both of you soaked and laughing—his jacket draped over your shoulders, your mascara smudged from wind and laughter.

You looked up at him with so much joy, so much ridiculous affection, and said, “If I kiss you, will you short-circuit?”

He did.

You didn’t kiss him on the lips that night.

You kissed the tip of his nose, then his chin, then the corner of his mouth until he was giggling like a teenager and begging you to stop torturing him.

He didn’t need more. He didn’t want more.

Because with you, it was definitely different.

But it was never dull.

It was never small.

It was everything.

You had initially struggled with similar feelings of...guilt? You weren't really sure how to name them, but it was—

It wasn’t doubt. It wasn’t fear.

But after the third time he kissed your hands like they were made of something sacred,

After the fifth time he turned down a night out just to watch movies on your floor

A part of you quietly thought: This is going too well.

None of your previous non-asexual partners had ever lasted past month three.

There was always a polite drift. A “you’re great, but…” Or worse: someone who said they understood, and then slowly turned cold, resentful, withdrawn.

So one night, you blurted it out. No lead-in. Just:

“Are you sure you’re not on the ace spectrum?”

He blinked at you like you’d asked if he spoke Norwegian.

“What makes you say that?”

You shrugged. “I mean… you haven’t even tried to convince me otherwise. You don’t push. You don’t act like you’re missing out.”

“I’m not,” he said, easily.

“That’s kind of my point.”

A pause. Then you muttered, “I just don’t get it. You’re so—you. And I’m me. And this shouldn’t work. Not like this.”

He gave you that look—the one where his eyebrows knit, and you can see his heart working behind his eyes.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “counterpoint: I am really, really into you. Like, painfully into you.”

You just smiled.

“Like, sometimes I leave your apartment and have to sit in my car for ten minutes because I’m overwhelmed by how hot you are when you’re annoyed at your coffee machine.”

You cracked a smile. Just a little.

“But you don’t… want me like that.”

“Not like you mean,” he agreed. “But I do want you.”

He pulled your legs over his lap and leaned in, eyes bright. “I want your morning voice. I want your weird lecture tangents. I want to read your stupid text rants out loud in dramatic voices. I want to sit next to you at 2AM and listen to you talk about your nothing day like it’s a novel.”

He kissed your temple.

“So no, I don’t think I’m ace. But I think I was a little love-starved for a while. And you—you’re like water. I didn’t even know how thirsty I was until you showed up.”

People always assumed the two of you were sleeping together.

Like—obviously, right?

Because he was so beautiful.

And if you weren’t ace, well…

It would’ve been easy to fall into that kind of thing with him.

He had that lazy kind of charm, all soft smiles and stupid hair and the kind of body that didn’t just look good—it moved good. Effortless. Lithe. Made for spotlight and motion.

He laughed with his whole chest. Held you like you mattered. Woke up warm and rumpled, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t see him.

So when Wally walked in on you two making something in Dick’s kitchen—shirtless Dick, you in his sleep shorts, both of you laughing and dancing to some soft 80s love song—it felt like a setup.

He stood there, blinking.

“…Okay,” Wally said, gesturing between you. “So, like—you’re definitely banging, right?”

You blinked. “No?”

Dick didn’t even look up. “Nope.”

Wally laughed. “Wait, sorry, what?”

Dick stirred the pot like nothing was weird. “We’re not having sex, dude.”

“Since when?”

“Since ever.”

Wally squinted like he’d been told gravity was fake. “But you were just—he had his hands on your—”

“Yes, Wally. I’m dating him. He’s my boyfriend. He’s allowed to touch my waist.”

“But you were wearing his shorts—”

“Because mine were in the wash?”

Wally blinked again. “Okay but the forehead thing. You forehead-kiss. That’s, like, peak post-coital behavior!”

You gave Wally a flat look. “Wally, are you telling me you only kiss people’s foreheads after sex?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. “That’s not what I—You know what I meant.”

“We like each other, Wally,” Dick said with a smirk. “It’s wild, I know.”

“I just—” Wally rubbed his temples. “I thought you were sneaking off to hook up all this time, not like... holding hands.”

“We are sneaking off,” you said, “to get ice cream, mainly. Sorry to disappoint.”

“You’re telling me all those times you came back with your hair messed up—”

“Wind,” You said.

“And the smudged lip gloss—”

“Kissed my cheek,” Dick added

“And that one time you said you were ‘sore in a good way’—”

“We did yoga.”

“Together?!”

“In matching outfits,” Dick added, completely unbothered.

Of course, this was far from the only time something like this had ever come up in conversation

Tim had asked gently—he always did—but the question still lodged itself sharp.

"How do you do it?" he said, watching the sky. "Be with someone who doesn’t… want you like that?"

Dick didn't answer right away.

He took a long sip of whatever gas station tea he'd picked up earlier, then leaned back on his hands, legs stretched out, boot soles scuffed from the latest fight. His shoulders rose. Fell.

Tim waited. He always did that too.

And finally, Dick spoke. Voice low. Honest.

"You’ve never seen the way she looks at me."

Tim blinked.

"She doesn’t want me less," Dick added. "She just wants me different. That look she gets? That’s not nothing. That’s everything."

There was a pause.

"You think it’s about sex, but—"

He huffed a quiet laugh, glancing up at the night sky like it could confirm something. Maybe it did.

"She looks at me like I hung the moon. Like I make her feel safe just by existing. You know how rare that is?"

He smiled, warm and easy.

"She wants all the parts of me that no one’s ever stayed for."

Some people never really understood what the two of you had. Maybe they whispered, speculated, asked too many questions with too little care. But it hardly ever mattered.

Because at the end of the day, When his arms were around you, and your fingers found the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, when the world went quiet and warm and small—

you never once felt like you were missing something.

You only ever felt like you were home.

Frl guys he's so sexualised in everything its so refreshing to write one where he isnt😭🙏

[dudeimjustagirll]

🌠💫Something Like Guidance: Masterlist💫🌠

Hi everyone!! This is just a place to access my "Something Like Guidance" Series. It's a series of oneshots, so it can pretty much be read in any order. It's very heavily based on Robert Kirkman's "TechJacket", so please check out those comics if you vibe with the concept!!

Chapter List:

Chapter 1: Something Like Guidance

Chapter 2: Tech Support

Chapter 3: Technically Taller

Chapter 4: The Wonders of Modern Technology

Chapter 5: Fault in the System

Chapter 6: Housewarming

[dudeimjustagirll]

Something Like Guidance Chapter 6

You weren’t expecting visitors.

The apartment still smelled like fresh paint and lingering dust, with a faint undercurrent of Dick’s overpriced coffee beans. Cardboard boxes were stacked like a skyline against the far wall—half kitchen, half closet, none of them unpacked. The walls were bare, pale blue-gray, and the floor still felt wrong under your boots—too clean, too echoey, like it didn’t know either of you yet.

The entertainment setup was already perfectly configured, of course. You’d argued about where the speakers should go for twenty straight minutes before compromising on your layout with his cable management. Which, to be fair, was gorgeous.

Now, the argument had shifted to something far pettier.

“The chair can’t go there, ” you said from where you stood by the hallway entrance, one hand gesturing firmly at the absurdly large, high-backed reading chair Dick had just wedged into the far corner.

“Why not?” he asked from the couch—or rather, the semi-built frame of the couch, currently covered in tools and stray screws. He was sitting cross-legged on a flat cushion, shirt sleeves shoved up to his elbows, face flushed from effort. “It’s got natural light. It’s ideal brooding real estate.”

“It blocks the shelf.” You motioned again, armor faintly shimmering back into your skin. “What if I want to display things there?”

He blinked. “You don’t own display things.”

“Well maybe I want to start. Maybe I want to be the kind of person who has— I don’t know —a weird little statue or some award that isn’t for something catastrophic.”

Dick tilted his head, clearly trying to stifle a smile. “Is this about the “cape display” you suggested? Because I told you, I don’t need to hang my old uniform over the fireplace—”

“We don’t have a fireplace!”

“We could. If you believed in it.”

Your armor muttered something in binary that translated loosely to “he’s impossible.”

You grumbled, “He’s lucky he’s pretty.”

Dick didn’t answer. He just leaned back against the wall, smiling faintly, eyes flicking over the room—half unpacked, mostly undecorated, the two of you standing in a mess of possibility. The light through the window had gone soft, casting long gold shadows over the boxes and dust motes still floating in the air.

It was weird, being still.

It’d been far too long since you’d lived in a “normal” apartment. This one wasn’t sleek. It wasn’t high-security. It was… just yours. Both of yours. And somehow that made it even more terrifying.

You didn’t say it aloud. But Dick must’ve seen something in your face, because he softened a little. The kind that made your armor settle down and your shoulders drop half an inch.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, “you good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just thinking. It’s a lot.”

“It is,” he agreed, standing up and brushing drywall dust off his pants. “But it’s a good ‘a lot.’ Right?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Because it was. It was good. But it was also new. And new meant uncertain. You didn’t know what kind of coffee mugs would live in these cabinets yet. Or if you’d ever get used to sleeping in bed every night without an emergency beacon going off. Or how long it would take before your instincts stopped yelling ‘breach’ every time the building creaked.

But he was here. Looking at you like he already saw it all working.

So you let out a breath and nodded again, steadier this time. “Yeah. It’s good.”

And then someone knocked at the door.

Dick blinked. “You expecting someone?”

“Are you kidding? I haven’t even updated the Team with our new address yet. Last I checked, nobody besides M’gann knows about this place.”

He opened the door anyway—and that’s when you heard it.

“ Surpriiise! ” Jaime’s voice, bright and beaming like he had something to be proud of. Which was suspicious. He was holding a plastic bag full of chips, microwave popcorn, and something aggressively neon green.

Tim stood beside him, arms crossed over a bundle of fluffy fleece. “We brought a housewarming present.”

“And bonding time,” Jaime added, shouldering past Dick with a grin that could only mean trouble. “We are your favorites, after all.”

You blinked as they entered. “How did you find the apartment?”

“Nightwing left his location on,” Tim said. “And then I bribed Alfred for the exact address.”

Dick let out a betrayed noise from the doorway.

Tim ignored him and held up a DVD. The words SPACE SHARK APOCALYPSE: UNCUT DIRECTOR’S PAIN were scrawled across the front in messy Sharpie.

“No,” you said immediately.

Jaime beamed. “Yes.”

It turned out “housewarming movie night” meant sitting on a half-finished couch under a warm blanket while the television struggled to play what was, unquestionably, the worst sci-fi movie ever made.

You lasted about ninety seconds before breaking. You felt archaic. Did teenagers really watch this garbage now?

“What is this?” you asked, aghast, as a clearly plastic shark swung into frame on visible wires. The spaceship behind it was suspiciously shaped like a cereal box.

“A cinematic classic,” Tim said blandly. “Or so he says,” he added, glaring daggers at Jaime.

“I hate it,” you said.

“I love it,” said Dick, grinning. “I used to watch stuff like this with Wally. He’d be crying laughing before the first explosion.”

“Maybe we should invite him, then,” you muttered.

Jaime leaned forward, elbow on his knee, eyes wide with glee. “Shhh! This is the scene where the shark eats the moon.”

Your armor dimmed all exterior lighting in a dramatic display of protest. You didn’t even know it could do that. “ Sensory protection engaged. Do not worry. You are safe ”

“Oh, so now you have boundaries,” you muttered. “That’s convenient.”

Onscreen, the moon exploded with all the budget of a college theater final. The same explosion clip played three times in a row.

Tim sipped his soda. “You know, on a technical level, this is actually kind of impressive.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is! They reused the same five frames of animation for four different plot points. That’s dedication.”

“I think my IQ just dropped.”

Dick was laughing now—actual, honest laughter. You hated how good it sounded.

Twenty minutes in, Jaime started heckling the movie like it had personally offended him. Your armor, now invested against its will, started chiming warnings whenever the “science” got too far from reality. It was practically buzzing when the crew built a laser cannon out of bubblegum and satellite debris.

“You’re telling me that’s how wormholes work?” you asked, staring at the screen.

Tim didn’t even glance up. “No one’s telling you anything. That’s a cardboard box and an intern in a wig.”

“I’ve seen kindergarten plays with a better budget,” you said, watching a very fake explosion take out what was clearly a toy rocket on a string.

“I was never in a kindergarten play, but I do  remember being in one in third grade,” Dick said, not looking away from the screen. “Played a tree. Babs has the photos.”

“Don’t tempt me, I will call her,” you warned.

“I think he peaked in that role,” Tim added. “Very still. Very wooden. Just like in real life”

“I’ll still wasp-nest your entire locker.”

Jaime, already half-buried under a blanket he’d stolen from your bed, blinked at you. “Wait, I thought you liked bad movies. Didn’t you marathon the Fast & the Feral saga in one night?”

“Excuse you, those are classics. ”

“Pretty sure you fell asleep during the one with the haunted car.”

“Okay, yes, but that car was boring as hell.”

Tim nodded solemnly. “A common theme in your dating history.”

You snickered.

Dick didn’t even hesitate—he grabbed the nearest throw pillow and launched it at him. Tim ducked with the precision of someone who’d been raised in a house where things flew without warning.

The couch frame groaned, tilted—

—and collapsed with a sad whump as one of the legs gave way under all four of you.

Nobody moved.

Jaime blinked. “…Did the couch just die?”

“I think it gave up,” Tim said from his new sideways position.

“You broke my couch,” you groaned, pushing off Dick’s knee. “We’ve been here one week. ”

“No, he broke the couch,” Tim said, poking a spring. “I was just evading an unprovoked attack.”

“You called me boring!”

“I said your girlfriend’s dating history is boring. You are a delight.”

“Big words for a guy currently stuck under a floor lamp,” Dick added helpfully.

“I’m fine, ” Tim said from somewhere behind the overturned cushion.

Dick looked at you. “Should we rescue him?”

“Nah,” you said. “Let him think about what he’s done.”

Jaime was laughing so hard he nearly choked on popcorn. “This is the best housewarming party I’ve ever been to.”

“You brought nothing but judgment and noise,” you replied.

He grinned. “Exactly. It’s perfect.”

You all migrated to the floor, sprawling across pillows and blankets in a tangled heap of limbs. Popcorn ended up everywhere. The movie had devolved into a half-hour-long battle between space sharks and a poorly CGI'd octopus wielding a laser trident.

You were crying laughing by then. So was Dick. Jaime tried to explain the plot—Tim told him to stop pretending there was one.

At one point, your armor made an aggressive clicking noise when a character started monologuing in zero gravity with their hair moving normally.

“The Scarab says this whole movie is a war crime,” Jaime said helpfully. “And I agree.”

“I think it’s art,” Dick said, wiping his eyes.

You leaned into his shoulder without thinking. “You’re broken inside.”

“You love it.”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t move away, either.

At some point, the credits started rolling, looping the same cursed theme song over and over. No one got up. Jaime had conked out under a pillow fort. Tim looked like he was still awake, but only barely—he was blinking slow, the way people did when they were about five seconds from sleep and just pretending they weren’t.

Your head was still on Dick’s shoulder. His hand found yours, fingers lacing through in that quiet way he did sometimes, like a secret he wasn’t ready to say out loud. You let him.

“This was a good idea,” you murmured.

“Told you the couch didn’t need to be finished.”

Your armor hummed low and soft against your spine. The Scarab made a chirp of acknowledgement. Outside the window, Blüdhaven buzzed with city noise, but here—here was just the steady sound of breathing, of friends snoring, of a truly horrible movie menu playing on loop in the background.

“SPAAAAACE SHARK—YOU CAN’T ESCAPE YOUR FAAAAAATE—”

You smiled into Dick’s shirt. Closed your eyes.

For once, everything felt still.

[dudeimjustagirll]

Chapter 5: Fault in the System:

The warehouse smelled like rust and sweat and leftover takeout someone forgot to throw out.

You sat with your back against one of the metal support beams, knees pulled to your chest, armor powered down for once. It left you in the bodysuit layer, which didn’t do much against the chill. But you didn’t really feel it anyway.

Too quiet.

No hum of the hologram projectors. No clatter from the weight room, or the distant echo of Conner pacing. No music leaking under the door from M’gann’s kitchen experiments. No faint, warm blue glow of your lab setup. Just cold fluorescent lights and the warehouse's awful draft, and the sharp, hollow grief where your home used to be.

Your home was gone.

Gone like the rest of your things—the pictures, your toolkit, your first distillation set. Gone like the spot in the basement where you’d set up the holograms that honored the ones you lost. Gone like the place you felt safest.

The suit, normally silent when powered down, pinged softly in your mind.

" Mental health deviation noted. Elevated cortisol. Initiating wellness protocol. "

You ignored it.

" Lack of response acknowledged. Emotional distress detected. Consider seeking comfort contact. "

Your hands curled into the fabric at your knees. You didn't want comfort. You wanted your room back. Your space. Some kind of assurance that you’d be safe and sound. 

Your mom had called, worried. Said you could come home, just for a bit, just to rest. But you hadn’t said yes. Because that wasn’t home anymore, either.

And Artemis—

God, Artemis. Just thinking about her hurt.

" Heart rate spike detected, " your suit murmured. " Do not suppress grief. "

You swallowed hard. The lump in your throat burned. That was it. She was really gone, wasn’t she?

A soft shuffle of boots drew your attention. You didn’t look up, but you knew who it was. You’d know that gait anywhere.

"I figured I'd find you here," Nightwing said gently.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

He sat down beside you without another word, folding his legs under him, not quite touching, but close enough that the warmth from him broke through the chill.

"Warehouse smells like dude," you said finally, voice rough.

He huffed a laugh. "Yeah. I'll file a complaint."

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t flinch, either. That felt like a win.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. He didn’t push. Just sat with you in the silence, like he always did. Like he knew what to say by not saying anything at all.

Finally, your voice came, quiet. "I was going to rebuild the holograms. The Cave might be gone, but their memories aren’t"

He nodded slowly. "You still can. Just... might look a little different now."

Your throat tightened. You blinked hard, jaw set. "I don’t even have backups. Everything was on the Mount servers. I was gonna update them this weekend. Change some colors to be more accurate."

That ache bloomed again, sharp and deep, and this time, you felt the heat pricking your eyes. You pressed your forehead to your knees.

Nightwing reached over and gently rested his hand against your back. Warm. Steady.

You didn’t mean to fall apart. But the moment he touched you, everything snapped. A sob tore its way out of your chest, raw and too loud in the empty warehouse.

He shifted closer, pulling you into his arms without hesitation. You buried your face in his shoulder and cried, full-body and aching. He held you like he wasn’t going anywhere, one hand curled protectively around the back of your head.

" Increased tear production. This is acceptable, " your suit whispered awkwardly. You hiccuped out a breath between sobs that might’ve been a laugh.

Nightwing didn’t say anything for a long time. Just let you fall apart. Let you mourn. Let you feel it.

He wanted so badly to tell you Artemis was okay. That this wasn’t like before. Not like Jason. He remembered what it was like, the shattering silence after the funeral, the way it had felt like the world had gone quiet and cruel.

That mission haunted him. It had gone south fast—intel was wrong, backup was late, and everything unraveled before he could fix it. He’d taken a hit, broken his leg bad enough that the bone splintered. He could barely move. He had to watch it happen. Jason had still been fighting, still doing what he was trained to do. He hadn’t seen it coming.

Dick was immobilized, stuck behind cover, the pain in his leg white-hot and blinding. He could hear the comms go dead, one by one. The panic, the blood, the sound of Jason’s breathing fading. That guilt never left him.

His time in recovery after that was hell. Alone in his apartment, casted up, unable to lead, to move, to do anything. Tim tried to visit. So did Barbara. But it was you who always came by with a quiet presence, no pressure. You didn’t ask him to talk. You didn’t need him to be okay. You just sat there, sometimes with your suit on standby, sometimes in your university hoodie, just there.

You offered to take over for him. Told him he could rest, and you’d step up. And you did. You held the Team together during the roughest period they’d had in years. You were softer with the younger ones, firmer with the veterans, and kind with him—even when he didn’t deserve it.

But Jason was your friend, too. Not just the annoying little brother of your boyfriend. You’d bickered, sure, and you’d once elbowed him off the couch during a movie night for chewing too loud. But you liked him. You believed in him. And you grieved him deeply.

Now, watching you sit in this god-awful warehouse, quiet and still with your suit powered down, it was like watching that grief all over again. You were doing what he had done—shutting down. Not letting it show. And he hated it.

So he sat beside you and said nothing. Just offered you the same quiet you’d once given him. Hoping it was enough.

He wanted to ease the weight on your shoulders. To make it okay. But the one thing that could lighten your load—the truth about Artemis—was the one thing he couldn’t tell you.

It wasn’t his secret to tell. And he couldn’t give you that hope. Not yet. Not like this.

He should’ve seen it coming. That thought looped on repeat in his mind, like a broken record he couldn’t stop playing. The explosion. The breach. The destruction of the Cave. It was all part of a plan that had too many moving pieces—too many risks. He was the one who signed off on it. Coordinated the deception. Accepted the losses. He told himself that if it meant saving lives, exposing The Light, bringing everything into the open… it would be worth it. He’d accounted for this part, but hated it nonetheless—the human fallout. The grief. The pieces of you that had been shattered alongside the foundation of your home.

And Artemis.

He saw the devastation in your eyes every time someone so much as mentioned her name. You weren’t talking about her anymore. Not even to ask questions. Not even in passing. The last time he heard her name in your voice, it was a whisper to yourself, like you were trying to hold onto the echo of a friend already gone. And he couldn’t bear it.

You had always been the one to speak up for the team’s grief. He remembered seeing you bent over your workspace, illuminated by soft blue light, lips pursed in concentration as you adjusted a light projection of Tula’s face so her expression was just right. You never let their memories fade.

Now you were grieving one of your best friends, and he couldn’t tell you the truth.

He told himself it was to protect the mission. To protect Artemis. But maybe, deep down, a small, selfish part of him wanted to ease your grief. To bring back your spark, the way it used to be before everything got so heavy. Maybe he wanted forgiveness—not from you, but from himself. For Jason. For Mount Justice. For all of it.

He thought he could carry it all. But sitting there, watching your shoulders shake as you cried into his chest, he realized maybe he couldn’t. Not really.

He’d gone to M’gann earlier that day, unsure how to bring it up—how to ask you to leave behind the only home you'd had since moving in two years ago. He told her what he wanted: to build something new with you, together. A place where your armor wouldn’t hum against concrete walls. Where you could fall asleep in a real bed, not just whatever was left of the bunks.

M’gann had just rolled her eyes fondly and said, “If you don’t ask her soon, I will. But maybe don’t offer your apartment. It’s basically an outhouse.”

"I’ve been thinking," he said after a moment. "And M’gann’s not around to stop me from being a coward, so I’m just gonna say it."

You lifted your head, brows drawn together.

He looked right at you, soft and serious and a little nervous. "Move in with me. We’ll find a new place. Together. Doesn’t have to be the warehouse, or my apartment—hell, it could be a treehouse if that’s what you want. Just... something that’s ours."

You blinked.

"You don’t have to decide now," he added quickly. "But I figured, if you were thinking about going back to Star, or moving in with your parents—"

"Renting in Star is actual hell," you muttered.

He smiled. "Exactly. So… think about it?"

You stared at him. Your throat was tight again, but this time, it wasn’t all grief.

"...A treehouse?" you managed.

"Fully insulated. With a skylight."

Your laugh was watery, but it was real. He gave you that smile—the one just for you—and bumped your shoulder with his.

"Let’s make something new," he said, quietly. "Someplace better. Someplace safe."

You leaned into him, finally, and let your eyes close. Maybe your home was gone. But maybe… maybe you could build another.

[dudeimjustagirll]

Something Like Guidance Chapter 4

You weren’t really tired . Not in the way that meant sleep.

Your room was quiet. Not peaceful-quiet. Not rest-your-eyes quiet. Just the kind of still that made every little thing seem louder. The faint buzz of your desk lamp, the hum of your suit in standby mode, the creak of pipes three floors down.

And your own brain. Loudest of all.

You sighed and rolled onto your side again. That made seven position changes in ten minutes. Your sheets twisted around your legs like vines. One sock was halfway off. Your pillow was too warm, and your window didn’t catch the breeze.

" You are exhibiting symptoms of sleep dysfunction, " your armor noted, its voice sliding into your mind like a breeze through a cracked door. " Elevated heart rate. Repetitive motion. Mild irritability. "

"Mild?" you muttered, prying your face out of the pillow. "I’m two minutes away from dropkicking that lamp."

" Recommend melatonin. "

"Recommend shutting up."

It paused. Then, more carefully: " Would you like me to contact Nightwing to assist with stress regulation? "

You groaned and rolled onto your back. "I’m not in the mood for sex."

" That was not the implication. Your assumption suggests a preexisting mental association. "

Your face warmed immediately. "Oh my god. Stop psychoanalyzing me."

" Noted. "

You threw your arm over your eyes, face heating. "I’m never sleeping again, huh?"

In lieu of a response, your armor gave a gentle hum. And despite yourself, you let it.

The low buzz of the interface inside your body lit up like static along your spine. Gentle pulses of energy flickered under your skin, faint enough to be soothing—until they weren’t. You clenched your jaw. Then, with a breath, activated the suit.

It washed over you like it always did—fast, seamless, ingrained into your nerves. Metal not worn, but lived in. Part of you.

You stood. Stretched. Walked to the door. Then turned and sat back down.

Deactivated it.

Then reactivated it.

" You’re going to destabilize your external plating. "

"I am the external plating."

" You are being dramatic. "

You exhaled, letting the helmet recede with a mental nudge. The energy sank back under your skin, still sparking slightly under your fingertips.

The room felt smaller by the second. And you were five minutes away from crawling up the walls like a feral cat.

Then deactivated it.

And did the whole thing again.

The armor, finally, gave a tired little whine.

" I will revoke manual override access. "

"You wouldn’t dare."

A pause. A judgmental buzz.

You dropped back into bed with a groan, armor half-formed over your legs. The room was too warm again. Your thoughts were still loud. Everything was stuck in the same restless loop.

Then—

A soft blip.

Your comm.

Not the mission line. Not an alert. Just one, small, familiar tone.

The private frequency.

It was set up years ago, an encrypted line between the two of you—only for emergencies. A quick check-in if something went wrong. But over time, it had become more than that.

Sometimes it was when you couldn’t sleep. Sometimes when one of you just needed to vent about the day. Or when you both were simply too far from each other to do what you really wanted: share the same space. So, the frequency had evolved. It wasn’t just an emergency anymore. It was the place where your conversations stretched past the missions, where you could both exist in a quiet, private world that no one else knew about.

You tapped part of the armor plating on your left forearm. "Couldn’t sleep either?"

His voice came through low and warm, roughened with the time. "Busted."

You smiled without meaning to.

"Insomniac solidarity?"

"Something like that."

You shifted onto your side again, legs tangling more comfortably this time.

"What’s got you up?"

"Thinking too loud."

"That’s illegal. Arrest yourself."

A soft laugh. "Would I get conjugal visits?"

"Absolutely not."

"Harsh."

Your armor chimed quietly inside your mind. " Heart rate increased. 13%. Emotional stimulation suspected. "

You ignored it. Mostly.

"Want me to come over? I could bring you tea," he offered, voice gentler now. "Or hot chocolate. Or my extremely huggable presence."

"Mm. Bribery."

"Only the best kind."

You rolled onto your back, letting the soft light from your desk lamp edge around your vision. "You do know I’m covered in alien plating and humming like a microwave, right? Not exactly the coziest thing to cuddle."

"Don’t care," he said, without missing a beat. "You always relax when I’m around. Even when you pretend not to."

You snorted. "I do not."

"You just sighed at the thought of me hugging you."

"I did not."

"I heard it."

Your armor buzzed in amusement.

"Traitor," you muttered.

"I’ll be there in five," Nightwing said.

You opened your mouth to argue, but he’d already disconnected.

Five minutes later, true to his word, he tapped twice at your door before easing it open, slipping inside like he’d done it a hundred times before—which, honestly, he had. You were already sitting up, suit dimmed and withdrawn to the skeletal base layer, which made cuddling more feasible and slightly less buzzy.

"Hey, Starlight," he said with that warm, boyish grin, like he hadn't just melted your entire frontal cortex.

You flushed. Every time. "Hi."

He flopped down next to you, immediately wrapping an arm around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world. You curled into him with a soft sigh.

"Told you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Sigh equals affection."

You rolled your eyes. "Correlation doesn't equal causation."

"Big words from the girl who forgot to turn in her physics lab report twice this week."

You elbowed him lightly. "I have eight classes and three brain cells. It's a miracle I function."

He laughed into your hair. "A very pretty miracle."

Your armor’s voice hummed in your mind again. " Heart rate spike. 19%. Recommend hydration. "

You snorted into Nightwing’s chest. "The suit thinks I’m dying."

"Tell it I said you’re just in love."

You smacked his shoulder lightly, and he grinned harder.

"You’re impossible," you muttered.

"And yet, here you are."

"Suffering."

"Cuddling."

You didn’t argue that one.

He adjusted a little to rest his chin on top of your head, and the two of you sank into a comfortable silence. The kind only really possible at two in the morning when the world was asleep and everything smelled faintly like laundry and mint tea.

After a while, he mumbled, "You remember that time Wally tried to cook dinner for the team?"

You snickered. "And accidentally made fish-flavored oatmeal?"

"It was seafood porridge!"

"He added cinnamon."

"I still have nightmares."

You giggled, tucking your face into his chest. "M'gann tried so hard to eat it with a straight face."

"Connor bailed so fast I thought he Zeta'd out."

"Honestly, we should’ve filmed it."

"We really need to start recording these," he noted.

"We should. Too bad we missed time you tripped over my armor plating and blamed it on the moon."

"It was reflective! It messed with my depth perception!"

Your armor let out a soft, judgmental chirp.

"Even the alien tech thinks that excuse is weak," you whispered.

"You’re all against me," he pouted.

You leaned up just enough to press a kiss to his cheek. "Nah. I’m always with you."

He went quiet for a second, then smiled again—softer this time, a little crooked. "Love you, Starlight."

You felt the words sink into your chest like heat, like home.

"Love you too, Bird Boy."

Your armor, mercifully, stayed quiet.

[dudeimjustagirll]

Something Like Guidance Chatper 3:

The thing about your armor was that it made you inexplicably taller. Not just a little taller— concerningly taller.

It wasn’t intentional. Not really. The tech had crash landed from a star-split meteor when you were younger, and by the time it latched onto your spine and rewrote your life, height calibration hadn’t exactly been on your mind.

Now, several years into your hero career, the effect was… noticeable.

And right now, standing at the front of the mission hall in full plating, visor glowing, arms crossed behind Nightwing as he debriefed a squad of new members who had been here all of 2 weeks?

You were terrifying.

Your posture added at least five inches. The stabilizers along your calves widened your stance. And the way your helmet curved back over your jawline gave you the distinct impression of someone who was definitely plotting something violent.

You weren’t. You were thinking about what you were going to eat after this. Maybe a breakfast burrito. Or fries. Or both.

But the newbies didn’t know that.

They kept darting nervous glances at you as Nightwing ran through post-mission analytics, pointing to a holographic display behind him. His tone was calm, controlled, and casually firm in that way that made rookies shut up and listen .

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t need to.

You were already making one of them sweat through their collar.

Nightwing didn’t even look at you, but you knew he noticed. He always did.

“Skylinker’s aerial support kept our perimeter intact while the rest of us handled extraction,” he was saying. “If not for her, we’d be cleaning up a very different kind of mess right now. So maybe—”

He pivoted to face the room fully, hands on his hips.

“—thank the scary glowing one when she saves you.”

A beat of awkward laughter followed. You tilted your head just enough to make your visor glint.

Poor Beast Boy visibly flinched.

People always told you that you looked like a different person in the armor.

Which was funny, because—wasn’t that the whole point of the superhero thing?

Still, they had a point. The suit was alien. Living. Fluid and angular and unnerving, with an energy pulse that reacted to your thoughts and a voice that only you could hear.

“ Wondergirl’s heart rate has spiked 27% since you made eye contact. Shall I initiate a reassurance protocol? ”

“No,” you muttered under your breath. “That just made her laugh really awkwardly last time. Poor thing.”

“ Correction: humor modulation was within Earth-standard parameters. ”

“Your parameters are broken.”

“ You’re welcome. ”

Nightwing would never say it while everyone else was present—too professional, too focused—but you knew he liked the armor. He liked the way it moved with you, the way the plating shimmered like it had a mind of its own. He liked that it made you taller than him again, just enough to tilt his head when he looked at you. There was something in his gaze whenever you stood beside him in full gear—something warm, admiring, a little smug. Like he’d won the lottery and no one else even knew it.

You hadn’t always been this dramatic-looking, though. In fact, when you first joined the Team, people weren’t even sure what you were.

Your armor back then had been bulkier—more unrefined, like it hadn’t quite learned how to fit you yet. It didn’t flare softly with light the way it did now. It hummed. Ominously. The voice modulator had made you sound like someone who stood in corners at midnight just for the fun of it.

It had been after a mission—nothing fancy, just a clean perimeter op. A few busted crates, one knocked-out smuggler, and some minor property damage that Wally promised to “totally fix later, swear.”

The rest of the Team was gathering by the Zeta tubes, cooling off and casually complaining about bruises. You were off to the side, in full armor, visor dim, grabbing a juice pouch from the lunch your mom had so graciously packed for you.

Artemis had leaned back against the wall next to you, arms crossed.

“So,” she said, flicking a glance up at you, “you, uh... do this whole strong and silent type thing on purpose, or is it just natural?”

You blinked. Or… the armor did. It was hard to tell.

She smirked, not deterred. “Gotta admit, it’s working for you. Broody, mysterious, vaguely terrifying.”

You would’ve choked if you were drinking anything besides juice.

“ Flirtation level: 87%. ” “ Consider retraction? ” “ Reveal gender. Eliminate confusion. ”

You pressed your lips together, hard.

Artemis was still talking, clearly having a great time being bold. “So what’s under the armor, huh? Scars? Stubble? A brooding backstory? You don’t talk much, but I bet you’ve got that ‘I only speak in battle’ thing going on.”

You turned your head slightly toward her and tilted it, just enough to say “are you serious right now” through ten layers of alien tech.

She winked.

Your suit chirped internally:

“ Initiating dramatic retraction in 3— ”

You sighed through your nose. “Do it.”

With a hiss and a flare of light, your helmet dissolved back into the collar, revealing your face—sweaty, tired, and extremely amused.

Artemis’s smirk froze.

Her eyes widened. “Wait. Wait. Wait. ”

You arched a brow.

“You’re a girl?! ”

You took another sip of juice.

“I—oh my god. You’re—”

“Flattered, honestly,” you said, deadpan.

Artemis made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a groan.

“I hate everything.”

“Love you too.”

More recently, though, Nightwing had tried to kiss you after a mission. It was sweet. Soft. Predictable.

You’d activated your plating at the last second just to mess with him.

CLANG.

He’d kissed a full titanium cheek panel and physically recoiled like he’d just licked a battery.

You’d barely kept from laughing.

He’d gripped your arm with wounded dignity and hissed, “I know you did that on purpose.”

You’d just shrugged. “Gotta keep you guessing, Featherbrain.”

To this day, whenever he leaned in too casually, you watched him hesitate— just a second —like he was waiting for the clink .

You never warned him.

It was more fun that way

These days, most of the Team knew you well enough to tell the difference between glowing sentinel mode and you just being kinda tired. But new guys?

They didn’t know that under the kinetic plating and flight protocols lived a girl who made spreadsheets for fun and cried during The Martian.

They didn’t know you were older than Nightwing by a year and had been taller than him for most of your teen years—until his last-minute growth spurt edged him over you by half an inch. (Not that you were keeping track.)

Not that it mattered much.

Because now, when the armor came on? You towered over him again.

Which you never, ever let him forget.

The debrief wrapped. Nightwing dismissed the recruits and turned to you, hands sliding to his hips, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You didn’t have to menace them,” he said quietly.

“I wasn’t menacing,” you replied. “I was standing.”

“You were looming. ”

You arched a brow behind your visor. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

His smirk deepened. “Oh, I wasn’t.”

You let the helmet retract with a soft hiss. “Knew it.”

He stepped closer, eyes gleaming with that familiar fondness—that subtle awe he never said out loud but always carried in his stare. “You know, I liked you even back when Artemis thought you were a dude.”

“I know. You tried to steal my flash drive. My English project was in there.”

“You called me Bird Boy in front of Batman.”

“And I’ll do it again.”

“ Romantic tension is escalating. Initiate kiss sequence? ”

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered at the suit.

“...What?” Nightwing blinked.

“Nothing. Not you.”

[dudeimjustagirll]

Something Like Guidance Chapter 2!

Mount Justice had its own kind of quiet. Not silence—never silence—but a low, humming kind of calm. You heard it in the soft whirr of security doors, the far-off echo of someone training two halls over, the occasional fizz of a Zeta-beam jump lighting up the corridor.

You liked it. It let you breathe. Let you work.

You stepped out of the training bay, hoodie slung over your armor, hair damp with sweat. Jaime trailed behind you, dragging his feet and breathing like he’d just run a marathon.

"You're getting better," you said, tossing him a towel as he collapsed dramatically onto the nearest bench.

He caught it with a weak little grunt. "Liar. I almost flew into a wall."

"Yeah, but you didn’t actually fly into it this time." You shot him a grin. "That’s progress."

"Small victories," he muttered, rubbing at his temple as the Scarab made a mechanical hissing noise. Your suit bristled faintly in response.

" Foreign system vocalization. Aggression level: elevated. "

"Thanks, Mom," you muttered back.

Jaime looked up. "Did yours just say something?"

You shrugged. "It’s chatty."

"Mine just threatened to launch an EMP if I trip again."

"Yikes. Maybe don’t trip?"

He flipped you off without heat. You snorted and sat down beside him.

For a moment, there was quiet—almost peaceful, in that post-training, muscles-ache-but-in-a-good-way kind of way.

Then Jaime spoke, softer. "Hey… you ever feel like you’re not actually cut out for this hero thing?"

You blinked. "Only every day."

He glanced at you like he wasn’t expecting that answer. You gave a one-shoulder shrug.

"I found a mechanical alien object that does god-knows-what and reached for it without thinking. Then I ignored it for a solid year because I was mad it bonded with me. I still don’t know what I’m doing, Jaime. But I show up. And I try."

He let out a tired, relieved laugh. "God. That makes me feel so much better."

You stood, offering your hand. "You’re doing better than you think."

He took it. "You sure you’re not, like… secretly a genius?"

"I'm doing a group project with three pre-med majors who think torque is a Pokémon move. So no."

Jaime grinned. "Nerd."

"Takes one to know one, Scarab-boy."

He groaned. “Please never say that again.”

“No promises.”

You made it to your room just as your suit dimmed to a rest-state, plates retracting under your clothes like a sigh.

You kicked the door shut with your heel, stepped over your own mess of textbooks, and collapsed onto your bed, laptop in hand. Your robotics project wasn’t going to write itself, and you were ninety percent sure at least one of your group members had copy-pasted from an article about prosthetic limbs.

“ Structural coefficient: incorrect, ” the suit chimed in your head, its voice smooth and neutral. “ You have misapplied the algorithmic loop. Again. ”

You rolled your eyes and muttered, “I love your support.”

“ You value precision. I am providing assistance. ”

“You’re providing sass.”

It didn’t respond. Which meant you were right.

You tapped away at your screen, shifting slightly when your armor adjusted beneath your clothes. It made studying more comfortable—less “cybernetic supersuit” and more “futuristic heated blanket with opinions.”

Your door hissed open.

You didn’t need to look up. “Took you long enough.”

“New security protocols?” Nightwing’s voice was amused, low. “Cute.”

He was right, of course. It was a sort of game the two of you had—an unspoken challenge, where you updated your room’s access codes or rearranged your encryption patterns just to see if he could still break in without setting off an alert. He always could. You never admitted how much you liked that. 

You smirked but didn’t glance up from your notes. “Gotta keep you guessing.”

He didn’t reply, just dropped his duffel on the floor and flopped into the chair across the room like he lived there—which, to be fair, he sort of did. You kept working. He pulled out some half-assembled gadget and started tinkering, the quiet click of tools filling the space between you.

Your bed was covered in textbooks, your laptop nearly dead, and your hair still damp from training. Your body ached in that good, used way. College was stretching you thin. Training Jaime was stretching you thinner. But you liked it.

You wanted it.

You wanted this —this life. The chaos and the calm and the way your suit whispered answers to your calculus problems when your brain short-circuited from exhaustion.

“ You require protein. ”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

“If your suit is lecturing you again, it’s probably right. Your knee’s twitching,” Nightwing said without looking up.

You snorted. “College.”

“Mentoring?”

“Combination of both.” You finally looked up at him. “He’s getting the hang of it, though.”

Nightwing smiled faintly, still soldering. “You’re doing good with him.”

You raised a brow. “You stalking my training reports?”

“Maybe.” He looked up briefly. “He trusts you. That matters.”

You paused.

“…I think he sees I don’t really know what I’m doing,” you admitted, quiet.

Nightwing put his gadget down. “If he does, he also sees that you’re still trying. That counts for a lot more than you think.”

Your heart gave a little lurch. You looked back at your laptop, cheeks warm.

“ Elevated body temperature. Heart rate increase. ”

“Shut up,” you muttered at your suit.

Nightwing glanced up. “What’d it say this time?”

“Nothing,” you said, voice slightly too high.

He grinned. “You’re adorable when you argue with your sentient armor.”

You tossed a pen at him. He caught it effortlessly, smug.

Silence fell again. Safe and warm and full.

Your suit was quiet. Too quiet.

“…You’re staring,” you said without looking up.

“I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

“I’m appreciating.”

You hummed, unconvinced.

From the corner of your eye, you saw his smile. That soft, secret kind he never gave anyone else.

You paused.

It hit you then—quietly, suddenly—that you hadn’t taken him flying in a while. Not since… what, last month? Before you’d gotten wrapped up in mentoring Jaime, juggling labs and off-world tech evaluations and trying not to flunk a biomechanics test?

That wouldn’t do.

You closed your laptop.

Nightwing glanced up, brow arched. “Giving up already?”

“No,” you said, standing and cracking your spine. “Just reprioritizing.”

He blinked as you stepped toward him and offered your hand.

“…What?”

“It’s been too long. Let’s fly.”

His smile returned—this time wide and a little stunned, like you’d offered him the stars.

“Right now?”

“Unless you’re busy being mysterious and brooding.”

He took your hand. “Always got time to be airborne with you, Skylinker.”

The suit adjusted immediately, calibrating for altitude and extra weight. You felt its faint hum ripple through your spine.

“Payload acquired. Trajectory locked.”

You smirked.

“You know,” you said as you pulled him closer, “you could stand to be a little more romantic.”

“I’m letting you carry me. In public.”

“True love.”

You kicked off.

And for a few precious minutes, it was just you and him—above the world, beneath the stars, the whole galaxy open and quiet. You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to.

The wind slid past your face like silk, cool and sharp and full of sky. Nightwing's weight was steady in your arms, his presence familiar—like gravity, like heartbeat. He wasn’t tense like he used to be when you first started doing this. Now, he leaned into you, like he knew you'd never drop him. Like he never wanted you to.

Below you, the lights of Happy Harbor glittered like stars that fell the wrong way. You adjusted your trajectory, banking gently west—toward the coastline.

"Ocean?" you asked, your voice soft in the comms.

Nightwing tilted his head slightly against your shoulder. "I was hoping you'd say that."

You glided low across the water, the moonlight painting silver across the waves. The wind caught his hair, and yours, and neither of you bothered fixing it. His hand found your arm, gentle. Grounding.

“I missed this,” he said, voice quieter now. “Us. Like this.”

You looked down at him, your visor sliding back just enough to show your eyes. “I know. Me too.”

You slowed, hovering over a rocky cliff just beyond the shore. Your boots touched down lightly, your suit adjusting for balance as Nightwing slid to his feet beside you.

The wind was cooler up here. Salt-kissed and clean.

For a minute, neither of you spoke.

Then:

“You ever think about how weird this is?” you murmured.

“What, the part where we’re standing on a cliff in tactical armor after flying through the sky powered by alien tech?”

You laughed. “That, and… this. All of it. Mentoring newbies. Running missions. Juggling college and—us.”

He glanced at you, expression unreadable under his mask. “You regretting any of it?”

You shook your head. “Not for a second.”

His hand found yours. Not armored—just warm.

“I used to think I couldn’t have both,” he said. “The hero stuff and the real life. You kind of ruined that for me.”

“Ruined?” you teased.

“In the best way,” he said, grinning now. “You proved I was wrong.”

You leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder. The stars blinked above you—quiet witnesses.

“…We should come up here more,” you said after a beat.

“We should,” he agreed. “You know. When you're not babysitting Jaime.”

You snorted. “Says the guy who’s teaching a teenage Bat how to stealth-broach emotional vulnerability.”

“That’s rich, coming from the girl whose armor starts growling every time the Scarab blinks.”

“Okay, fair.”

A beat of silence. Then:

“Still,” he said, a little softer. “You're good at it. You make him feel safe.”

You looked at him. “So do you.”

Nightwing smiled—something small and rare, just for you.

“…Wanna fly home the long way?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

[dudeimjustagirll]

Something Like Guidance (chapter 1)

Idek what I wanna do with this work-might make it a series :3 Oh also this whole concept is pretty heavily based on Robert Kirkman's "Tech Jacket" If you're into this idea as a whole, I'd reccomend reading his work! (all pictures here are from his panels!)

It started on a Tuesday.

The sky was unusually clear for your part of the world—clouds tucked away, stars sharp against a velvet backdrop. You lay on a threadbare blanket in the backyard, arms folded behind your head, eyes upturned and dreamy. Your mom sat nearby, pointing out constellations with the kind of gentle pride only someone who loved the sky could have.

"That one’s Lyra. You can tell by the parallelogram shape. And that bright one—Vega."

"Vega," you repeated, like it was a spell.

The breeze whispered through the trees. A fox barked in the distance. It was peaceful.

Until the sky broke.

A streak of silver tore across the stars, wrong and low, trailing fire and sound like a scream. It didn’t fizzle out like a shooting star. It dropped, hard and fast, disappearing over the treeline behind the house with a ground-shaking thud.

Your mom was already standing. “Stay here,” she said automatically.

But curiosity was faster than caution. You were already throwing on your sneakers, adrenaline sparking behind your teeth.

“It’s probably just a satellite—” she called after you.

“Satellites don’t scream,” you muttered.

You grabbed your bike. Your mom followed, calling your name, but the night was alive now—buzzing with static, electric in your lungs.

It landed in the old orchard, about a five-minute ride from your backyard. The trees were black silhouettes against a glowing crater, and in the center…

A chunk of something. Metallic, dented, steaming. Alien.

It didn’t look like a weapon. Or a machine.

It looked like a ribcage cracked open and still humming.

You should’ve waited. You meant to wait. But something about it pulled.

You stepped forward. Reached out.

And it moved.

It didn’t lunge. It reacted.

The moment your fingers brushed the surface, the thing unfolded—metal shifting like liquid glass, latching up your arms and spine with terrible speed. Cold.

You didn’t scream because it knocked the breath out of you.

The world fell silent. Not dark—silent. Even the trees stilled. Time paused.

Then, a voice in your skull. Flat. Feminine. Unfamiliar:

"Bio-signature detected. Compatible host acquired. Initiating neural sync—warning: system unfamiliar. Recalculating protocol. Remain calm. You are safe."

You were not calm. Your knees hit the grass.

The world slammed back into sound and motion. Your mom’s voice shouting your name. Your heart pounding too loud. Your back burned like fire and ice had fused into one.

“(Name)!” your mom shouted as she ran up beside you. “Oh my god, what is that?! (Name), can you hear me? Are you okay?!”

You tried to speak, but the suit’s sync hadn’t settled yet. You could only groan, trying to reach out, but your arm was half-arm, half-armor now.

“I’m fine,” you finally gasped. “I think I’m—okay. I’m okay.”

Your mom crouched down beside you, hands hovering like she was afraid to touch. “That’s not normal. That thing—it moved. It’s on you. What if it’s poisoning you, or, or hijacking your brain, or—”

“It’s… talking to me,” you whispered.

She blinked. “Talking? What do you mean, talking?”

“In my head. It’s… it says it’s syncing. It doesn’t sound hostile.”

She looked at you like she was trying to believe you—but was one heartbeat away from dragging you back to the house and calling every emergency contact she had.

You touched your chest, where the armor pulsed faintly.

“I think… I think it chose me.”

And somewhere deep inside, you could feel it—curious. Confused. Listening.

So you listened back.

You didn’t know it then, but the universe had just found its new envoy.

You were going to be something else now.

You just didn’t have a name for it yet.

They started calling you Skylinker after your first official mission. Something about the way the armor lit up when you launched into orbit—like you belonged between stars. You hated it at first. Too flashy. Too superhero-y. But it stuck. And eventually, you made it yours.

Joining the team wasn’t a glamorous thing. You didn’t get scouted in battle or recruited mid-rescue. It happened because someone upstairs flagged your encounter as a "possible extraterrestrial artifact assimilation event." It happened because Red Tornado showed up at your door, and your parents panicked. It happened because you needed help. Training. Answers.

At first, the team didn’t know what to make of you. Neither did you.

You didn’t want to trust the armor. You treated it like a parasite with good manners—ignoring its suggestions, tuning out its voice, refusing to let it operate beyond the basics. You weren’t about to let something alien steer your life, no matter how advanced it was.

You hated it. The armor didn’t seem to like you much either. It wasn’t just a suit—it had thoughts. Priorities. Opinions. And most of the time, it didn’t care about yours.

It couldn’t be removed. You tried. Hospitals, X-rays, even Zeta beam scans. Nothing worked. It was bonded. Threaded into your nervous system like an extra limb.

You were stuck with it. It was stuck with you.

The first few months with the team were… awkward.

You tried to keep to yourself. The armor’s voice whispered suggestions constantly, like a judgmental GPS. You ignored it. Actively. Aggressively.

"Tactical advantage available on rooftop. Recommend altitude."

"Shut up," you muttered, mid-mission.

Robin—way too perceptive—whipped his head toward you. “What?”

You blinked. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

He squinted. “Uh-huh.”

The armor chimed again, louder. “Current trajectory inefficient. Recalculate?”

“Do you ever shut up?” you hissed.

“I am not speaking aloud,” it replied. “You are projecting frustration. Audibly.”

By then, the others were giving you side glances.

Artemis nudged Conner. “Is she… okay?”

“Not the weirdest thing I’ve seen this week,” he said.

Eventually, you stopped answering it out loud. Or, tried to, at least. You tried to learn to think at it–a dumb idea in hindsight. It couldn’t actually hijack and corrupt your thoughts– you just had to reply to it, and pray that nobody heard the insults you threw at it and assumed you were talking to them.

You didn’t want to bond with it. You didn’t even want to name it. It wasn’t a pet. It wasn’t a friend.

Then came the missions. The long ones. The quiet ones. The ones where you and the armor were the only two awake on comms.

And then… the team.

You got to know them. Slowly. Artemis with her unflinching sarcasm and sharp aim. Kaldur with his calm leadership and terrifying efficiency. Conner, who didn’t say much but always backed you up. M’gann, who smiled like it was her job to keep everyone together.

And Robin.

He was—different. Shorter than you expected. Smarter. Always five steps ahead, always watching. He made fun of your name before anyone else did. He cracked your suit’s firewalls for fun and left behind notes in binary like it was flirting.

You didn’t realize you could be friends with him until the fourth mission, when he got slammed by an energy blast and the armor flared so hard it cracked the ground.

“I’m fine,” he said, brushing soot off his cape.

“Yeah?” you snapped. “Tell that to my heart rate monitor.”

It slipped out before you could stop it.

Robin grinned. “You’ve got a monitor for that?”

You turned away. “Shut up.”

He didn’t.

You didn’t realize you actually liked him until around six months later. Everyone else had gone home, but you and Robin stayed behind to run debrief and patch yourselves up. You were sitting on the edge of a supply crate, one of your shoulder panels jammed at a weird angle, sparking faintly.

“You should let me look at that,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his.

“I got it.” You winced as you tried to reach the hinge. “Okay, maybe not.”

“Hold still,” he said, kneeling beside you. “This hinge won’t realign if you keep breathing like that.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. His gloves were steady, careful. Too careful.

“You always patch up your teammates like this?”

“Only the ones who glow around me,” he said with a grin.

You flushed. “Blame the armor sensors.”

“Sure. Totally not you.”

You stared at him. He didn’t look away.

“…It feels invasive sometimes,” you muttered, softer. “The armor. It doesn’t stop talking. It’s like it’s in every corner of my brain. And the worst part is I can’t fix some parts of it. Especially on my back.”

Robin’s brow furrowed. “You mean… it won’t let you?”

“Yeah. It’s part of my skeletal system, you know? I can only adjust it when I’m wearing it, and even then, I can’t really work on a part of myself that I can’t see.”

He adjusted the hinge with a gentle click. “Then we’ll make a deal. If it ever gets damaged again—bad enough that you can’t reach—I’ll help patch it up.”

You blinked. “You will?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Birdbrain’s honor.”

Your heart jumped. The armor pulsed softly.

“Elevated body temperature detected,” it said to you. “Blood vessels dilating. Subject is experiencing increased—”

“ Shut up! ” you hissed.

Robin’s eyes widened, then he laughed. “Was that the armor?”

You groaned. “It never stops embarrassing me.”

“I don’t know,” he said, standing and offering you a hand. “Kinda adorable.”

You took it. And for the first time, the suit didn’t comment.

But everything changed in Bialya. Underground. Collapsing caverns. A rookie mistake.

You could’ve let it end there. But your teammates were down. Miss Martian was out cold. Robin—Dick—was trapped under debris. You didn’t have time to hesitate.

"I can assist," the armor said. "Full control required."

You hesitated.

Then gave it.

What followed was a blur of motion and light. Not violence—precision. The suit moved like it had studied a thousand battle plans. Protected the wounded. Cleared escape paths. Stabilized structures. It didn’t just fight—it calculated.

And it saved them.

After that, something shifted. You listened more. It learned faster. You started to work together.

Over time, it became second nature. You didn't just wear the armor—you were Skylinker. The girl who linked sky to earth. Who talked to satellites like friends and read alien code like poetry.

It helped you find your place on the team, too. Conner trusted your instincts. Artemis trusted your aim. Kaldur trusted your judgment.

And Dick—he saw the way you moved when you trusted it. When you trusted yourself.

That changed everything.

You didn’t realize you loved him until you took him flying.

It had been almost two years since you met—two years of missions and late nights, banter over comms and patching each other up in the dark. Two years of his sharp smiles and faster wit, and the way he always said your name like it meant something sacred.

He was still Robin then. The whip-smart, slightly reckless boy-wonder version—still shaking off the last pieces of childhood, still pretending like he didn’t care as much as he obviously did. You took him flying.

You were the one who asked.

“Wanna see what actual flying feels like?”

He raised a brow. “I fly all the time.”

“You glide. You fall with style. There’s a difference.”

He rolled his eyes–not that you could see it through the mask.

You extended a hand. “Trust me?”

He took it without hesitation.

He was light. Compact. A little tense, but he didn’t complain as your arms looped under his and your armor adjusted to the extra weight. You kicked upward and soared into the open sky.

He held onto you without saying anything at first. The wind rushed past, tugging at his cape, and you could feel his heartbeat under your hands—racing at first, then slowing as he adjusted. His grip softened a little, just enough to feel him relax.

The armor responded to your will— wing-boosters engaging, kinetic balance recalibrating for two. And just like that, you both lifted off the rooftop and into open air.

At first, he was tense. You could feel it through the armor—tight shoulders, braced legs, muscles locked in like he was waiting for the fall. But then the mountain peeled away beneath you, and the sky opened wide, and his grip eased.

“This is actually kinda nice,” he said into your shoulder, voice half-lost in the wind.

“Still think gliding counts?” you teased.

“I take it back. You win.”

You laughed, and he looked up at you.

That’s when it hit.

The way he looked at you then—like you were something impossible and just out of reach, like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of the moment.

So you kissed him.

Just a brush of your mouth over his, wind sweeping around you both, stars above and the world beneath your feet. Gentle. Sure. Like it had been waiting there the whole time.

He blinked when you pulled back, stunned and smiling. “Uh. Wow.”

“Feathers, are you blushing?” you grinned.

“Shut up.”

“You totally are.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re redder than your tunic—”

“I’m going to let go and fall to my death–which will then be on you.”

You laughed again. This time, he laughed too.

You didn’t land until he was dozing lightly in your arms, all the fight drained out of him, safe and weightless above the world. You managed to shake him lightly, drawing him out from all of his sleepiness

And when you finally touched down and his boots hit the ground, he didn’t let go right away.

It stayed like that for the next year and a half, and you couldn’t have been happier.

By the time the first wave of recruits rolled in, you had become one of the most senior members on the Team.

Not the loudest. Not the one who gave speeches. But the kind of quiet authority that made people listen when you talked, that made rookies straighten up just a little when you stepped into mission briefings.

Some of the original team had moved on—Wally and Artemis had stepped back– left the hero life behind. You were happy for them. Zatanna and Rocket had both accepted League invitations. But others had stayed. M’gann. Conner. And you.

And then there was Nightwing.

He wasn’t Robin anymore. He moved differently now—more grounded, more serious, more deliberate. But every so often, the boy you used to hold in the sky peeked through: a sarcastic grin, a soft whistle when you landed, the way he nudged your shoulder after a successful run like you hadn’t just pulled off something gravity-defying.

You were together. Had been for a while.

Not a secret. But private.

You didn’t need to prove it. The Team didn’t need the distraction. And the two of you… well. You liked it that way. Quiet moments stolen in hallways, snuck conversations over comms. The way he always reached for your wrist when the world got too loud, like grounding himself on something solid.

“Nightwing to Skylinker,” he said once, low and amused through the link. “You good up there, starlight?”

You smirked, flipping midair above a surveillance drone and disabling it with a flick of your wrist.

“Always. You miss me or something, Featherbrain?”

“‘Course I miss you,” he said, easy. “You make space look good.”

That was how it was. Easy, but private.

You didn’t flaunt it. But every time he touched down after a solo mission, his eyes found yours first. Every time he said “good work” after a brief, it was to the room—but you felt the weight of it meant just for you.

And yeah, you still teased him about the name.

“I still can’t believe you went from Robin to Nightwing sometimes,” you said once, half-laughing as he picked shrapnel out of your shoulder plating.

He shrugged, not looking up. “Felt dramatic.”

“You know you sound like a goth off-brand soda, right?”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I make it look cool.”

“You really don’t.”

“You still kissed me,” he said in a sing-song voice.

You scoffed, swatting at him. “Moment of weakness.”

“Sure it was.”

He kissed your temple when he was done, just quick, just quiet.

You didn’t say anything about it. Just smiled and leaned into his shoulder, armor pulsing softly with a rhythm that matched your own.

You felt like you finally had your feet under you.

The Team was bigger now—fresh blood, new names, new powers. But the bones were still familiar. You kept the new recruits steady. Helped them adjust, learned how they moved, listened when they talked. Sometimes, you even caught yourself sounding like Kaldur. That quiet, measured calm that used to ground you. You liked it.

The armor hummed constantly now—less like noise, more like breathing. It had learned your rhythms. Your voice. Sometimes it even offered jokes, flat and misshapen, like a toddler mimicking sarcasm.

You loved it for that.

And then the feed came in.

You were back in the Cave, half-listening while Nightwing ran through post-op footage. M'gann and Batgirl sat nearby, tossing popcorn at each other every time he said “tactical compromise.”

You were tired. The kind of tired that settled under your eyes and in the hinges of your suit. You leaned back against the couch, helmet retracted, letting your hair breathe.

Then the screens flickered.

A new feed, live. Over El Paso. Grainy at first, then sharp—someone flying. Not trained. Not stable. Erratic speed, unpredictable trajectory. Not a Zeta-beam trail, no League ID tag, no flight ring.

Just a blue-and-black blur, streaking through the sky like a bottle rocket gone sideways.

Your armor shifted. You felt it in your ribs first—like a shiver. Then the voice.

“ Unstable vector detected. Bio-tech interface: unknown origin. Observation recommended. ”

You sat up straighter. Focused on the screen. The figure came into view—teenager. Maybe sixteen. Covered head to toe in something that looked like armor, but moved like it had its own muscles. Energy pulses lit up his spine. Wings of plasma flickered and vanished in bursts.

He was flailing. Trying to control it. Not attacking, not fleeing. Just... scared.

You knew that posture. You’d worn it.

“Whoa,” Batgirl said, leaning forward. “Do we have an ID?”

“Not yet,” Nightwing replied. He didn’t look away from the feed. “He’s been flying for almost thirty minutes, apparently. No known League assets in the area.”

“His suit,” you said quietly. “It’s not just tech.”

M’gann looked at you. “How can you tell?”

Your own armor pulsed again. This time, uneasily.

“My suit seems to have some issues with this guy,” you replied. “Says we need to…observe him.”

“ Design analysis: comparable to war-tech. No confirmed classification. Behavioral patterns—non-hostile. Host appears overwhelmed. Caution advised. ”

You frowned. “You’re nervous.”

“ I am... uncertain. ”

That was rare.

Nightwing turned to you. “Think you can handle an intercept if we send a small team?”

You hesitated. The footage looped again—the boy losing altitude, wings sparking, arms windmilling like he was trying to keep balance with sheer willpower.

You saw yourself, breathless, in a crater near your house. Shaking under something you didn’t ask for. Something no one could explain.

“I’ll go,” you said.

Nightwing raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

You nodded. “He doesn’t need a whole squad chasing him down. He needs someone who understands what it feels like to be stuck inside something you didn’t choose. I’ll bring him back.”

M’gann smiled gently. “Want company?”

“Appreciate it,” you said, letting the armour wrap around you. “But I think this one needs to be quiet.”

Nightwing’s expression softened. Just a little.

“Keep comms open,” he said.

“Don’t worry, I will,” you said, already walking toward the Zeta platform.

You found him just past midnight, west of the city.

The sky was clear, stars sharp like cut glass—and he was a blur against it. Darting too fast, moving in messy zigzags, chasing shadows and fleeing them at the same time. Like he didn’t know whether to attack or hide.

You hovered high, just watching at first.

His silhouette was unmistakable. Blue. Sleek. Scorched in places, as if he’d crashed already—maybe more than once. You counted four spirals, two barely-controlled landings, and one mid-air panic attack. At least, that’s what it looked like.

Your armor was tense. Not hostile. But guarded .

“ Unit behavior unstable. Neural override suspected. Combat not advised. ”

You took a breath.

“I’m not here to fight him,” you murmured. “Just talk.”

The suit pulsed uncertainly.

Below, the boy spun again—unsteady, flailing mid-roll. For a second, it looked like he was going to hit the ground.

You dropped.

The fall was controlled—armor bracing, stabilizers flaring. You caught him mid-plummet, arms locking under his shoulders as he thrashed.

“What—?! Let go—who are you—get away from me!”

“Easy, easy,” you said, trying to adjust your grip as he struggled. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

He stared at you like you weren’t real.

“You’re—” he started, still winded. “You’re Skylinker.”

You blinked, almost smiled. Even through your armour “Depends who’s asking.”

“You’re with them, aren’t you?! The people who sent this—this thing —I didn’t ask for it!”

He wasn’t looking at you anymore. Not really. His head jerked like he was arguing with someone else.

“No, I said no! I don’t want to—stop talking, stop—just SHUT UP!”

You hovered, firm but gentle. The suit on him was shifting—spines jutting, legs kicking against the air like he didn’t know how many limbs he had anymore. Your own armor curled closer, shield plating sliding over your chest like it expected a blast.

But you just held him tighter.

“Hey,” you said, loud enough to cut through the chaos. “You’re not alone.”

He stopped.

Not moving, not speaking. Just panting hard, eyes wide behind the visor.

You slowly let both of you descend—carefully, landing near a ravine just outside the city. He stumbled out of your grip the moment your boots hit ground, stumbling away like you were radioactive.

“What is this?” he asked, voice cracking. “It won’t shut up. It took me over . I didn’t ask for any of this.”

You stayed where you were. No sudden movements.

“I know,” you said softly.

He blinked.

You knelt, letting the suit retract around your face. Showed him your eyes. “When it happened to me… I thought I was dying.”

He stared, uncertain.

“I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. It was like it swallowed me whole.” You smiled, sad and sure. “But it didn’t. And it didn’t swallow you either.”

His armor hissed. Shifted.

You saw it. Not just the tech. Not just the threat. But the boy inside it.

“What’s your name?”

“Jaime. Reyes.”

Jaime Reyes. Young. Terrified. And trying so hard not to be.

You offered your hand.

He looked at it.

Then, slowly… he took it.

His gauntlet was warm—warmer than you expected. There was a low crackle of energy where your fingers met, like the armor was testing boundaries, unsure if it should retract or spike. You felt your own suit tense along your spine, pulse sharpening, ready to defend.

" Warning, " it said instantly. " Hostile tech signature. High probability of weaponization. Recommend disengagement. "

You sighed. "He's a kid."

" Unknown variables. Host interface unstable. Systemic aggression detected in foreign AI. This is not a safe interaction. "

"Look at him. This is exactly where I was when we met, and you know it."

Your armor didn’t respond at first. Then:

" ...Memory reference acknowledged. Monitoring closely. "

You gave Jaime’s hand a squeeze. His fingers were shaking.

He flinched as something shifted under his armor. You saw the ripple across his shoulders, the way the plating seemed to arch toward you before locking down again.

He mumbled, "It’s saying you’re dangerous."

You raised a brow. "Yours too, huh?"

He managed a nervous half-laugh. “Yeah. It's… not thrilled.”

"Mine either. But that’s not us. That’s them. "

His eyes flicked to yours. “Then why aren’t you backing off?”

“Because I remember what it felt like when no one did this for me.”

He looked like he wanted to cry or run or bolt straight into orbit. But he didn’t let go.

The suits still bristled—low-level hums of defense systems held just under the skin. But you were calm.

He was still scared.

But you could work with scared.

“Come with me,” you said. “I can help you figure it out.”

And this time, he followed.

After you got Jaime back to the Cave, it was quiet for a while. The others gave him space, let him breathe. You sat with him through the static-laced silences, through the stammered apologies and confused half-explanations. M’gann brought him food. Batgirl cracked a joke so awkward it somehow helped. And Nightwing, quietly, gently, made it clear:

He wasn’t in trouble.

They talked. All of you. Not like a debrief—more like a late-night campfire in a war zone. Honest. Raw. Jaime was scared. Not of the suit—but of what it wanted . Of how it whispered without asking. Of the way it moved when he didn't want it to.

You knew that fear. Intimately.

By the end of it, Jaime sat curled on the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair.

“Should I… stay here tonight?” he asked quietly. “Just in case?”

Nightwing nodded. “Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “There aren’t any guest rooms, though.”

“I said probably ,” he said, then glanced at Jaime. “You can take my room. I’m on monitor duty anyway.”

Jaime blinked. “Wait, really?”

“You break anything, you owe me a new toothbrush.”

When Jaime finally shuffled off with M’gann’s guidance and a borrowed hoodie, the Cave was quiet again. You lingered in the hall outside the ops room, stretching the stiffness from your shoulders. Nightwing joined you a minute later, his hair still slightly tousled from pulling off his mask.

“Sheesh,” you said, exhaling. “Poor kid.”

“Yeah.”

“He's holding it together better than I did.”

Nightwing gave you a small, knowing smile. “You didn’t have anyone to help you when it first happened.”

You didn’t respond right away.

Then: “He’s like me. But… not.”

“How so?”

“My armor was confused, back then. His is—angry. Defensive. Paranoid.”

“You still getting bad vibes from it?”

You nodded slowly. “It’s hostile. Doesn’t trust him. Doesn’t understand the connection. Keeps flagging him as an unidentified risk.”

Nightwing crossed his arms, watching you closely. “I didn’t ask about your armor. How do you feel about this?”

You met his eyes. “I know what it’s like to have something inside you that doesn’t feel like it’s yours. That tries to decide things for you. So I don’t blame him.”

Nightwing was quiet for a moment, like he was weighing something in his head. Then:

“He’s gonna need help,” he said. “More than just debriefs and team training. Someone to really guide him through this.”

You glanced at him, one brow raised. “You assigning me homework?”

“Kind of. Look, I’m already mentoring Tim—he joined six months ago, you know how green he still is.”

You snorted. “You mean Baby Bat?”

Nightwing rolled his eyes fondly. “He’s getting better.”

“Yeah, but that’s different,” you said, pushing off the wall and turning toward him fully. “You and Tim—there’s already something there. You’re brothers. He trusts you because he knows you.”

“And you think Jaime doesn’t know you?” he asked, voice light.

You shook your head. “He knows of me. That’s not the same.”

There was a pause.

“Look,” you said, softer now. “I can’t pretend it’s not weird. The scarab—it gets under my suit’s skin. Like oil and water. It’s like I’ve got a second pulse pounding under my ribs. It’s not subtle.”

“Do you think it’s dangerous?”

“…No,” you admitted. “Not yet. But it’s unpredictable. I’ve had years to learn how to sync with mine. He’s had what—a few hours?”

“There about,” Nightwing said quietly.

You both stared at the ceiling for a moment.

Then you muttered, “God, I really said yes to mentoring, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he said, way too smug.

“Tell anyone and I’ll reprogram your comms to only speak in binary.”

Nightwing leaned closer, smiling. “You care. That’s why you’re the right choice.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt warm anyway. Annoying.

“…Fine,” you said again. “But if the suits start throwing punches, I’m blaming you.”

[dudeimjustagirll]

Upstairs Neighbor Activities

A/N:

guys i'm not a wally lover myself but he's goated

there's like zero fics of him tho so yw

You’d never really paid attention to Wally West in particular, but something—some Earth-shattering sense of embarrassment and fear— told you that he was your upstairs neighbour.

It had all started on one cold, dreary night. You’d just returned from what might’ve been the most incessantly boring university lecture of your life. The kind of class where time slowed to a crawl, and the air itself seemed to thicken with every slide the professor droned through. He hadn’t even tried to pretend he cared about the subject — just read off the screen like a hostage, voice so monotone it could’ve been used to sedate wild animals. All you wanted was to crash on your mattress, slip into a temporary coma and watch some trashy Reality TV when you woke up.

You’d unlocked your front door with all the enthusiasm of a ghost, kicked off your shoes, and made it exactly three steps inside when you heard it.

A light buzzing sound, like someone had just set up a camp for bees in their home, and handed them redbull and tiny jackhammers. Either that, or they had started exploiting a very loud electric toothbrush. 

You simply wouldn’t have it. You’d never been one for confrontation. Passive-aggression, sure — that was your love language. But nobody had ever been able to get between you and your sleep. Not your busted alarm clock, and certainly not your teachers from back in highschool, who’d slam their grubby hands on the top of your desk to wake you up. This was inexcusable. Outrageous. Unforgivable. So, you gathered up every bit of willpower you had left in you, flung open your door, and trudged up the stairs to give your neighbor the lecture of their life.

Just before you banged on the door, though, the buzzing stopped. You heard the unmistakable popping of a cap being unscrewed, and the sound of liquid being poured from one container into another. And when you heard the voice on the other end of the door, you stopped dead in your tracks.

“Ugh, finally. That took forever!” The disembodied voice exclaimed. 

You froze. Blinked. 

That voice. That smug, exasperated, deeply familiar voice.

And all at once, every neuron in your sleep-deprived brain lit up in a single, horrifying realization:

Wally. Freaking. West.

“As if!” you thought to yourself, shaking your head. 

There was no way in hell. There were thousands of people all around the world who sounded similar. Likely, this was just one such case. 

You turned on your heel and walked away. But, as you went back downstairs, a horribly awkward thought plagued your mind.

“Could it really be him?”

You weren’t strangers. Not exactly, anyway. 

You’d gone to the same highschool as him for all four years. And for all four years, you sat behind him in math class. Listen to him tap his foot against the floor like he had somewhere else to be, in a way that was far too fast for a normal human. Also how he never joined any after school activities because he always disappeared the second the bell rang. 

You’d never really cared about the rumors— “Wally’s a speedster,” “Wally’s dating that girl from Gotham”—because honestly? You had bigger things to worry about. Like graduating. Like getting out of that town. Like the fact that Speedy was way hotter than Kid Flash, objectively speaking.

You’d clocked the signs, but never really cared. Kid Flash could’ve been your lab partner and you probably wouldn’t have blinked. High school was stressful enough without adding "possible Justice League affiliate" to the equation.

The confirmation to your not-suspicion came much before you graduated highschool, anyway.

You were half-asleep on your couch one night in Central City, trying to finish an assignment you’d been procrastinating for two weeks. The news was on in the background, some footage of a bank robbery cleanup or alien invasion—who could keep up anymore?

And there he was.

Kid Flash. Standing next to The Flash himself, arms crossed, mask on.

And tapping his foot.

Just like he used to do in class when he got bored. Same rhythm. Same annoying, twitchy tempo that had driven you up the wall throughout your previous highschool years.

Then he opened his mouth.

And you just... stared. Same voice. Same cadence. Same dumb jokes.

Honestly, what kind of hero doesn’t use a voice modulator? Fighting intergalactic warlords and wearing skin-tight spandex but can’t invest in a little vocal disguise? Amateur hour.

You paused, narrowed your eyes at the screen, and muttered to no one in particular:

“Oh my god. Wally West is Kid Flash. That dumbass.”

And then you went right back to finishing your homework.

In the present day, though? You’d gone back to your apartment, changed into your most embarrassing pair of pyjamas — the ones with the faded cartoon ducks on them — and buried yourself like a worm beneath a fortress of blankets..

And then you heard it.

A wall of blaring rock music crashed through your ceiling like a sonic battering ram. Drums, wailing guitars, some guy screaming about heartbreak and motor oil. Your blankets vibrated. Your soul vibrated. And the scowl that appeared on your face was telling of how you felt about the situation.

You stared up at the ceiling in stunned silence for a moment, eyes wide, as if it might explain why this was happening to you.

Instead, you got more bass.

You dragged yourself out of bed, grabbed the broom from the kitchen like it was a divine weapon, and climbed onto the wobbly chair you swore you’d stop using for stupid things like this.

Whack.

You smacked the wooden end of the broom against your ceiling like it owed you rent.

Whack. Whack.

There was a pause. A beat of hope. Like your illusive neighbor had finally calmed down.

And then, in the most passive-aggressive act known to mankind, you heard a very familiar foot stomp twice against the floor above you. Just the way that it had in front of you, all those years ago.

There was no denying it. It was him.

You blinked.

“That absolute menace,” you muttered, hopping off the chair with murder in your heart.

You marched straight to your phone, opened your smart home app, and renamed your Wi-Fi connection from the bland default it came with to something a little more accurate.

Apt203ULoudasFuck

Justice was served.

Sort of.

Nevertheless, your sleep schedule was messed up. No way in hell you’d get any sleep like this. You lay in bed, your ears ringing from the aftershock of whatever had just occurred above you. The bass still echoed faintly in your bones, like your skeleton was hosting its own private afterparty.

You sighed, opened your phone again, and stared blankly at the ceiling. Ten minutes passed. Maybe twelve.

Then, just for fun, you pulled up the list of available Wi-Fi networks again. Maybe you were hoping to see your triumphant renaming live in action. Maybe you were bored. Maybe you were hoping to steal someone’s better connection.

But there it was, bold and fresh and passive-aggressive:

apt???sayittomyface#203

Your mouth dropped open slightly.

“Excuse me?” you whispered at the screen, like it had personally insulted you.

You sat up, squinting at the name. The audacity. The sheer nerve. Wally West had declared war—and via Wi-Fi, no less.

You didn’t even hesitate. With a level of determination usually reserved for finals week, you tapped into your settings and renamed yours again.

Apt203BiteMe

Two minutes later:

apt???comeupstairsandfightme

The next morning, you weren’t expecting to see him. Honestly, the plan was to drop your garbage off, maybe pick up your mail, and then crawl back into your apartment and get started on some homework. But the second you stepped into the stairwell, there he was—Wally West, hoodie slung halfway off his shoulder, garbage bag in one hand, phone in the other.

You both froze.

He looked exactly the same, and not at all the same. Same dumb perfect hair, same crinkle in the corner of his eyes, but taller maybe? Or just more irritating now that you knew he was behind the Wi-Fi name war.

Still. You hadn’t seen him since graduation. And for a second, you paused.

“…Oh my god,” you said, blinking. “It is you.”

He smiled, a little surprised, a little smug. “No way. You live here?”

You nodded, caught somewhere between aw and ugh. “Apparently so.”

There was a beat.

And then—you both laughed. The kind of laugh that carried shared memories and just enough history to make this surreal. 

“It’s great to see you. Been way too long,” he said.

You hugged, because of course you did. Old highschool acquaintances who once shared notes and mutual existential dread during finals hugged. It felt easy, stupidly warm. Familiar.

But the moment your arms dropped, the petty recharged.

You gave him a bright, too-sweet smile. “People living here are just really strange sometimes, I swear.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure the old lady who lives above me is secretly a witch,” and then his eyes darted. Left. Right. “Don’t tell her I said that though.”

“No, you’re absolutely right. That reminds me, actually. my upstairs neighbor was playing music really loud last night.”

His mouth twitched. “Yeah? Maybe they were just... having a good time.”

“Oh, I’m sure they were. I mean, it was kind of cute, in a ‘please shut up before I call building management’ kind of way.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Could’ve been a party. Or maybe they were just working through something. Some people cope loudly.”

You tilted your head right back, mock-thoughtful. “Hmm. Yeah, maybe it was... identity-related. You know, like some kind of crisis.”

That got a flicker. A twitch in his brow. Like the gears were turning in his head.

You smiled. 

“Anyway,” you added breezily, “I just find it funny. You’d think someone fighting crime on the weekends would be, I don’t know, better at staying under the radar.”

The twitch became a full pause.

Wally blinked, the smile still fixed but a little tighter. “Wait. What?”

You shrugged innocently. “Nothing. Just a weirdly specific thought I had.”

His mouth opened, then closed. His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was playing mental connect-the-dots. But you were already pivoting toward the dumpster, as if nothing had happened.

In unison, you both shoved your trash bags inside.

“Anyway,” you said, turning back toward the door, “guess I’ll see you around... upstairs.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Guess you will... downstairs.”

A pause.

“You always this annoying?”

You flashed him a grin over your shoulder. “Only when I know a secret.”

And you disappeared up the stairs before he could respond.

Moments after, Wally just stood there, blinking at the stairwell, one hand still on the dumpster lid.

What just happened?

How did you—?

“How the hell did she know?”

He said it out loud, to no one. It echoed a little. The dumpster, the birds, and maybe the universe heard it.

He pressed his lips together, brow furrowing. Okay. Okay. Logically speaking, there was no way you could know. He was careful in school. He was stupidly careful. He didn’t even speed in the hallways when he was late to class. Not unless it was a real emergency. 

And yet. You knew.

He groaned and leaned back against the wall.

You absolutely knew.

And worse? you were enjoying this. Like, actively thriving in the chaos. He could tell by the smile—the infuriatingly smug smile—that you were not going to let this go quietly.

Wally rubbed the bridge of his nose. Great. Amazing. He’d just walked into the most ridiculous civilian rivalry of his life.

But... also?

He couldn't stop smiling.

He hated that he was smiling.

Because yeah, okay—maybe he always thought you were cute. Like, back in highschool, he’d definitely noticed you. Smart, funny, kind of terrifying when you are stressed. But this? This version of you? The “I know your superhero alias and I’m using it to psychologically torment you through Wi-Fi names” version?

He was in trouble.

“She’s a menace,” he muttered. “A full-on gremlin.”

The smile wouldn’t go away.

He shook his head and started back toward the building, heart beating a little too fast, brain doing that annoying thing where it replayed your voice again and again like a remix:

“Only when I know a secret.”

He groaned.

This was going to be hell. He already knew it.

And he was already looking forward to it.

It started with the mail.

Nothing important, of course. You weren’t a monster. But every credit card ad, every coupon packet, every unsolicited catalog addressed to “Current Resident”? Straight into Wally’s mail chute. You stood at the mailboxes with quiet malice, a serene smile on your face, feeding the glossy paper doom into his slot like it was confetti.

A week in, you overheard him muttering “How does one person get this many Bed Bath & Beyond flyers?” through the vent.

A win.

But he retaliated quickly.

The next day, your Amazon package was marked “delivered,” but mysteriously absent. You stormed up the stairs, banged twice on his door, and were met with innocent blinking.

“Oh, this package?” he asked, holding it behind his back. “My bad. It was sitting outside and I figured someone might steal it. Y’know. Being neighborly.”

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “You’re practically a saint.”

He grinned. “I try.”

Meanwhile, your networks became your battleground.

His changed daily: — Apt201DosentPayHerRentonTime — Apt201SnoreLouderIDareYou — Ithinkyourapartmentistacky

To which you countered with: — NeighbourlyMyAss — NotYourDoormatWally — 203istheugliestnumberbtw

Then one morning, you woke up and noticed a third signal.

Your stomach dropped. You stormed into the hallway like a woman possessed— blind with rage.

And there he was.

Wally West, standing in his own doorway, phone in hand, scrolling slowly through the exact same Wi-Fi list.

His head lifted.

Your eyes locked.

He raised an eyebrow. Smirked—barely. “So…”

You waited. Arms crossed.

“…should we both move out,” he continued, “or just burn the building down and start over?”

You stared at him. “I’m partial to moving, personally.”

“Right? Clean slate, new lives, new internet.”

You didn’t answer. You just turned on your heel and walked back into your apartment, cheeks going nuclear. Not because you were embarrassed—okay, maybe a little—but because…

Well.

You’d thought about it. 

Back in high school, he’d been the boy who always had too much energy, who finished his tests early, who tapped his pencil like he was waiting for the bell so he could sprint into some impossible after-school plan. Always fast. Always laughing. Always just a little too much.

But he’d also been kind. Kind in this offhand, natural way—like it didn’t even occur to him to be anything else. He gave people his extra fries without being asked. He remembered names, even when he barely talked to you. 

And maybe you had noticed the way he looked at you sometimes—like you were an itch he couldn’t scratch. Like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to throttle you or hold your face in his hands and—

He made it easy to fall into the rhythm. To play this game. To want more.

And that was the problem.

Because you had a crush again.

And that was the most disrespectful part of all.

You slammed your door and immediately changed your Wi-Fi name to:

Apt???stopprojectingcreep

Seconds later, the anonymous neighbor’s Wi-Fi changed to:

yallsaysomewildstuffwhenyourecrushing

Wally, on the other hand, dragged a hand down his face, groaning loud enough that his upstairs neighbor—his problem, his nemesis, his longstanding high school crush with frankly criminally good eyebrows—probably heard it through the floor.

He could hear you now, stomping around your apartment like you were trying to summon a poltergeist. Or maybe just hunt him down and beat him with one of your twenty-five Bed Bath & Beyond flyers. Honestly, fair.

He flopped onto his couch, one arm thrown over his eyes.

This was spiraling. Rapidly.

He should have shut it all down. Be an adult. Have a conversation.

Except…

He liked this. A little too much.

You were funny. Sharp. Quick with a comeback and bold enough to toss junk mail down his chute like you paid rent in his mailbox. And God, when you looked at him in the hallway—exasperated, bright-eyed, trying not to smile—it pulled something warm and familiar in his chest.

He wasn’t supposed to like this.

He wasn’t supposed to like her. Not seriously. Dating with a secret identity was already a pain in the ass. Messy. Risky. One wrong slip and boom—your girlfriend’s in danger, she’s involved, she knows too much.

But…

But you already knew. Or suspected. And didn’t run.

He cracked one eye open, grinning despite himself.

Yeah, maybe he’d ask you out when this was over.

Assuming the building was still standing.

Two days later, you noticed that Wally’s Wi-Fi name changed again.

Apt201CanIBorrowSomeFlour?

You stared at it. Then smiled.

Yeahsurewtv203

You placed the little Tupperware of flour on his welcome mat with a post-it note that read:

“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

An hour later, a gentle knock at your door.

You opened it to find a warm Tupperware filled with homemade cookies. Still soft. Still warm.

A sticky note taped to the lid:

“Not once have I ever said that. But thanks. Here are some extra cookies :)”

It started like that. That one batch, warm and sincere, was a ceasefire.

For a while.

The next morning, you found your real mail bundled neatly on your doormat, tied with red ribbon and a note that read, “Thought I’d spare you the effort of putting your unwanted mail in my chute –203”

So you retaliated with banana bread. A sick, twisted omen. Clearly trying to rope him into forgetting all of the junk he left in his mailbox. 

He ate the whole loaf.

Then he retaliated with a coffee from your favorite café, still warm..

You grinned the whole time you drank it.

A week passed like that—half-baked treats, weird little favors, and notes that got longer, funnier, somehow flirtier. Somewhere along the way, he slipped in a tiny Kid Flash Funko Pop. No explanation. Just the figurine sitting outside your door with a tag:

“For your collection. (Yes, I know that there are definitely others).”

“You’re lucky he’s cute,” you wrote.

You stuck it to his door and walked away before your brain could catch up with your hand.

The next morning, there was a reply taped to your door in his now-familiar handwriting:

 “So now I’m cute and lucky? Wow. What a morning.”

Beneath that, smaller:

“Also, you left your dignity in the hallway. Should I return it or…?”

You didn’t respond.

Instead, that night, you ordered a pack of googly eyes and stuck a pair to the Funko Pop on your desk. And took a picture and printed it out

Then left that, along with a chocolate bar with a note:

“To prevent further delusions.”

He retaliated by leaving a mug that was clearly supposed to say “World’s best boss”, except the word “boss” had been hastily scribbled out and replaced with the word “neighbor”.

Honestly, you weren’t even sure what you were doing anymore. But you weren’t complaining. It was good. It was weirdly good.

And then one night, there was a storm.

Not dramatic. Just lazy rain, soft thunder, and the hum of the city curling quiet around your building. You made tea. Thought about texting him. Didn’t.

Until there was a knock.

He stood there, hair wet from the walk up, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows. Holding a mug of his own and looking unusually… nervous.

“You’re okay, right?” he asked, glancing past you into the apartment like maybe he expected lightning to have cracked your roof open.

You blinked. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “I dunno. Rain felt like… I don’t know. Excuse to check.”

You let him in.

He didn’t stay long. Just leaned against your counter, sipping tea.

You were almost at ease when he said it.

Quiet. Almost offhand.

“I like you, you know.”

Your head jerked up.

He wasn’t looking at you—just at his tea, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm.

“I mean, I liked you before,” he added, quickly. “In high school, when you kept blacking out in math class. I liked you then. But now you leave flour on my doorstep and threaten my ego and call me out over Wi-Fi names of all things, and I just…”

He finally looked up. “It’s kind of my favorite part of the day.”

You blinked.

Then smirked.

“I know,” you said, sweetly smug.

He groaned. “God. Why did I say anything—”

You laughed. Not mean. Just delighted.

“You like me,” you sing-songed. “You like me—”

“Okay, you’re going to make me regret this in record time.”

“Too late.”

Wally scrubbed a hand over his face but you could see the grin breaking through. He pulled out his phone, muttering, “I swear, you make me lose IQ points—”

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“Wally.”

He tilted the screen toward you, just enough for you to see his Wi-Fi settings open. The new name, half-typed:

Apt201willyougooutwithme?

Before he could finish typing, you reached over, took his phone out of his hand, and finished the Wi-Fi name with a single word.

Yes

He stared.

You handed the phone back like it was no big deal, like your whole body wasn’t currently trying to implode.

He blinked down at the screen, then up at you.

“You’re serious?”

You sipped your tea like a woman with nothing to prove.

“You made the Wi-Fi ask. I just answered.”

And when he kissed you—just a little, just enough—you didn’t tease him for five whole minutes. Which, by your standards, was basically a love letter.

[dudeimjustagirll]

seeing my man with his canonical love interest 💔💔💔💔

[dudeimjustagirll]

How to use Em Dash (—) and Semi Colon ( ; )

Since the ai accusations are still being thrown around, here's how i personally like to use these GASP ai telltales. 🦄✨

Em Dashes (—)

To emphasize a shift / action / thought.

They're accusing us—actually accusing us—of using AI.

To add drama.

They dismissed our skills as AI—didn't even think twice, the dimwits—and believed they were onto something.

To insert a sudden thought. Surely they wouldn't do that to us—would they?

To interrupt someone's speech. "Hey, please don't say that. I honed my craft through years of blood and tears—" "Shut up, prompter."

To interrupt someone's thoughts / insert a sudden event.

We're going to get those kudos. We're going to get those reblogs—

A chronically online Steve commented, “it sounds like ai, idk.”

Semi Colons ( ; )

To join two closely related independent sentences / connect ideas.

Not only ChatGPT is capable of correct punctuation; who do you think it learned from in the first place?

Ultimate pro tip: use them whenever the fuck you want. You don't owe anyone your creative process. 🌈